fortitude to suppress. Many other circumstances are made apologies for a writer's infirmities; his much employment, and many avocations, adversity, necessity, and the good of mankind. These, or any of them, however availing in themselves, avail not me. I am neither so young nor so old, so much engaged by one pursuit, or by many,-I am not so urged by want, or so stimulated by a desire of public benefit, that I can borrow one apology from the many which I have named. How far they prevail with our readers, or with our judges, I cannot tell; and it is unnecessary for me to inquire into the validity of arguments which I have not to produce.

If there be any combination of circumstances which may be supposed to affect the mind of a reader, and in some degree to influence his judgment, the junction of youth, beauty, and merit in a female writer may be allowed to do this; and yet one of the most forbidding of titles is' Poems by a very young Lady,' and this although beauty and merit were largely insinuated. Ladies, it is true, have of late little need of any indulgence as authors, and names may readily be found which rather excite the envy of man than plead for his lenity. Our estimation of title also in a writer has materially varied from that of our predecessors; 'Poems by a Nobleman' would create a very different sensation in our minds from that which was formerly excited when they were so announced. A noble author had then no pretensions to a seat so secure on the sacred hill,' that authors not noble, and critics not gentle, dared not attack; and they delighted to take revenge by their contempt and derision of the poet, for the pain which their submission and respect to the man had cost them. But in our times we find that a nobleman writes, not merely as well, but better than other men; insomuch that readers in general begin to fancy that the Muses have relinquished their old partiality for rags and a garret, and are become altogether aristocratical in their choice. A conceit so well supported by fact would be readily admitted, did it not appear at the same time, that there were in the higher ranks of society men, who could write as tamely, or as absurdly, as they had ever been accused of doing. We may, therefore,

6

regard the works of any noble author as extraordinary productions; but must not found any theory upon them; and, notwithstanding their appearance, must look on genius and talent as we are wont to do on time and chance, that happen indifferently to all mankind.

But whatever influence any peculiar situation of a writer might have, it cannot be a benefit to me, who have no such peculiarity. I must rely upon the willingness of my readers to be pleased with that which was designed to give them pleasure, and upon the cordiality which naturally springs from a remembrance of our having before parted without any feelings of disgust on the one side, or of mortification on the other.

With this hope I would conclude the present subject; but I am called upon by duty to acknowledge my obligations, and more especially for two of the following Tales:the Story of Lady Barbara in Book XVI and that of Ellen in Book XVIII. The first of these I owe to the kindness of a fair friend, who will, I hope, accept the thanks which I very gratefully pay, and pardon me if I have not given to her relation the advantages which she had so much reason to expect. The other story, that of Ellen, could I give it in the language of him who related it to me, would please and affect my readers. It is by no means my only debt, though the one I now more particularly acknowledge; for who shall describe all that he gains in the social, the unrestrained, and the frequent conversations with a friend, who is at once communicative and judicious ?-whose opinions, on all subjects of literary kind, are founded on good taste, and exquisite feeling? It is one of the greatest pleasures of my memory' to recall in absence those conversations; and if I do not in direct terms mention with whom I conversed, it is both because I have no permission, and my readers will have no doubt.

The first intention of the poet must be to please; for, if he means to instruct, he must render the instruction which he hopes to convey palatable and pleasant. I will not assume the tone of a moralist, nor promise that my relations shall be beneficial to mankind; but I have endeavoured, not unsuccessfully I trust, that, in whatsoever I have

related or described, there should be nothing introduced which has a tendency to excuse the vices of man, by associating with them sentiments that demand our respect, and talents that compel our admiration. There is nothing in these pages which has the mischievous effect of confounding truth and error, or confusing our ideas of right and wrong. I know not which is most injurious to the yielding minds of the young, to render virtue less respectable by making its possessors ridiculous, or by describing vice with so many fascinating qualities, that it is either lost in the assemblage, or pardoned by the association. Man's heart is sufficiently prone to make excuse for man's infirmity; and needs not the aid of poetry, or eloquence, to take from vice its native deformity. A character may be respectable with all its faults, but it must not be made respectable by them. It is grievous when genius will condescend to place strong and evil spirits in a commanding view, or excite our pity and admiration for men of talents, degraded

by crime, when struggling with misfortune. It is but too true that great and wicked men may be so presented to us, as to demand our applause, when they should excite our abhorrence; but it is surely for the interest of mankind, and our own self-direction, that we should ever keep at unapproachable distance our respect and our reproach.

I have one observation more to offer. It may appear to some that a minister of religion, in the decline of life, should have no leisure for such amusements as these; and for them I have no reply ;-but to those who are more indulgent to the propensities, the studies, and the habits of mankind, I offer some apology when I produce these volumes, not as the occupations of my life, but the fruits of my leisure, the employment of that time which, if not given to them, had passed in the vacuity of unrecorded idleness; or had been lost in the indulgence of unregistered thoughts and fancies, that melt away in the instant they are conceived, and leave not a wrack behind.'

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 de

scribed in various Particulars-The Invitation and Journey of the younger-His Soliloquy and Arrival.

past

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;

Led by a vision till alarm'd by truth:
That vision past, and of that truth possest,
His passions wearied and disposed to rest,
George yet had will and power a place to

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
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; 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,

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,

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,

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;

out:

He fill'd the moat, he took the wall away, He thinn'd the park, and bade the view be gay:

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, hegazed,
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;
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;

bore

That he was doubtful if he saw before,
And some in memory lived, whom he must

see no more.

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 ; 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, 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.
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

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
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,
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

Of his religion, and he found it true;
Firmly, yet meekly, he his mind applied
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,

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.

Nor would expose it, as th' accursed son
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, 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, But shared the wealth he judged it crime to waste,

And thus obtain'd the sure reward of care; For none can spend like him who learns to

spare.

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,

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;

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, 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, 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;

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;