The Man of Feeling, Henry Mackenzie [the reading strategies book .TXT] 📗

In a day or two he was so much master of himself as to be able to rhyme upon the subject. The following pastoral he left, some time after, on the handle of a tea-kettle, at a neighbouring house where we were visiting; and as I filled the tea-pot after him, I happened to put it in my pocket by a similar act of forgetfulness. It is such as might be expected from a man who makes verses for amusement. I am pleased with somewhat of good nature that runs through it, because I have commonly observed the writers of those complaints to bestow epithets on their lost mistresses rather too harsh for the mere liberty of choice, which led them to prefer another to the poet himself: I do not doubt the vehemence of their passion; but, alas! the sensations of love are something more than the returns of gratitude.

LAVINIA. A PASTORAL.

Why steals from my bosom the sigh? Why fixed is my gaze on the ground? Come, give me my pipe, and I’ll try To banish my cares with the sound.

Erewhile were its notes of accord With the smile of the flow’r-footed Muse; Ah! why by its master implored Shou’d it now the gay carrol refuse?

‘Twas taught by LAVINIA’S sweet smile, In the mirth-loving chorus to join: Ah, me! how unweeting the while! LAVINIA—can never be mine!

Another, more happy, the maid By fortune is destin’d to bless - ‘Tho’ the hope has forsook that betray’d, Yet why should I love her the less?

Her beauties are bright as the morn, With rapture I counted them o’er; Such virtues these beauties adorn, I knew her, and prais’d them no more.

I term’d her no goddess of love, I call’d not her beauty divine: These far other passions may prove, But they could not be figures of mine.

It ne’er was apparel’d with art, On words it could never rely; It reign’d in the throb of my heart, It gleam’d in the glance of my eye.

Oh fool! in the circle to shine That Fashion’s gay daughters approve, You must speak as the fashions incline; Alas! are there fashions in love?

Yet sure they are simple who prize The tongue that is smooth to deceive; Yet sure she had sense to despise, The tinsel that folly may weave.

When I talk’d, I have seen her recline, With an aspect so pensively sweet, - Tho’ I spoke what the shepherds opine, A fop were ashamed to repeat.

She is soft as the dew-drops that fall From the lip of the sweet-scented pea; Perhaps when she smil’d upon all, I have thought that she smil’d upon me.

But why of her charms should I tell? Ah me! whom her charms have undone Yet I love the reflection too well, The painful reflection to shun.

Ye souls of more delicate kind, Who feast not on pleasure alone, Who wear the soft sense of the mind, To the sons of the world still unknown.

Ye know, tho’ I cannot express, Why I foolishly doat on my pain; Nor will ye believe it the less, That I have not the skill to complain.

I lean on my hand with a sigh, My friends the soft sadness condemn; Yet, methinks, tho’ I cannot tell why, I should hate to be merry like them.

When I walk’d in the pride of the dawn, Methought all the region look’d bright: Has sweetness forsaken the lawn? For, methinks, I grow sad at the sight.

When I stood by the stream, I have thought There was mirth in the gurgling soft sound; But now ‘tis a sorrowful note, And the banks are all gloomy around!

I have laugh’d at the jest of a friend; Now they laugh, and I know not the cause, Tho’ I seem with my looks to attend, How silly! I ask what it was.

They sing the sweet song of the May, They sing it with mirth and with glee; Sure I once thought the sonnet was gay, But now ‘tis all sadness to me.

Oh! give me the dubious light That gleams thro’ the quivering shade; Oh! give me the horrors of night, By gloom and by silence array’d!

Let me walk where the soft-rising wave, Has pictur’d the moon on its breast; Let me walk where the new cover’d grave Allows the pale lover to rest!

When shall I in its peaceable womb, Be laid with my sorrows asleep? Should LAVINIA but chance on my tomb - I could die if I thought she would weep.

Perhaps, if the souls of the just Revisit these mansions of care, It may be my favourite trust To watch o’er the fate of the fair.

Perhaps the soft thought of her breast, With rapture more favour’d to warm; Perhaps, if with sorrow oppress’d, Her sorrow with patience to arm.

Then, then, in the tenderest part May I whisper, “Poor COLIN was true,” And mark if a heave of her heart The thought of her COLIN pursue.

THE PUPIL—A FRAGMENT

* “But as to the higher part of education, Mr. Harley, the culture of the mind—let the feelings be awakened, let the heart be brought forth to its object, placed in the light in which nature would have it stand, and its decisions will ever be just. The world

Will smile, and smile, and be a villain;

and the youth, who does not suspect its deceit, will be content to smile with it. Men will put on the most forbidding aspect in nature, and tell him of the beauty of virtue.

“I have not, under these grey hairs, forgotten that I was once a young man, warm in the pursuit of pleasure, but meaning to be honest as well as happy. I had ideas of virtue, of honour, of benevolence, which I had never been at the pains to define; but I felt my bosom heave at the thoughts of them, and I made the most delightful soliloquies. It is impossible, said I, that there can be half so many rogues as are imagined.

“I travelled, because it is the fashion for young men of my fortune to travel. I had a travelling tutor, which is the fashion too; but my tutor was a gentleman, which it is not always the fashion for tutors to be. His gentility, indeed, was all he had from his father, whose prodigality had not left him a shilling to support it.

“‘I have a favour to ask of you, my dear Mountford,’ said my father, ‘which I will not be refused. You have travelled as became a man; neither France nor Italy have made anything of Mountford, which Mountford, before he left England, would have been ashamed of. My son Edward goes abroad, would you take him under your protection?’

“He blushed; my father’s face was scarlet. He pressed his hand to his bosom, as if he had said, my heart does not mean to offend you. Mountford sighed twice.

“‘I am a proud fool,’ said he, ‘and you will pardon it. There! (he sighed again) I can hear of dependance, since it is dependance on my Sedley.’

“‘Dependance!’ answered my father; ‘there can be no such word between us. What is there in 9,000 pounds a year that should make me unworthy of Mountford’s friendship?’

“They embraced; and soon after I set out on my travels, with Mountford for my guardian.

“We were at Milan, where my father happened to have an Italian friend, to whom he had been of some service in England. The count, for he was of quality, was solicitous to return the obligation by a particular attention to his son. We lived in his palace, visited with his family, were caressed by his friends, and I began to be so well pleased with my entertainment, that I thought of England as of some foreign country.

“The count had a son not much older than myself. At that age a friend is an easy acquisition; we were friends the first night of our acquaintance.

“He introduced me into the company of a set of young gentlemen, whose fortunes gave them the command of pleasure, and whose inclinations incited them to the purchase. After having spent some joyous evenings in their society, it became a sort of habit which I could not miss without uneasiness, and our meetings, which before were frequent, were now stated and regular.

“Sometimes, in the pauses of our mirth, gaming was introduced as an amusement. It was an art in which I was a novice. I received instruction, as other novices do, by losing pretty largely to my teachers. Nor was this the only evil which Mountford foresaw would arise from the connection I had formed; but a lecture of sour injunctions was not his method of reclaiming. He sometimes asked me questions about the company, but they were such as the curiosity of any indifferent man might have prompted. I told him of their wit, their eloquence, their warmth of friendship, and their sensibility of heart. ‘And their honour,’ said I, laying my hand on my breast, ‘is unquestionable.’ Mountford seemed to rejoice at my good fortune, and begged that I would introduce him to their acquaintance. At the next meeting I introduced him accordingly.

“The conversation was as animated as usual. They displayed all that sprightliness and good-humour which my praises had led Mountford to expect; subjects, too, of sentiment occurred, and their speeches, particularly those of our friend the son of Count Respino, glowed with the warmth of honour, and softened into the tenderness of feeling. Mountford was charmed with his companions. When we parted, he made the highest eulogiums upon them. ‘When shall we see them again?’ said he. I was delighted with the demand, and promised to reconduct him on the morrow.

“In going to their place of rendezvous, he took me a little out of the road, to see, as he told me, the performances of a young statuary. When we were near the house in which Mountford said he lived, a boy of about seven years old crossed us in the street. At sight of Mountford he stopped, and grasping his hand,

“‘My dearest sir,’ said he, ‘my father is likely to do well. He will live to pray for you, and to bless you. Yes, he will bless you, though you are an Englishman, and some other hard word that the monk talked of this morning, which I have forgot, but it meant that you should not go to heaven; but he shall go to heaven, said I, for he has saved my father. Come and see him, sir, that we may be happy.’

“‘My dear, I am engaged at present with this gentleman.’

“‘But he shall come along with you; he is an Englishman, too, I fancy. He shall come and learn how an Englishman may go to heaven.’

“Mountford smiled, and we followed the boy together.

“After crossing the next street, we arrived at the gate of a prison. I seemed surprised at the sight; our little conductor observed it.

“‘Are you afraid, sir?’ said he. ‘I was afraid once too, but my father and mother are here, and I am never afraid when I am with them.’

“He took my hand, and led me through a dark passage that fronted the gate. When we came to a little door at the end, he tapped. A boy, still younger than himself, opened it to receive us. Mountford entered with a look in which was pictured the benign assurance of a superior being. I followed in silence and amazement.

“On something like a bed, lay a man, with a face seemingly emaciated with sickness, and a look of patient dejection. A bundle of dirty shreds served him for a pillow, but he had a better support—the arm of a female who