And then t' excuse it, is a woman's way;
He too was chidden when her rules he broke,
And then she sickened at the scent of smoke.
George, though in doubt, was still consoled to find
His brother wishing to be reckoned kind:
That Isaac seemed concerned by his distress,
Gave to his injured feelings some redress;
But none he found disposed to lend an ear
To stories all were once intent to hear:
Except his nephew, seated on his knee,
He found no creature cared about the sea;
But George indeed for George they called the boy,
When his good uncle was their boast and joy –
Would listen long, and would contend with sleep,
To hear the woes and wonders of the deep;
Till the fond mother cried -"That man will teach
The foolish boy his loud and boisterous speech."
So judged the father—and the boy was taught
To shun the uncle, whom his love had sought.
The mask of kindness now but seldom worn,
George felt each evil harder to be borne;
And cried (vexation growing day by day),
"Ah! brother Isaac! What! I'm in the way!"
"No! on my credit, look ye, no! but I
Am fond of peace, and my repose would buy
On any terms-in short, we must comply:
My spouse had money—she must have her will
Ah! brother, marriage is a bitter pill."
George tried the lady "Sister, I offend."
"Me?" she replied-"Oh no! you may depend
On my regard—but watch your brother's way,
Whom I, like you, must study and obey."
“Ah!” thought the seaman, "what a head was mine, That easy berth at Greenwich to resign!
I'll to the parish" - but a little pride,
And some affection, put the thought aside.
Now gross neglect and open scorn he bore
In silent sorrow - but he felt the more:
The odious pipe he to the kitchen took,
Or strove to profit by some pious book.
When the mind stoops to this degraded state,
New griefs will darken the dependent's fate;
"Brother!" said Isaac, "you will sure excuse
The little freedom I'm compelled to use:
My wife's relations-(curse the haughty crew!)
Affect such niceness, and such dread of you:
You speak so loud—and they have natures soft-
Brother I wish-do go upon the loft!"
Poor George obeyed, and to the garret fled,
Where not a being saw the tears he shed:
But more was yet required, for guests were come,
Who could not dine if he disgraced the room.
It shocked his spirit to be esteemed unfit
With an own brother and his wife to sit;
He grew rebellious at the vestry spoke
For weekly aid- they heard it as a joke:
"So kind a brother, and so wealthy-you
Apply to us? No! this will never do:
Good neighbor Fletcher," said the Overseer,
"We are engaged—you can have nothing here!"
George muttered something in despairing tone,
Then sought his loft, to think and grieve alone;
Neglected, slighted, restless on his bed,
With heart half broken, and with scraps ill fed;
Yet was he pleased that hours for play designed
Were given to ease his ever-troubled mind;
The child still listened with increasing joy,
And he was soothed by the attentive boy.
At length he sickened, and his duteous child
Watched o'er his sickness, and his pains beguiled;
The mother bade him from the loft refrain,
But, though with caution, yet he went again;
And now his tales the sailor feebly told,
His heart was heavy, and his limbs were cold:
The tender boy came often to entreat
His good kind friend would of his presents eat;
Purloined or purchased, for he saw, with shame,
The food untouched that to his uncle came;
Who, sick in body and in mind, received
The boy's indulgence, gratified and grieved.
"Uncle will die!" said George: - the piteous wife
Exclaimed, "she saw no value in his life;
But, sick or well, to my commands attend,
And go no more to your complaining friend."
The boy was vexed, he felt his heart reprove
The stern decree. What! punished for his love!
No! he would go, but softly, to the room
Stealing in silence - for he knew his doom.
Once in a week the father came to say,
"George, are you ill?" and hurried him away;
Yet to his wife would on their duties dwell,
And often cry, "Do use my brother well: "
And something kind, no question, Isaac meant,
Who took vast credit for the vague intent.
But, truly kind, the gentle boy essayed
To cheer his uncle, firm, although afraid;
But now the father caught him at the door,
And, swearing-yes, the man in office swore,
And cried, "Away! How! brother, I'm surprised
That one so old can be so ill advised:
Let him not dare to visit you again,
Your cursed stories will disturb his brain;
Is it not vile to court a foolish boy
Your own absurd narrations to enjoy ?
What! sullen!-ha! George Fletcher! you shall see,
Proud as you are, your bread depends on me!"
He spoke, and, frowning, to his dinner went,
Then cooled and felt some qualms of discontent:
And thought on times when he compelled his son
To hear these stories, nay, to beg for one;
But the wife's wrath o'ercame the brother's pain,
And shame was felt, and conscience rose, in vain.
George yet stole up; he saw his uncle lie
Sick on the bed, and heard his heavy sigh;
So he resolved, before he went to rest,
To comfort one so dear and so distressed;
Then watched his time, but, with a childlike art,
Betrayed a something treasured at his heart:
Th' observant wife remarked, "The boy is grown
So like your brother, that he seems his own:
So close and sullen! and I still suspect
They often meet: - do watch them and detect."
George now remarked that all was still as night,
And hastened up with terror and delight;
"Uncle!" he cried, and softly tapped the door,
"Do let me in "- but he could add no more;
The careful father caught him in the fact,
And cried, "You serpent! is it thus you act?
Back to your mother!" and, with hasty blow,
He sent th' indignant boy to grieve below;
Then at the door an angry speech began -
"Is this your conduct? Is it thus you plan?
Seduce my child, and make my house a scene
Of vile dispute What is it that you mean?
George, are you dumb? do learn to know your friends,
And think awhile on whom your bread depends.
What! not a word? be thankful I am cool-
But, sir, beware, nor longer play the fool.
Come! brother, come! what is it that you seek
By this rebellion?-Speak, you villain, speak!
Weeping, I warrant sorrow makes you dumb:
I'll ope your mouth, impostor! if I come:
Let me approach-I'll shake you from the bed,
You stubborn dog- Oh God! my brother's dead!"
Timid was Isaac, and in all the past
He felt a purpose to be kind at last:
Nor did he mean his brother to depart
Till he had shown this kindness of his heart:
But day by day he put the cause aside,
Induced by av'rice, peevishness, or pride.
But now awakened, from this fatal time
His conscience Isaac felt, and found his crime:
He raised to George a monumental stone,
And there retired to sigh and think alone;
An ague seized him, he grew pale, and shook
"So," said his son, "would my poor uncle look."
"And so, my child, shall I like him expire."
"No! you have physic and a cheerful fire."
"Unhappy sinner! yes, I'm well supplied
With every comfort my cold heart denied."
He viewed his brother now, but not as one
Who vexed his wife by fondness for her son;
Not as with wooden limb, and seaman's tale,
The odious pipe, vile grog, or humbler ale:
He now the worth and grief alone can view
Of one so mild, so generous, and so true;
"The frank, kind brother, with such open heart,-
And I to break it 'twas a demon's part!"
So Isaac now, as led by conscience, feels,
Nor his unkindness palliates or conceals;
"This is your folly," said his heartless wife:
"Alas! my folly cost my brother's life;
It suffered him to languish and decay -
My gentle brother, whom I could not pay,
And therefore left to pine, and fret his life away!"
He takes his son, and bids the boy unfold
All the good uncle of his feelings told,
All he lamented - and the ready tear
Falls as he listens, soothed, and grieved to hear.
"Did he not curse me, child?"-"He never cursed,
But could not breathe, and said his heart would burst."
"And so will mine: " "Then, father, you must pray:
My uncle said it took his pains away."
Repeating thus his sorrows, Isaac shows
That he, repenting, feels the debt he owes,
And from this source alone his every comfort flows.
He takes no joy in office, honors, gain;
They make him humble, nay, they give him pain:
"These from my heart," he cries, "all feeling drove;
They made me cold to nature, dead to love."
He takes no joy in home, but sighing, sees
A son in sorrow, and a wife at ease;
He takes no joy in office see him now,
And Burgess Steel has but a passing bow;
Of one sad train of gloomy thoughts possessed,
He takes no joy in friends, in food, in rest-
Dark are the evil days, and void of peace the best.
And thus he lives, if living be to sigh,
And from all comforts of the world to fly,
Without a hope in life—without a wish to die.
(Translated for this work, by Forrest Morgan.)
[PIERRE AUGUSTIN CARON, ennobled as "de Beaumarchais," the famous French comic dramatist, was born 1732, at Paris, son of a clockmaker; gifted with a wit almost equal to Voltaire's, great love of music, quenchless energy and ambition. At twenty-one he invented an escapement which was pirated; he had the matter referred to the Academy of Sciences, and won. This attracted court notice; Mme. de Pompadour called in his services, an old official's wife fell in love with him and had her husband transfer the office to him, and on the husband's death, shortly after, married him. Later he bought a royal secretaryship which gave him a patent of nobility; taught the king's sisters the harp, used their favor to oblige the great banker of Paris-Duverney—and was given share in his ventures. On Duverney's death his heir dishonored his written statement of debt to Beaumarchais, and when cast in court, appealed to Parliament, where "influence" ruled; Beaumarchais bribed the referee's wife for a hearing, and when defeated tried to get back the bribe; only receiving part, he exposed the transaction, and was prosecuted for bribery by the referee, but got him degraded and drove the wife to a convent; was himself disfranchised, but later restored, finally won his case, and was a popular idol for assailing the hated Parliament. The king afterward sent him on secret missions to England to
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