Victorian Women Writers Project

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BOOK V.

• NOW rose a stately fabric to the view,
• With front commanding, and with aspect new;
• In bold advance upon the verdant green,
• Where once the snowdrop's silvery bells were seen.
• page: 92
• Still waved the ash her pendent branches wide,
• Those prouder walls, that loftier roof beside;
• Still hung the elm her canopy of green,
• That sheltered once, now but adorned the scene;
• Still spread the lilach, and laburnum bright,
• Their flowery scented garlands to the sight;
• Still glowed the border with its roseate bloom,
• And still the sweetbriar sent its rich perfume
• Around, abroad, upon the ambient air,
• Mingling with zephyrs cool, and odours rare.
• No more the ancient, lowly door was seen,
• Inviting every step that crossed the green.
• But now a noble portal seemed to guard
• That hall, where base intrusion was debarred,
• Where smoothly swept a graceful line of road,
• As if to point the gentleman's abode.

• Why not? The British tradesman has his box,
• Where coaches wait, and liveried servant knocks.
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• The man of looms may boast his costly wine,
• And ask the magnates of the land to dine,
• May buy the fields by hoarded items won,
• And purchase next, a title for his son.
• Who grudges him his carpets, or his plate,
• His grounds, his green-house, on his entrance-gate?
• Who grudges him his freedom to bestride
• The high-bred horse he ne'er has learned to ride?
• Who grudges him, through all this generous land,
• The hard-earned privilege of looking grand?

• But should the farmer, too aspiring grown,
• Dare but to lay his spade and sickle down,
• Or, moving onward with the march of mind,
• Leave his dull habits and rude haunts behind—
• Should he presume with honest gains to buy
• What city weavers undisturbed enjoy,
• Loud is the outcry then—“Put down! put down!
• Bind to his native earth the adventurous clown,
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• Wring from his hold this luxury and excess,
• Double his rent, or make his profits less!”

• Sons of the Soil! ye were not born to be
• Servants, or suppliants to the proud and free.
• Pleased with the sunshine of a few short years,
• Heedless, I grant, your lavish waste appears;
• But you have claims upon your native land
• No patriot bosom ever could withstand.
• And should your virtues vanish from her soil,
• Vain were the strife of manufacturing toil
• Along the trampled mead, and smoking plain,
• To wake the glory of that land again.

• I am a woman, and I must not say
• What statesmen should do, or what monarchs may:
• Yet would I ask, what nation could be great,
• Whose land was sacrificed to serve the state?
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• Whose fertile bosom, with its robe of health,
• Its fruits, its flowers, its fields of golden wealth,
• Were seared and blasted, that the fiery glow
• Of moving Hecklas o'er those fields might go?
• Scorching the bloom of paradise beneath,
• Sending afar their sulphur-tainted breath,
• Uprooting all her rural green abodes,
• To make the landscape one vast map of roads—
• One universal workship, roaring wide,
• Between the realm of waves on either side—
• One mighty engine, labouring, forcing, heating,
• With its ten thousand human pulses beating.

• Is this the land on which a God of love
• Looks down approving, from his throne above?
• This the reflection of his glory, given
• To show mankind some transient glimpse of heaven?
• 'Tis not that hearts amid the bustling throng
• May not to heaven's own sacred fold belong,
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• But does this life, by restless millions led,
• Promote the cause for which a Saviour bled?
• Can mere industry, or mechanic art,
• Implant his image in the human heart?
• No; let the furnace glow, the engine roar,
• The living meteor glide from shore to shore;
• If human reason finds no time to pause,
• To think of God, or contemplate his laws—
• If human love, tossed in the general strife,
• Holds not the anchor of eternal life—
• If locked in actual labour of the hand,
• Untaught by wisdom, ignorant we stand—
• Ignorant of all true knowledge, or the sense
• Of good and evil, with their consequence;
• How shall we prosper as a nation? How
• In aught that dignifies our nature, grow?
• In aught that gives true riches, how increase?
• In aught that satisfies, how find our peace?

• Pass we to other themes. A stately dome
• Was that which now the farmer called his home;
• And all sat down with well-contented air
• To watch improvement still progressing there.
• The aunt looked on, and, smiling, gave command,
• While Martha, with her never-tiring hand,
• Inspecting each apartment, drawer, and shelf,
• Consulting others, acted for herself.
• Lucy was wrapt in thought. Above, below,
• Visions of future comfort seemed to grow,
• But while she mused, a sigh would sometimes tell
• The past to her, was yet remembered well.
• Helen cared little for the humble past,
• Her soul's proud anchor in the future cast.
• That unknown future seemed a world of wealth,
• From whence she drew for her young spirit's health;
• For satisfying draught had never yet
• Passed her warm lips. Her morning sun might set.
• Were there not brighter worlds to win elsewhere,
• Beyond the circle of her native sphere?
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• Genius, that wildfire of the brain, was hers;
• Taste, that too oft the impossible prefers;
• Ambition, searching for some untried good;
• With vague emotions, still less understood;
• Pleasures, and pains, a vacillating host,
• That never yet the vulgar pathway crossed;
• All these, implanted in her ardent mind,
• If not more happy, made her more refined;
• Gave to her spirit, even in early youth,
• Its quenchless thirst for beauty, more than truth.
• And with this impulse came—how oft it comes,
• Disdain for humble means, and lowly homes,
• And all the intercourse of rural life,
• With homely matron, or domestic wife.
• These Helen shunned, scarce wishing to offend,
• Yet wishing less to call such neighbour friend.
• Her friends were in the books of taste she loved,
• The woods, the hills, the valleys where she roved,
• The landscapes she designed, the scenes she drew
• From her own bright imagination new,
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• The masters old, whose pictures decked the wall,
• Where stood her mirror, richly framed, and tall,
• Reflecting in its light her Hebe form,
• With Grecian forehead, but with blushes warm—
• Too warm, too true, to woman's early prime,
• For sculptured goddess of the olden time.
• Nor less her passion for the sister art,
• Whose power more quickly thrills the human heart.
• Martha was musical, and had the skill
• To sing and warble like a woodland rill;
• But Helen loved the science, and her ear
• Was pained by sounds to untaught minstrels dear.
• Thus many a joy her happier sister knew,
• Was unrevealed to her exalted view;
• And while on Mlartha's brow contentment sat,
• Helen aspired to share some loftier fate.
• With deeper fondness for poetic lore,
• Henry was formed to live with nature more;
• With his own favourite Burns, by wood and stream,
• Of summer birds and autumn gales to dream.
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• While Lucy, her own feelings unexpressed,
• Seemed but to smile or suffer for the rest.

• Yet did the happy band united rove,
• Differing in nature, but the same in love,
• Along the flowery paths of early life,
• Free from its cankering care, and sordid strife.
• If melancholy sometimes touched their brows,
• 'Twas but as evening shadows touch the rose;
• Its bloom unsullied meets the morning light,
• And their young hearts soon glowed with new delight.

• The farmer's mansion now was all complete,
• With spacious hall untrod by vulgar feet,
• With Grecian portico, and pillars high,
• Around whose base no servile weeds might lie.
• And not the architect more proudly scanned
• The goodly edifice his taste had planned,
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• Than looked the inmates on their work within,
• Where costly furniture well-placed was seen.

• “Costly indeed!” the farmer oft would say:
• “'Tis yours to choose; my part, alas! to pay.”

• Yet even to him, insensibly, had grown
• The list of things he longed to call his own;
• For one still brought another in its train,
• If this was elegant, must that be plain?
• Good taste forbade—“If modern couches here,
• Why spoil the whole, by those old curtains there?
• If music in this deep recess we place,
• A handsome sideboard must the other grace.”
• Thus grew the scene, as all such scenes will grow;
• Though few philosophers can tell us how:
• Thus swelled the catalogue, and rose the tide
• Of tradesmen's bills, already laid aside.
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• What boots the wealth by ceaseless toil attained,
• The pomp, the splendour, by ambition gained,
• If lost, or hidden from admiring gaze,
• Through scenes retired our silent steps we trace:
• If rural shades conceal it from the world,
• Vain, too, the hero's conquering flag unfurled;
• As well might cankerworm or moth destroy,
• If all unseen our treasures we enjoy.

• Thus thought Matilda Herbert, as she saw
• The carpets spread, without a single flaw,,
• The furniture untouched, unsullied all
• The paint and papering of each well-built wall.
• But while she mused, behold a splendid sight!
• The landlord's carriage, with his ponies white,
• And brisk out-riders, old, and young, and gay,
• And ladies mounted on their pafreys grey.
• A lordly troop. Who could the strangers be?
• Would they all pass? Matilda watched to see.

• And now a hurrying groom rides to the door,
• And leaves this message—At the hour of four
• The landlord's party will return and call,
• Lord William Douglas, with his friends, and all.

• “Now mercy on us!” cried the maiden aunt,
• Lost to her dignity, “How much I want
• Even yet to finish off the drawing-room.
• Brother! young ladies! Henry! Martha! come,
• There is no time to lose.”

• The news was told,
• The farmer heard it with expression cold;
• His sister wondered how such men were made,
• So little natural feeling they betrayed.
• No want, however, in the rest was seen,
• Youth's own excitement, fear and joy between,
• Sent them on errands vague, whose purpose strange
• Each new idea had the power to change.
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• Martha alone with wonted method moved,
• The bustling stir of active life she loved,
• And while she wished for guests less grand than those,
• The exertion pleased her better than the cause.

• Henry declared he never would appear,
• Not he indeed! Why should such guests come there?
• Yet was he missing ere the appointed hour,
• In secret yielding to the magic power
• That ruled his toilet, where a charm was thrown
• Around his form, not strictly nature's own.
• 'Twas Lucy's part to gather flowerets gay,
• Contrast their tints, and form the rich bouquet;
• But while her fingers trimmed the roses fair,
• She quite forgot her own soft waving hair.
• Not Helen thus unmindful. O'er her brow
• The sable bands were smoothly taught to flow,
• Leaving the outline of her Grecian head
• In all its clsssic purity displaced.
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• Nor stooped that head to look on trifles low,
• Her aunt, her sisters might their care bestow
• On needful viands, or well-dusted chairs.
• The books, the pictures, she alone prepares,
• Spreads out the annuals, brings the engravings down,
• With the last novel lately come from town,
• Lays her portfolio just to catch the view,
• Opens the music most approved and new,
• Brings out the sofas farther from the wall,
• Displaces chairs, and ottomans, that all
• May wear an aspect more familiar,
• As if the family lived always there.

• And now at last, the eventful moment come,
• Matilda Herbert hastens from her room,
• With looks that seemed to say—“Well, this is life.”
• Yet how unlike to William Herbert's wife!
• The guests arrive, what boots it here to say
• How fair the ladies, or the men how gay,
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• How smoothly swept the graceful train along,
• With those soft airs that to the great belong,
• When high-born beauty seeks the lowly vale,
• Or praises merit on an humble scale.
• With restless steps from room to room they go,
• The aunt conductress, eloquent, but slow,
• Lest her deep curtains, or her paperings pale,
• To catch some guest's admiring eye, should fail.

• Vain hope delusive! What to them were all
• The various colours blending on the wall?
• More rare, and more attractive to their sight,
• Was the cool dairy, and the milk so white,
• The kitchen graced with pewter and with tin,
• And the back-door, where fowls would fain come in—
• Those pretty fowls the ladies loved to feed,
• Casting them down sweet cakes instead of bread.
• Pleased with the pastime, all things else forgot,
• Perversely still they gathered round that spot,
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• While farming men passed out, and still they stood,
• Charmed with the novelty of scenes so rude.

• Amazed, indignant, looked Matilda then,
• To see the rolling gait of those coarse men;
• And, worse than all, the bucket's rattling sound
• Assailed her ear with horror most profound.
• She pleaded with her guests, entreated—prayed—
• They would just saunter through the garden's shade.
• At length, her purpose gained, she led the way,
• And soon dispersing through the walks they stray.

• The farmer with his landlord talked alone,
• No servile meekness o'er his look was thrown,
• No different smile he wore for titled dame,
• In court, or market, he had been the same.
• They spoke of business, and their looks were grave;
• Yet all unlike the master, and the slave;
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• Each born to share a widely different lot,
• Dependence on the other ne'er forgot.
• Without his rents the landlord could not live,
• And freely did the tenant toil, and give;
• The farmer felt his station far below,
• Yet owned a freeman's right to stay, or go.

• How sped those moments to the fluttering throng,
• Bright garden vistas, and green bowers among?
• The proudest day that dawned on Helen—this
• The hour most redolent of fancied bliss.
• Lord William Douglas was an honoured name,
• Known to the world, and could he be the same?
• He was; and Helen heard him talk, and tell
• Of battles fought, and wounds remembered well.
• Battles? and he so young!—wounds? and so fair!
• With princely hand, and waves of golden hair!
• Tall and majestic was his martial mien,
• In visions Helen such a form had seen.
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• What could induce him thus to condescend—
• With his vast store of knowledge to unbend?
• Say, was he all the courtly man he seemed?
• No, of his distant native vale he dreamed;
• And rural sights, and pastoral scenes, had power
• To win his spirit back to childhood's hour.
• Then would the pride of rank, the pomp of arms,
• Lose in his eye their artificial charms;
• Then would he cast the hero from his brow,
• While o'er his lip truth's simple tide would flow..
• And Helen listened, like a wood-nymph wild
• Caught by some strain of music, soft, and mild.
• Her eye intent, her rosy lips apart,
• Her cheek suffused with blushes from her heart.

• Soon passed that hour. The lordly train were gone,
• The farmer's family were left alone;
• And even those who wished them gone before
• Felt a strange void when that bright scene was o'er.
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• Long did the aunt expatiate on their dress,
• And sage opinion of its cost express;
• While Martha, half admiring, half in doubt,
• Hinted how strangely they had peeped about;
• As if they felt they had the right to come
• And see the furnishing of every room.

• Then rose the warm defence on Helen's part,
• With those keen jests that troubled Martha's heart;
• For she was listening to the manly suit
• Of one who stood no higher in repute
• Than worthy tradesman of the neighbouring town,
• And many a sneer upon his love was thrown.
• Not by the farmer, for he knew him well,
• And oft his worth and generous deeds would tell:
• How he had fostered with parental care
• His orphan sister, sickly, young, and fair;
• How he had laboured to retrieve his name
• From debts that darkened o'er his father's fame;
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• And how, before his fellow-men he stood,
• With character unblemished, staunch, and good.

• Such was the man who sued for Martha's hand,
• Nor knew she how to yield, or to withstand.
• He had her father's praise, and that was much,
• But yet to woman's heart how keen the touch
• Of sisters' satire, and of brother's scorn.
• This she might brook—that never could be borne.
• For they would talk, with many a droll grimace,
• Of tapes, and trimmings, calicoes, and lace,
• Of pence and halfpence, counted out with care,
• And oftener still, of Gilpin's trip to Ware;
• Till Martha caught the same infectious smile,
• Though tears would sometimes dim her eyes the while.

• At last she roused herself. This would not do—
• Unworthy of her sex! unkind! untrue!
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• Would he have suffered insult on her name?
• Deep answering blushes stained her cheek with shame.
• This would not do She went at evening hour,
• And found her brother in their favourite bower;
• She saw him musing, lost in gloomy thought,
• And wished some joyful tidings she had brought.

• “Henry,” she said, and kissed his mournful brow,
• “What ails thee, dearest? Am I not to know?”

• Henry replied, half angry, half distressed,
• Some strange emotion labouring in his breast,
• “My father tells me, Martha, we are wrong,
• And have been quite mistaken all along,
• About the expenses he has had to meet,
• With lessening prices for his oats and wheat.
• I asked him if he meant me still to live
• Beneath his roof He would no answer give,
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• Nor seemed the idea willingly to come,
• That I must sometime seek a separate home.
• He spoke of all the cost this house had been,
• The grounds without, the furniture within:
• Would I could now call back the ancient one,
• Or claim the portion of an only son!”

• “Is this the case?” said Martha; “Then I know
• At once, dear Henry, what I ought to do.
• Smile not—yes, I will give you leave to smile,
• And my fixed purpose will declare the while.
• I love the man—at least, I think I could,
• Who oft provokes your mirth in jesting mood;
• And I will love him better, for I see
• There is more need than once there seemed to be
• For us to seek beyond our native hearth
• Some lasting shelter, and some home on earth.
• Yet, Henry dearest, grant me one request,
• It is not much, to soothe a sister's breast;
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• I could not ask it, would your pleasures be
• Curtailed in aught, for granting this to me.
• But, my own brother, I have borne too much
• Of that rude handling—that unfeeling touch,
• That wounds the spirit.”

• “Martha, say no more.”
• He kissed her cheek, that burning tears fell o'er,
• And promised faithfully, nor broke his word,
• That from that hour his jest should ne'er be heard.