Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, POSTHUMOUS TALES: TALE 8. BARNABY; THE SHOPMAN, by GEORGE CRABBE


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

POSTHUMOUS TALES: TALE 8. BARNABY; THE SHOPMAN, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: Farewell! To him whom just across my way
Last Line: And tries to sweep off sorrow. -- -- sweep away!


I

FAREWELL! to him whom just across my way,
I see his shop attending day by day;
Save on the Sunday, when he duly goes
To his own church, in his own Sunday clothes.
Young though he is, yet careful there he stands,
Opening his shop with his own ready hands;
Nor scorns the broom that to and fro he moves.
Cleaning his way, for cleanliness he loves --
But yet preserves not: in his zeal for trade
He has his shop an ark for all things made;
And there, in spite of his all-guarding eye,
His sundry wares in strange confusion lie --
Delightful token of the haste that keeps
Those mingled matters in their shapeless heaps;
Yet ere he rests, he takes them all away,
And order smiles on the returning day.
Most ready tradesman he of men! alive
To all that turns to money -- he must thrive.
Obsequious, civil, loath t' offend or trust,
And full of awe for greatness -- thrive he must;
For well he knows to creep, and he in time,
By wealth assisted, will aspire to climb.
Pains-taking lad he was, and with his slate
For hours in useful meditation sate;
Puzzled, and seizing every boy at hand,
To make him -- hard the labour! -- understand;
But when of learning he enough possess'd
For his affairs, who would might learn the rest;
All else was useless when he had obtain'd
Knowledge that told him what he lost or gain'd.
He envied no man for his learning; he
Who was not rich, was poor with BARNABY:
But he for envy has no thought to spare,
Nor love nor hate -- his heart is in his ware.
Happy the man whose greatest pleasure lies
In the fair trade by which he hopes to rise.
To him how bright the opening day, how blest
The busy noon, how sweet the evening rest!
To him the nation's state is all unknown,
Whose watchful eye is ever on his own.
You talk of patriots, men who give up all,
Yea, life itself, at their dear country's call!
He look'd on such as men of other date,
Men to admire, and not to imitate;
They as his Bible-Saints to him appear'd,
Lost to the world, but still to be revered.
Yet there's a Widow, in a neighbouring street,
Whom he contrives in Sunday-dress to meet;
Her's house and land; and these are more delight
To him than learning, in the proverb's spite.
The Widow sees at once the Trader's views,
And means to soothe him, flatter, and refuse:
Yet there are moments when a woman fails
In such design, and so the man prevails.
Love she has not, but, in a guardless hour,
May lose her purpose, and resign her power;
Yet all such hazard she resolves to run,
Pleased to be woo'd, and fearless to be won.
Lovers like these, as dresses thrown aside,
Are kept and shown to feed a woman's pride.
Old-fashion'd, ugly, call them what she will,
They serve as signs of her importance still.
She thinks they might inferior forms adorn,
And does not love to hear them used with scorn;
Till on some day when she has need of dress,
And none at hand to serve her in distress,
She takes th' insulted robe, and turns about;
Long-hidden beauties one by one peer out.
''Tis not so bad! see, Jenny -- I declare
'Tis pretty well, and then 'tis lasting wear;
And what is fashion? -- if a woman's wise,
She will the substance, not the shadow, prize;
'Tis a choice silk, and if I put it on,
Off go these ugly trappings every one.'
The dress is worn, a friendly smile is raised,
But the good lady for her courage praised --
Till wonder dies. -- The dress is worn with pride,
And not one trapping yet is cast aside.
Meanwhile the man his six-day toil renews,
And on the seventh he worships Heaven, and woos.
I leave thee, Barnaby; and if I see
Thee once again, a Burgess thou wilt be.

II

BUT how is this? I left a thriving man,
Hight BARNABY! when he to trade began --
Trade his delight and hope; and, if alive,
Doubt I had none that Barnaby would thrive:
Yet here I see him, sweeping as before
The very dust from forth the very door.
So would a miser! but, methinks, the shop
Itself is meaner -- has he made a stop?
I thought I should at least a Burgess see,
And lo! 'tis but an older Barnaby;
With face more wrinkled, with a coat as bare
As coats of his once begging kindred were,
Brush'd to the thread that is distinctly seen,
And beggarly would be, but that 'tis clean.
Why, how is this? Upon a closer view,
The shop is narrow'd: it is cut in two.
Is all that business from its station fled?
Why, Barnaby! thy very shop is dead!
Now, what the cause my Friend will soon relate --
And what the fall from that predicted fate.

F. A common cause: it seems his lawful gains
Came slowly forth, and came with care and pains.
These he, indeed, was willing to bestow,
But still his progress to his point was slow,
And might be quicken'd, 'could he cheat the eyes
Of all those rascal officers and spies,
The Customs' greedy tribe, the wolves of the Excise.'
Tea, coffee, spirits, laces, silks, and spice,
And sundry drugs that bear a noble price,
Are bought for little, but ere sold, the things
Are deeply charged for duty of the king's.
Now, if the servants of this king would keep
At a kind distance, or would wink or sleep,
Just till the goods in safety were disposed,
Why then his labours would be quickly closed.
True! some have thriven, -- but they the laws defied,
And shunn'd the powers they should have satisfied!
Their way he tried, and finding some success,
His heart grew stouter, and his caution less;
Then -- for why doubt, when placed in Fortune's way? --
There was a bank, and that was sure to pay.
Yes, every partner in that thriving bank
He judged a man of a superior rank.
Were he but one in a concern so grand --
Why! he might build a house, and buy him land;
Then, too, the Widow, whom he loved so well,
Would not refuse with such a man to dwell;
And, to complete his views, he might be made
A Borough-Justice, when he ceased to trade;
For he had known -- well pleased to know -- a mayor
Who once had dealt in cheese and vinegar.
Who hastens to be rich, resembles him
Who is resolved that he will quickly swim,
And trusts his full-blown bladders! He, indeed,
With these supported, moves along with speed;
He laughs at those whom untried depths alarm,
By caution led, and moved by strength of arm;
Till in mid-way, the way his folly chose,
His full-blown bladder bursts, and down he goes!
Or, if preserved, 'tis by their friendly aid
Whom he despised as cautious and afraid.
Who could resist? Not Barnaby. Success
Awhile his pride exalted -- to depress.
Three years he pass'd in feverish hopes and fears,
When fled the profits of the former years;
Shook by the Law's strong arm, all he had gain'd
He dropp'd -- and hopeless, penniless remain'd.
The cruel Widow, whom he yet pursued,
Was kind but cautious, then was stern and rude.
'Should wealth, now hers, from that dear man which came,
Be thrown away to prop a smuggler's fame?'
She spake insulting; and with many a sigh,
The fallen Trader passed her mansion by.
Fear, shame, and sorrow, for a time endured,
Th' adventurous man was ruin'd, but was cured --
His weakness pitied, and his once-good name
The means of his returning peace became.
He was assisted, to his shop withdrew,
Half let, half rented, and began anew,
To smile on custom, that in part return'd,
With the small gains that he no longer spurn'd.
Warn'd by the past, he rises with the day,
And tries to sweep off sorrow. -- -- Sweep away!





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