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The next was The Confessions of a Nun,"Twas quite a shame such evil should be done; Nun of no matter for the creature's name, For there are girls no nunnery can tame: Then was the story of the Haunted Hall, Where the huge picture nodded from the wall When the old lord look'd up with trembling dread,

And I grew pale, and shudder'd as I read: Then came the tales of Winters, Summers, Springs,

At Bath and Brighton,—they were pretty things!

No ghosts nor spectres there were heard or

seen,

But all was love and flight to Gretna-green.
Perhaps your greater learning may despise
What others like, and there your wisdom
lies,-

Well! do not frown,-I read the tender tales
Of lonely cots, retreats in silent vales
For maids forsaken, and suspected wives,
Against whose peace some foe his plot
contrives;

The sex, that wrought in earlier life my

woes,

With loss of time, who murder'd my repose,
They to my joys administer, nor vex
Me more; and now I venerate the sex;
And boast the friendship of a spinster kind,
Cheerful and pleasant, to her fate resign'd;
Then by her side my bachelor I place,
And hold them honours to the human race.
Yet these are they in tale and
song display'd,
The peevish man, and the repining maid;
Creatures made up of misery and spite,
Who taste no pleasures, except those they
blight;

From whom th' affrighten'd niece and nephew fly,

Fear'd while they live, and useless till they

die.

Not such these friends of mine; they never

meant

That youth should so be lost, or life be spent. They had warm passions, tender hopes, desires

That youth indulges, and that love inspires; With all the hidden schemes that none can But fortune frown'd on their designs,

clear

Till the last book, and then the ghosts

appear.

I read all plays that on the boards succeed,
And all the works, that ladies ever read,-
Shakspeare, and all the rest,-I did, indeed,—
Ay! you may stare; but, sir, believe it true
That we can read and learn, as well as you.
I would not boast, but I could act a scene
In any play, before I was fifteen.

Nor is this all; for many are the times
I read in Pope and Milton, prose and rhymes;
They were our lessons, and, at ten years old,
I could repeat—but now enough is told.
Sir, I can tell you I my mind applied
To all my studies, and was not denied
Praise for my progress—Are you satisfied?

Entirely! madam! else were I possess'd By a strong spirit who could never rest. Yes! yes, no more I question,-here I close The theme for ever-let us to repose.

BOOK X.

THE OLD BACHELOR

SAVE their kind friend the Rector, Richard yet Had not a favourite of his Brother met; Now at the Hall that welcome guest appear'd, By trust, by trials, and by time endear'd; Of him the grateful Squire his love profess'd, And full regard he was of friends the best; Yet not to him alone this good I owe, This social pleasure that our friends bestow;

The views of hope, and love's gay dreams

displaced disgraced;

Took from the soul her sunny views, and spread

A cloud of dark but varying gloom instead: And shall we these with ridicule pursue, Because they did not what they could not do? If they their lot preferr'd, still why the jest On those who took the way they judged the best?

Eut if they sought a change, and sought in vain,

"Tis worse than brutal to deride their painBut you will see them; see the man I praise, The kind protector in my troubled days, Himself in trouble; you shall see him now, And learn his worth! and my applause allow.”

This friend appear'd, with talents form'd to please,

And with some looks of sprightliness and ease;

To him indeed the ills of life were known,
But misery had not made him all her own.
They spoke on various themes, and George
design'd
To shew his brother this, the favourite mind;
To lead the friend, by subjects he could
choose,
To paint himself, his life, and earlier views,
What he was bless'd to hope, what he was
doom'd to lose.
They spoke of marriage, and he understood
Their call on him, and said: 'It is not good
To be alone, although alone to be
Is freedom; so are men in deserts free;
Men who unyoked and unattended groan,
Condemn'd and grieved to walk their way

alone:

Whatever illa a married pair betide,
Each feels a stay, a comfort, or a guide;
Not always comfort, will our wits reply.
Wits are not judges, nor the cause shall try.
Have I not seen, when grief his visits paid,
That they were easier by communion made?
True, with the quiet times and days serene,
There have been flying clouds of care and
spleen;

But is not man, the solitary, sick
Of his existence, sad and splenetic?
And who will help him, when such evils come,
To bear the pressure or to clear the gloom?
Do you not find, that joy within the breast
Of the unwedded man is soon suppress'd;
While, to the bosom of a wife convey'd,
Increase is by participation made?—
The lighted lamp that gives another light,
Say, is it by th' imparted blaze less bright?
Are not both gainers when the heart's distress
Is so divided, that the pain is less?
And when the tear has stood in either eye,
Love's sun shines out, and they are quickly
dry.'

He ended here, but would he not confess, How came these feelings on his mind to press? He would! nor fear'd his weakness to display To men like them; their weakness too had they.

Bright shone the fire, wine sparkled, sordid

care

Was banish'd far, at least appear'd not there;
A kind and social spirit each possess'd,
And thus began his tale the friendly guest.

Near to my father's mansion,-but apart,
I must acknowledge, from my father's heart-
Dwelt a keen sportsman, in a pleasant seat;
Nor met the neighbours as should neighbours

meet:

To them revenge appear'd a kind of right,
A lawful pleasure, an avow'd delight;
Their neighbours too blew up their passion's
fire,

And urged the anger of each rival-squire;
More still their waspish tempers to inflame,
A party-spirit, friend of anger, came:
Oft would my father cry, that tory-knave,
That villain-placeman, would the land
enslave.'

Not that his neighbour had indeed a place,
But would accept one-that was his disgrace;
Who, in his turn, was sure my father plann'd
To revolutionize his native land.
He dared the most destructive things advance,
And even pray'd for liberty to France;
Had still good hope that Heaven would grant
his prayer,
That he might see a revolution there.
At this the tory-squire was much perplex'd,
-Freedom in France!-what will he utter
next?

Sooner should I in Paris look to see
An English army sent their guard to be.'
My poor mamma, who had her mind subdued
By whig-control, and hated every feud,
Would have her neighbour met with mind

serene;

But fiercer spirit fired the tory-queen :
My parents both had given her high disgust,
Which she resenting said, Revenge is just;
And till th' offending parties chose to stoop,
She judged it right to keep resentment up;
Could she in friendship with a woman live
Who could the insult of a man forgive?
Did not her husband in a crowded room
Once call her idiot, and the thing was dumb?
The man's attack was brutal to be sure,
But she no less an idiot to endure.

This lofty dame, with unrelenting soul,
Had a fair girl to govern and control;
The dear Maria!—whom, when first I met,-
Shame on this weakness! do I feel it yet?
The parent's anger, you will oft-times see,
Prepares the children's minds for amity;
Youth will not enter into such debate,
'Tis not in them to cherish groundless hate;
Nor can they feel men's quarrels or their

cares,

Of whig or tory, partridges or hares.
Long ere we loved, this gentle girl and I
Gave to our parents' discord many a sigh;
It was not ours,-and when the meeting

came,

It pleased us much to find our thoughts the

same;

But grief and trouble in our minds arose From the fierce spirits we could not compose; And much it vex'd us that the friends so dear To us should foes among themselves appear.

Such was this maid, the angel of her race, Whom I had loved in any time and place, But in a time and place which chance assign'd,

When it was almost treason to be kind; When we had vast impediments in view, Then wonder not that love in terror grew With double speed-we look'd, and strove to find

A kindred spirit in the hostile mind; But is it hostile? there appears no sign In those dear looks of warfare-none have mine; At length I whisper'd-Would that war might cease Between our houses, and that all was peace! A sweet confusion on her features rose, She could not bear to think of having foes, When we might all as friends and neighbours live,

And for that blessing, O! what would she give?—

Then let us try and our endeavours blend, I said, to bring these quarrels to an end;

Thus, with one purpose in our hearts, we | Though all was granted, yet was grace

strove,

refused;

And, if no more, increased our secret love; I felt as one indulged, and yet abused, Love that with such impediments in view And yet, although provoked, I was not To meet the growing danger stronger grew: unamused. And from that time each heart, resolved and sure,

Grew firm in hope, and patient to endure.

To those who know this season of delight
I need not strive their feelings to excite;
To those who know not the delight or
pain,

The best description would be lent in vain;
And to the grieving, who will no more find
The bower of bliss, to paint it were unkind;
I pass it by, to tell that long we tried
To bring our fathers over to our side;
'Twas bootless on their wives our skill to try,
For one would not, and one in vain comply.

First I began my father's heart to move,
By boldly saying: We are born to love;
My father answer'd, with an air of case,
Well! very well! be loving if you please!
Except a man insults us or offends,
In my opinion we should all be friends.
This gain'd me nothing; little would accrue
From clearing points so useless though so
true;

But with some pains I brought him to. confess,

That to forgive our wrongs is to redress:
It might be so, he answer'd, yet with doubt,
That it might not, but what is this about?
I dared not speak directly, but I strove
To keep my subjects, harmony and love.
Coolly my father look'd, and much enjoy'd
The broken eloquence his eye destroy'd;
Yet less confused, and more resolved at last,
With bolder effort to my point I past;
And fondly speaking of my peerless maid,
I call'd her worth and beauty to my aid,
Then make her mine! I said, and for his
favour pray'd.

My father's look was one I seldom saw,
It gave no pleasure, nor created awe;
It was the kind of cool contemptuous smile
Of witty persons, overcharged with bile;
At first he spoke not, nor at last to me-
Well now, and what if such a thing could be?
What, if the boy should his addresses pay
To the tall girl, would that old tory say?
I have no hatred to the dog.-but, still,
It was some pleasure when I used him ill;
This I must lose if we should brethren be,
Yet may be not, for brethren disagree;
The fool is right,—there is no bar in life
Against their marriage,— let her be his wife.
Well, sir, you hear me!'-Never man com-
plied,

And left a beggar so dissatisfied ;

In a reply like this appear'd to meet
All that encourage hope, and that defeat;
Consent, though cool,had been for me enough,
But this consent had something of reproof;
I had prepared my answer to his rage,
With his contempt I thought not to engage:
I, like a hero, would my castle storm,
And meet the giant in his proper form;
Then, conquering him, would set my prin-
cess free,

This would a trial and a triumph be:
When lo! a sneering menial brings the keys,
And cries in scorn: “Come,enter, if you please;
You'll find the lady sitting on her bed,
And 'tis expected that you woo and wed.'
Yet not so easy was my conquest found;
I met with trouble ere with triumph crown'd.
Triumph, alas! My father little thought,
A king at home, how other minds are
wrought;

True, his meek neighbour was a gentle
squire,
And had a soul averse from wrath and ire;
He answer'd frankly, when to him I went,
give you little, sir, in my consent:
He and my mother were to us inclined,
The powerless party with the peaceful mind;
But that meek man was destined to obey
A sovereign lady's unremitted sway;
Who bore no partial, no divided rule,
All were obedient pupils in her school.
She had religious zeal, both strong and sour,
That gave an active sternness to her power;
But few could please her, she herself was one
By whom that deed was very seldom done;
With such a being, so disposed to feed
Contempt and scorn-how was I to succeed?
But love commanded, and I made my prayer
To the stern lady, with an humble air;
Said all that lovers hope, all measures tried
That love suggested, and bow'd down to
pride.

Yes! I have now the tygress in my eye-
When I had ceased and waited her reply,
A pause ensued, and then she slowly rose,
With bitter smile predictive of my woes;
A look she saw was plainly understood-
Admire my daughter! Sir, you're very good.
The girl is decent, take her all in all,—
Genteel we hope-perhaps a thought too
tall;

A daughter's portion hers-you'll think her
fortune small.
Perhaps her uncles, in a cause so good,
Would do a little for their flesh and blood;
We are not ill allied,—and say we make
Her portion decent-whither would you take?
Is there some cottage on your father's ground,
Where may a dwelling for the girl be found?

;

They will be proper ere you fix the day
For the poor girl to honour and obey;
At present therefore we may put an end
To our discourse-Good morrow to you,
friend!'

Or a small farm,-your mother understands | And reason trembles-Yes! you bid me cease,
How to make useful such a pair of hands. Nor try to think; but I will think in peace.-
But this we drop at present, if you please, Unbid and unforbidden, to the room
We shall have leisure for such things as I went, a gloomy wretch amid that gloom;
these;
And there the lovely being on her bed
Shrowded and cold was laid-Maria dead!
There was I left, and I have now no
thought
Remains with me, how fear or fancy wrought;
I know I gazed upon the marble cheek,
And pray'd the dear departed girl to speak-
Further I know not, for, till years were fled,
All was extinguish'd-all with her was dead.
I had a general terror, dread of all
That could a thinking, feeling man befall;
And something, but I knew not what, to
I was desirous from myself to run,

Then, with a solemn curtesy and profound,
Her laughing eye she lifted from the ground,
And left me lost in thought, and gazing idly
round.

Still we had hope, and, growing bold in time,
I would engage the father in our crime;
But he refused, for though he wish'd us well,
He said, he must not make his house a hell;-
And sure the meaning look that I convey'd
Did not inform him that the hell was made.
Still hope existed that a mother's heart
Would in a daughter's feelings take a part;
Nor was it vain, for there is found access
To a hard heart, in time of its distress:

The mother sicken'd, and the daughter sigh'd,
And we petition'd till our queen complied;
She thought of dying, and if power must

cease,

Better to make, than cause, th' expected

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more

We feel th' enlivening hope we felt before,
Still the pure freshness of the joy that cast
Its sweet around us is for ever past.

0! time to memory precious,—ever dear,
Though ever painful-this eventful year;
What bliss is now in view! and now what
woes appear!

Sweet hours of expectation!—I was gone
To the vile town to press our business on;
To urge its formal instruments,-and lo!
Comes with dire looks a messenger of woe,
With tidings sad as death!-With all my
speed

I reach'd her home!-but that pure soul
was freed

She was no more-for ever shut that eye,
That look'd all soul, as if it could not die;
It could not see me-O! the strange distress
Of these new feelings!-misery's excess;
What can describe it? words will not express.
When I look back upon that dreadful scene,
I feel renew'd the anguish that has been;

shun:

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'There was a blank from this I cannot fill,
Yet did I feel some intervals of bliss,
It is a puzzle and a terror still.
Ev'n with the horrors of a fate like this;
And dreams of wonderful construction paid
For waking horror-dear angelic maid!

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Much time is lost, she said, but yet my son
May, in the race of life, have much to run;
When I am gone, thy life to thee will seem
Lonely and sad, a melancholy dream;
Get thee a wife-I will not say to love,
But one, a friend in thy distress to prove;
One who will kindly help thee to sustain
Thy spirit's burden in its hours of pain;
Say, will you marry?—I in haste replied:
And who would be the self-devoted bride?
There is a melancholy power that reigns
Tyrant within me- -who would bear his
chains,

And hear them clicking every wretched hour,
With will to aid me, but without the power?
But if such one were found with easy mind,
Who would not ask for raptures-I'm
resign'd.

"Tis quite enough, my gentle mother cried,
We leave the raptures, and will find the bride

There was a lady near us, quite discreet,
Whom in our visits 'twas our chance to meet,
One grave and civil, who had no desire
That men should praise her beauties or
admire;

She in our walks would sometimes take my

arı, But had no foolish fluttering or alarm;

She wish'd no heart to wound, no truth to prove,

And seem'd, like me, as one estranged from love;

My mother praised her, and with so much skill,

She gave a certain bias to my will;
But calm indeed our courtship; I profess'd
A due regard-My mother did the rest;
Who soon declared that we should love,

and grow As fond a couple as the world could show; And talk'd of boys and girls with so much glee,

That I began to wish the thing could be. Still when the day that soon would come was named

I felt a cold fit, and was half ashamed;
But we too far proceeded to revoke,
And had been much too serious for a joke:
I shook away the fear that man annoys,
And thought a little of the girls and boys.
A week remain'd,—for seven succeeding days
Nor man nor woman might control my ways;
For seven dear nights I might to rest retire
At my own time, and none the cause require;
For seven blest days I might go in and out,
And none demand, Sir, what are you about?
For one whole week I might at will discourse
On any subject, with a freeman's force.
Thus while I thought, I utter'd, as men sing
In under-voice, reciting With this ring'
That when the hour should come, I might
not dread

These, or the words that follow'd, 'I thee wed.'
Such was my state of mind, exulting now
And then depress'd-I cannot tell you how-
When a poor lady, whom her friends could
send

On any message, a convenient friend,
Who had all feelings of her own o'ercome,
And could pronounce to any man his doom;
Whose heart indeed was marble, but whose
face

Assumed the look adapted to the case;
Enter'd my room, commission'd to assuage
What was foreseen, my sorrow and my rage.

It seem'd the lady whom I could prefer, And could my much-loved freedom lose for her,

Had bold attempts, but not successful, made, The heart of some rich cousin to invade; Who, half resisting, half complying, kept A cautions distance, and the business slept. This prudent swain his own importance knew, And swore to part the now affianced two: Fill'd with insidious purpose, forth he went, Profess'd his love, and woo'd her to consent: Ah! were it true!' she sigh'd; he boldly

swore

His love sincere, and mine was sought no

more.

All this the witch at dreadful length reveal'd, And begg'd me calmly to my fate to yield:

Much pains she took engagements old to state,
And hoped to hear me curse my cruel fate,
Threat'ning my luckless life; and thought
it strange

In me to bear the unexpected change:
In my calm feelings she beheld disguise,
And told of some strange wildness in my

eyes.

But there was nothing in the eye amiss,
And the heart calmly bore a stroke like this;
Not so my mother; though of gentle kind,
She could no mercy for the creature find.
Vile plot! she said.-But, madam, if they
plot,

And you would have revenge, disturb them

not.

What can we do, my son?-Consult our

ease,

And do just nothing, madam, if you please. What will be said?-We need not that discuss;

Our friends and neighbours will do that for us.

Do you so lightly, son, your loss sustain ?— Nay, my dear madam, but I count it gain. The world will blame us sure, if we be still.

And, if we stir, you may be sure it will. Not to such loss your father had agreed.— No, for my father's had been loss indeed. With gracious smile my mother gave assent, And let th' affair slip by with much content. Some old dispute, the lover meant should rise,

Some point of strife they could not compromise,

Displeased the squire-he from the field withdrew,

Not quite conceal'd, not fully placed in view; But half advancing, half retreating, kept At his old distance, and the business slept.

Six years had past, and forty ere the six, When Time began to play his usual tricks: The locks once comely in a virgin's sight, Locks of pure brown, display'd th' encroaching white;

The blood once fervid now to cool began, And Time's strong pressure to subdue the

man:

I rode or walk'd as I was wont before,
But now the bounding spirit was no more;
A moderate pace would now my body heat,
A walk of moderate length distress my feet.
I show'd my stranger-guest those hills
sublime,

But said: the view is poor, we need not climb.'

At a friend's mansion I began to dread The cold neat parlour, and the gay glazed bed;

At home I felt a more decided taste,
And must have all things in my order placed;
I ceased to hunt, my horses pleased me less,
My dinner more; I learn'd to play at chess;

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