Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, TALES OF THE HALL: BOOK 3. THE BOYS AT SCHOOL, by GEORGE CRABBE


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TALES OF THE HALL: BOOK 3. THE BOYS AT SCHOOL, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: We name the world a school, for dayby day
Last Line: To sigh, yet not recede; to grieve, yet not repent!'
Subject(s): Schools; Students


WE name the world a school, for day by day
We something learn, till we are call'd away;
The school we name a world, -- for vice and pain,
Fraud and contention, there begin to reign;
And much, in fact, this lesser world can show
Of grief and crime that in the greater grow.
'You saw,' said George, 'in that still-hated school,
How the meek suffer, how the haughty rule;
There soft, ingenuous, gentle minds endure
Ills that ease, time, and friendship fail to cure:
There the best hearts, and those, who shrink from sin,
Find some seducing imp to draw them in;
Who takes infernal pleasure to impart
The strongest poison to the purest heart.
Call to your mind this scene -- Yon boy behold:
How hot the vengeance of a heart so cold!
See how he beats, whom he had just reviled
And made rebellious -- that imploring child:
How fierce his eye, how merciless his blows,
And how his anger on his insult grows;
You saw this Hector and his patient slave,
Th' insulting speech, the cruel blows he gave.
'Mix'd with mankind, his interest in his sight,
We found this Nimrod civil and polite;
There was no triumph in his manner seen,
He was so humble you might think him mean:
Those angry passions slept till he attain'd
His purposed wealth, and waked when that was gain'd;
He then resumed the native wrath and pride,
The more indulged, as longer laid aside;
Wife, children, servants, all obedience pay,
The slaves at school no greater slaves than they.
No more dependant, he resumes the rein,
And shows the school-boy turbulence again.
'Were I a poet, I would say, he brings
To recollection some impetuous springs;
See! one that issues from its humble source,
To gain new powers, and run its noisy course;
Frothy and fierce among the rocks it goes,
And threatens all that bound it or oppose:
Till wider grown, and finding large increase,
Though bounded still, it moves along in peace;
And as its waters to the ocean glide,
They bear a busy people on its tide;
But there arrived, and from its channel free,
Those swelling waters meet the mighty sea;
With threat'ning force the new-form'd billows swell,
And now affright the crowd they bore so well.'
'Yet,' said the rector, 'all these early signs
Of vice are lost, and vice itself declines;
Religion counsels, troubles, sorrows rise,
And the vile spirit in the conflict dies.
'Sir Hector Blane, the champion of the school,
Was very blockhead, but was form'd for rule:
Learn he could not; he said he could not learn,
But he profess'd it gave him no concern:
Books were his horror, dinner his delight,
And his amusement to shake hands and fight;
Argue he could not, but in case of doubt,
Or disputation, fairly box'd it out:
This was his logic, and his arm so strong,
His cause prevail'd, and he was never wrong;
But so obtuse -- you must have seen his look,
Desponding, angry, puzzled o'er his book.
'Can you not see him on the morn that proved
His skill in figures? Pluto's self was moved --
"Come, six times five?" th' impatient teacher cried;
In vain, the pupil shut his eyes, and sigh'd.
"Try, six times count your fingers; how he stands! --
Your fingers, idiot!" -- "What, of both my hands?"
'With parts like these his father felt assured,
In busy times, a ship might be procured;
He too was pleased to be so early freed,
He now could fight, and he in time might read.
So he has fought, and in his country's cause
Has gain'd him glory, and our hearts' applause.
No more the blustering boy a school defies,
We see the hero from the tyrant rise,
And in the captain's worth the student's dulness dies.'
'Be all allow'd;' replied the squire, 'I give
Praise to his actions; may their glory live!
Nay, I will hear him in his riper age
Fight his good ship, and with the foe engage;
Nor will I quit him when the cowards fly,
Although, like them, I dread his energy.
'But still, my friend, that ancient spirit reigns,
His powers support the credit of his brains,
Insisting ever that he must be right,
And for his reasons still prepared to fight.
Let him a judge of England's prowess be,
And all her floating terrors on the sea;
But this contents not, this is not denied,
He claims a right on all things to decide;
A kind of patent-wisdom, and he cries,
"'Tis so!" and bold the hero that denies.
Thus the boy-spirit still the bosom rules,
And the world's maxims were at first the school's.'
'No doubt,' said Jacques, 'there are in minds the seeds
Of good and ill, the virtues and the weeds;
But is it not of study the intent
This growth of evil nature to prevent?
To check the progress of each idle shoot
That might retard the ripening of the fruit?
Our purpose certain! and we much effect,
We something cure, and something we correct;
But do your utmost, when the man you see,
You find him what you saw the boy would be,
Disguised a little; but we still behold
What pleased and what offended us of old.
Years from the mind no native stain remove,
But lay the varnish of the world above.
Still, when he can, he loves to step aside
And be the boy, without a check or guide;
In the old wanderings he with pleasure strays,
And reassumes the bliss of earlier days.
'I left at school the boy with pensive look,
Whom some great patron order'd to his book,
Who from his mother's cot reluctant came,
And gave my lord, for this compassion, fame;
Who, told of all his patron's merit, sigh'd,
I know not why, in sorrow or in pride;
And would, with vex'd and troubled spirit, cry,
"I am not happy; let your envy die."
Him left I with you; who, perhaps, can tell
If fortune bless'd him, or what fate befell:
I yet remember how the idlers ran
To see the carriage of the godlike man,
When pride restrain'd me; yet I thought the deed
Was noble, too, -- and how did it succeed?'
Jacques answer'd not till he had backward cast
His view, and dwelt upon the evil past;
Then, as he sigh'd, he smiled; -- from folly rise
Such smiles, and misery will create such sighs.
And Richard now from his abstraction broke,
Listening attentive as the rector spoke.

'This noble lord was one disposed to try
And weigh the worth of each new luxury;
Now, at a certain time, in pleasant mood,
He tried the luxury of doing good;
For this he chose a widow's handsome boy,
Whom he would first improve, and then employ.
The boy was gentle, modest, civil, kind,
But not for bustling through the world design'd;
Reserved in manner, with a little gloom,
Apt to retire, but never to assume;
Possess'd of pride that he could not subdue,
Although he kept his origin in view.
Him sent my lord to school, and this became
A theme for praise, and gave his lordship fame;
But when the boy was told how great his debt,
He proudly ask'd, "is it contracted yet?"
'With care he studied, and with some success;
His patience great, but his acquirements less:
Yet when he heard that Charles would not excel,
His lordship answer'd, with a smile, "'tis well;
Let him proceed, and do the best he can,
I want no pedant, but a useful man."
'The speech was heard, and praise was amply dealt,
His lordship felt it, and he said he felt --
"It is delightful," he observed, "to raise
And foster merit, -- it is more than praise."
'Five years at school th' industrious boy had past,
"And what," was whisper'd, "will be done at last?"
My lord was troubled, for he did not mean
To have his bounty watch'd and overseen;
Bounty that sleeps when men applaud no more,
The generous act that waked their praise before;
The deed was pleasant while the praise was new,
But none the progress would with wonder view:
It was a debt contracted; he who pays
A debt is just, but must not look for praise:
The deed that once had fame must still proceed,
Though fame no more proclaims "how great the deed!"
The boy is taken from his mother's side,
And he who took him must be now his guide.
But this, alas! instead of bringing fame,
A tax, a trouble, to my lord became.
'"The boy is dull, you say, -- why then by trade,
By law, by physic, nothing can be made;
If a small living -- mine are both too large,
And then the college is a cursed charge:
The sea is open; should he there display
Signs of dislike, he cannot run away."
'Now Charles, who acted no heroic part,
And felt no seaman's glory warm his heart,
Refused the offer -- anger touch'd my lord. --
"He does not like it -- Good, upon my word --
If I at college place him, he will need
Supplies for ever, and will not succeed; --
Doubtless in me 'tis duty to provide
Not for his comfort only, but his pride --
Let him to sea!" -- He heard the words again,
With promise join'd -- with threat'ning; all in vain:
Charles had his own pursuits; for aid to these
He had been thankful, and had tried to please;
But urged again, as meekly as a saint,
He humbly begg'd to stay at home, and paint.
"Yes, pay some dauber, that this stubborn fool
May grind his colours, and may boast his school."
'As both persisted, "Choose, good sir, your way,"
The peer exclaim'd, "I have no more to say.
I seek your good, but I have no command
Upon your will, nor your desire withstand."
'Resolved and firm, yet dreading to offend,
Charles pleaded genius with his noble friend:
"Genius!" he cried, "the name that triflers give
To their strong wishes without pains to live;
Genius! the plea of all who feel desire
Of fame, yet grudge the labours that acquire:
But say 'tis true; how poor, how late the gain,
And certain ruin if the hope be vain!"
Then to the world appeal'd my lord, and cried,
"Whatever happens, I am justified."
Nay, it was trouble to his soul to find
There was such hardness in the human mind:
He wash'd his hands before the world, and swore
That he "such minds would patronize no more."
'Now Charles his bread by daily labours sought,
And this his solace, "so Corregio wrought."
Alas, poor youth! however great his name,
And humble thine, thy fortune was the same:
Charles drew and painted, and some praise obtain'd
For care and pains; but little more was gain'd:
Fame was his hope, and he contempt display'd
For approbation, when 'twas cooly paid:
His daily tasks he call'd a waste of mind,
Vex'd at his fate, and angry with mankind:
"Thus have the blind to merit ever done,
And Genius mourn'd for each neglected son."
'Charles murmur'd thus, and angry and alone
Half breathed the curse, and half suppress'd the groan;
Then still more sullen grew, and still more proud,
Fame so refused he to himself allow'd,
Crowds in contempt he held, and all to him was crowd.
'If aught on earth, the youth his mother loved,
And, at her death, to distant scenes removed.
'Years past away, and where he lived, and how,
Was then unknown -- indeed we know not now;
But once at twilight walking up and down,
In a poor alley of the mighty town,
Where, in her narrow courts and garrets, hide
The grieving sons of genius, want, and pride,
I met him musing: sadness I could trace,
And conquer'd hope's meek anguish, in his face.
See him I must: but I with ease address'd,
And neither pity nor surprise express'd;
I strove both grief and pleasure to restrain,
But yet I saw that I was giving pain.
He said, with quick'ning pace, as loth to hold
A longer converse, that "the day was cold,
That he was well, that I had scarcely light
To aid my steps," and bade me then good night!
'I saw him next where he had lately come,
A silent pauper in a crowded room;
I heard his name, but he conceal'd his face,
To his sad mind his misery was disgrace:
In vain I strove to combat his disdain
Of my compassion -- -- "Sir, I pray refrain;"
For I had left my friends and stepp'd aside,
Because I fear'd his unrelenting pride.
'He then was sitting on a workhouse-bed,
And on the naked boards reclined his head,
Around were children with incessant cry,
And near was one, like him, about to die;
A broken chair's deal bottom held the store
That he required -- he soon would need no more;
A yellow tea-pot, standing at his side,
From its half spout the cold black tea supplied.
'Hither, it seem'd, the fainting man was brought,
Found without food, -- it was no longer sought:
For his employers knew not whom they paid,
Nor where to seek him whom they wish'd to aid:
Here brought, some kind attendant he address'd,
And sought some trifles which he yet possess'd;
Then named a lightless closet, in a room
Hired at small rate, a garret's deepest gloom.
They sought the region, and they brought him all
That he his own, his proper wealth could call:
A better coat, less pieced; some linen neat,
Not whole; and papers many a valued sheet;
Designs and drawings; these, at his desire,
Were placed before him at the chamber fire,
And while th' admiring people stood to gaze,
He, one by one, committed to the blaze,
Smiling in spleen; but one he held awhile,
And gave it to the flames, and could not smile.
'The sickening man -- for such appear'd the fact --
Just in his need, would not a debt contract;
But left his poor apartment for the bed
That earth might yield him, or some wayside shed;
Here he was found, and to this place convey'd,
Where he might rest, and his last debt be paid:
Fame was his wish, but he so far from fame,
That no one knew his kindred, or his name,
Or by what means he lived, or from what place he came.
'Poor Charles! unnoticed by thy titled friend,
Thy days had calmly past, in peace thine end:
Led by thy patron's vanity astray,
Thy own misled thee in thy trackless way,
Urging thee on by hope absurd and vain,
Where never peace or comfort smiled again!
'Once more I saw him, when his spirits fail'd,
And my desire to aid him then prevail'd;
He show'd a softer feeling in his eye,
And watch'd my looks, and own'd the sympathy:
'Twas now the calm of wearied pride; so long
As he had strength was his resentment strong,
But in such place, with strangers all around,
And they such strangers, to have something found
Allied to his own heart, an early friend,
One, only one, who would on him attend,
To give and take a look! at this his journey's end;
One link, however slender, of the chain
That held him where he could not long remain;
The one sole interest! -- No, he could not now
Retain his anger; Nature knew not how;
And so there came a softness to his mind,
And he forgave the usage of mankind.
His cold long fingers now were press'd to mine,
And his faint smile of kinder thoughts gave sign;
His lips moved often as he tried to lend
His words their sound, and softly whisper'd "friend!"
Not without comfort in the thought express'd
By that calm look with which he sank to rest.'

'The man,' said George, 'you see, through life retain'd
The boy's defects; his virtues too remain'd.
'But where are now those minds so light and gay,
So forced on study, so intent on play,
Swept, by the world's rude blasts, from hope's dear views away?
Some grieved for long neglect in earlier times,
Some sad from frailties, some lamenting crimes;
Thinking, with sorrow, on the season lent
For noble purpose, and in trifling spent;
And now, at last, when they in earnest view
The nothings done -- what work they find to do!
Where is that virtue that the generous boy
Felt, and resolved that nothing should destroy?
He who with noble indignation glow'd
When vice had triumph? who his tear bestow'd
On injured merit? he who would possess
Power, but to aid the children of distress!
Who has such joy in generous actions shown,
And so sincere, they might be call'd his own;
Knight, hero, patriot, martyr! on whose tongue,
And potent arm, a nation's welfare hung;
He who to public misery brought relief,
And soothed the anguish of domestic grief.
Where now this virtue's fervour, spirit, zeal?
Who felt so warmly, has he ceased to feel?
The boy's emotions of that noble kind,
Ah! sure th' experienced man has not resign'd;
Or are these feelings varied? has the knight,
Virtue's own champion, now refused to fight?
Is the deliverer turn'd th' oppressor now?
Has the reformer dropt the dangerous vow?
Or has the patriot's bosom lost its heat,
And forced him, shivering, to a snug retreat?
Is such the grievous lapse of human pride?
Is such the victory of the worth untried?
'Here will I pause, and then review the shame
Of Harry Bland, to hear his parent's name;
That mild, that modest boy, whom well we knew,
In him long time the secret sorrow grew;
He wept alone; then to his friend confess'd
The grievous fears that his pure mind oppress'd;
And thus, when terror o'er his shame obtain'd
A painful conquest, he his case explain'd:
And first his favourite question'd -- "Willie, tell,
Do all the wicked people go to hell?"
'Willie with caution answer'd, "Yes, they do,
Or else repent; but what is this to you?"
"O! yes, dear friend:" he then his tale began --
He fear'd his father was a wicked man,
Nor had repented of his naughty life;
The wife he had indeed was not a wife,
Not as my mother was; the servants all
Call her a name -- I'll whisper what they call.
She saw me weep, and ask'd, in high disdain,
It tears could bring my mother back again?
This I could bear, but not when she pretends
Such fond regard, and what I speak commends;
Talks of my learning, fawning wretch! and tries
To make me love her, -- love! when I despise.
Indeed I had it in my heart to say
Words of reproach, before I came away;
And then my father's look is not the same,
He puts his anger on to hide his shame.
'With all these feelings delicate and nice,
This dread of infamy, this scorn of vice,
He left the school, accepting, though with pride,
His father's aid -- but there would not reside;
He married then a lovely maid, approved
Of every heart as worthy to be loved;
Mild as the morn in summer, firm as truth,
And graced with wisdom in the bloom of youth.
'How is it, men, when they in judgment sit
On the same fault, now censure, now acquit?
Is it not thus, that here we view the sin,
And there the powerful cause that drew us in?
'Tis not that men are to the evil blind,
But that a different object fills the mind.
In judging others we can see too well
Their grievous fall, but not how grieved they fell;
Judging ourselves, we to our minds recall,
Not how we fell, but how we grieved to fall.
'Or could this man, so vex'd in early time,
By this strong feeling for his father's crime,
Who to the parent's sin was barely just,
And mix'd with filial fear the man's disgust;
Could he, without some strong delusion, quit
The path of duty, and to shame submit?
Cast off the virtue he so highly prized,
"And be the very creature he despised?"
'A tenant's wife, half forward, half afraid,
Features, it seem'd, of powerful cast display'd,
That bore down faith and duty; common fame
Speaks of a contract that augments the shame.
'There goes he, not unseen, so strong the will,
And blind the wish, that bear him to the mill;
There he degraded sits, and strives to please
The miller's children, laughing at his knees;
And little Dorcas, now familiar grown,
Talks of her rich papa, and of her own.
He woos the mother's now precarious smile
By costly gifts, that tempers reconcile;
While the rough husband, yielding to the pay
That buys his absence, growling stalks away.
'Tis said th' offending man will sometimes sigh,
And say, "My God, in what a dream am I?
I will awake:" but, as the day proceeds,
The weaken'd mind the day's indulgence needs;
Hating himself at every step he takes,
His mind approves the virtue he forsakes,
And yet forsakes her. O! how sharp the pain,
Our vice, ourselves, our habits to disdain;
To go where never yet in peace we went,
To feel our hearts can bleed, yet not relent;
To sigh, yet not recede; to grieve, yet not repent!'





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