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Veritas:

BEING THE BIOGRAPHY OF A POET,

IN WHICH IS PORTRAYED THE MANNERS OF THOSE AMONG WHOM HE MOVED,

WITH INCIDENTAL DESCRIPTIONS OF SENSE AND SCENERY,

FORMING A TEXT-BOOK ON MANY MATTERS OF IMPORTANCE CONCERNING THE WORLD WE LIVE IN.

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It never was intended by the Author that this book should have a preface; in fact, he has rigidly set down a rule against such things, which he designates-"Prefaces an apology for explaining mysterious fiction,"-but it has been thought necessary to make some remarks, notwithstanding his strictures, although this work is the last to require one, being on simple truth, and requiring no aid to explain its meaning, at least, to the experienced.

We may, therefore, only say that this Poem will be found very unequal, a thing intended by the Author, as it does not represent one feature in life, but many-and as life is unequal, so must the writing be. It would be comical enough, in describing a common error in society, to feel inspired on a subject that is the bathos rather than the pathos of life; and it would be very unpoetical not to feel inspired when describing the traits of society, scenery, and pure affection. In fact, to a real poet, the rising scale is by far an easier matter than the descending one, and to speak solid common truth tries the poetical spirit much more than the realms of fancy can ever do. Another objection may be urged by the fastidious critic, that there is apparently now and then a want of association or connection. Now we care not who he is, reader or reviewer; has he always had a complete association or connectoin in his own life? Has he not, in many actions of his life, almost lost his own identity? Can he therefore expect, in a work purporting to be the biography of a person perhaps more erratic than himself, a perfect continuity of action, particularly when he is describing society, and those among whom he moved, from acute observation, and not from ideality or any book, however near he may approach the sentiments of others in some cases? And we conclude by stating, that whatever is said concerning matrimony or women, on close inspection it will be found to refer to low and improvident matches, uneducated females, and the general mass of vitiated persons, and never to those classes who act with respectability and prudence.

The other editions of this book were published anonymously, and dedicated, with permission, to THOMAS CARLYLE, Esq., author of "Critical and Miscellaneous Essays;" "Lectures on Heroes and Hero-Worship;" "Past and Present," &c., but, in acknowledging the present copy, many judicious alterations and abbreviations are made, and only a portion of the dedicatory letter inserted as an introduction:

DEAR SIR,

Inscribing "VERITAS" to you affords a grateful debtor happiness. The pleasure that your works have given me, their moral force, their energy, their truth, their pictures of society and life, their matchless eriticism, and their power, have all deserved more than my little thanks for benefits these writings have conferred on me and on the human family.

Of old, the greater poets looked for kings, dukes, and lords, and noblemen of power and wealth, to whom they made their slavish Dedications, and with mock-praise and fulsome eulogy, like spaniels, licked the dust from off their feet, and towering, as some were, on lofty summits of the Grecian mount, came humbly crawling down for selfish ends and regal patronage.

No heartless eloquence do I intend to echo in your ears, no big pretence, no windy argument, but the outpouring of the living truth.

Magna est veritas et prevalebit—this is my motto, and has long been yours.

All men have their experiences in life, and having had a pretty copious field to study men and manners in my sphere, and by your kind permission now allowed to place this humble sketch into your hands, I trust you will not deem it feebly drawn, nor unallied to truth, its greatest aim.

Veritas.

TRUTH is a jewel of the purest kind, Dropt down from heaven to elevate the mind! The world may dim its soft, prismatic light, But still within 'tis beautiful and bright. As in a family-mirror have been seen Faces that are, and faces that have been,— Even so this passing sketch of hope and youth Shall represent the principles of truth!

Just forty years ago, this very morn— Within a Royal Barony was born A seventh son-not in a palace gay, But in a street much famed in Bruce's day. His parents, though respectable, were poor; There house was thatch'd, had but a single floor, Contained three rooms, a kitchen, and a stall, A garden lay behind- -and those were all.

Pardon the opening briefness of my themeLife has been liken'd to a fleeting dream, And so it is, for many scarcely know The road of life on which they ought to go. In sooth! some move so slowly o'er the earth, One may assume that ever since their birth They ne'er were truly waken'd, but crawl on, And are alike unknowing and unknown. So, looking to a family's early years, The past too frequent like a dream appears; We see them all assembled round the hearth, In spotless youth pleased with each other's mirth; Anon they grow to women and to men, Alas! how different is the picture thenAll planning what their future lot may be In this strange world of hope and misery! Again the picture changes, and anon The father and the mother sit alone; Scatter'd o'er earth are all those children dear, Rear'd up in love, in tenderness, and fear! Some making money, others very poor, Some good in character, some not so sure,— Others well wed, and others better far

Had slept in death than be the things they are. If 'tis a dream-when all is fairly past"Tis one of a most serious, thoughtful cast!

"Twere useless, then, his family to portray; We find it something in a similar way,—

At least 'tis scatter'd and the parents gone, And each engaged in business of his own. Thus generations quickly come and go,— Inheritors of happiness or woe!

To play a few short years their destined part, With all the same simplicity or art.

Up, then, and rouse your faculties awhile,Care and industry make the aged smile! A goodly temper and a heart contrite Will often guide the barge of being right;— An honest heart, an honourable name, Are far the greatest and the noblest fame! 'Tis not estates and wealth that always rule, Although they make a man of many a fool.— Riches conceal all blemishes, no doubt, While poverty rubs all perfections out; Yet seek content above all earthly things; Chace from your breast unholy murmurings; Despise contention, ill-got gains, and strife, And make the most of an uncertain life!

But, oh! to lose a father, can my heart This sad bereavement properly impart? No! there are sorrows which the soul can feel Far too intense for language to reveal! That live in every thought, in every sigh, And only find expression in the eye, Which, though unseen, are certain as the soul, And dwell within with most acute control!

This boy was only in his seventh year At an event so sad, follow'd his bier;Saw him interr'd among his kindred dross, But thought more of his clothes than of his loss! Alas! alas! soon coming years could tell He learn'd the truth and knew his loss too well; Too early from his studies taken away.— From youth's unclouded happiness and play, To toil 'mong men who had no heart to feel The little pangs that pierced his heart like steel!

Sweet childhood! full of innocence and love,
With eyes as glad and gentle as the dove!
With smile all artless and as pure and bright
As yonder rays of fond celestial light!
How I can dote upon thy features fair,
Untouch'd by sickness, apathy, or care,—
How I do wonder what thy thoughts may be
Of this mix'd world of joy and misery.

I scarcely sin, when thy warm lips I kiss,

To wish thou ne'er would'st waken from such bliss.

O! it were well 'twere never known to thee, But like with angels-as thou seem'st to be!

How blest is childhood, even pass'd in care, In looking back it scarcely seems less fair! Hope then is young, anticipation great,— Each day seems opening up a brighter fate; Dark disappointment has not dimm'd the mind, And inexperience makes the world look kind; Though trifles vex, small pleasures yield delight, And rapture springs in power from every sight!

Alas! how are the times and manners changed Since when in youth and innocence we ranged By sparkling streams, by valleys soft and green, When all seem'd gilt by summer's dazzling sheen;

Where are the blissful hours, the sportive plays,
The cheerful pastimes of those early days?
The glowing sun appears not now so bright,
The pale-faced moon sheds not such vestal light,
The stars look not so strange, the streams so clear,
The hills so wondrous high, the woods so drear;
All has grown old, or alter'd with our years,
And love has turn'd to sighs, and smiles to tears;
The laughing boy has grown a man of cares,
And silver'd are his once long curling hairs,-
His healthy cheek has lost its ruddy hue,
Thought lingers pale where lately roses grew,
Keen is his eye, cautious his actions now,
Flesh-shapen cares lie heavy on his brow!

It is not easy for the young to know How feelings alter as we older grow; Friends die, forsake us, or, like fleeting wealth, Turn false, and we are rich if blest with health! Ay! and the holy glance of youth's bright eye, Whose azure drew its softness from the sky, Feels its refulgent rays decay in part, As fade the hopes and gladness of the heart.

How have we heard in youth the Sabbath bell Sound gladly with harmonious, heavenly swell! Say, is the sound as soft to riper ears

Who hear persuasions crash like jarring spheres?
By men who foam and urge their creeds abroad,
As if each one would have in heaven a God-
Not one who cannot from his justice swerve,
But such as they would frame and please to serve!
For, prejudice, thou art a hideous thing,-
A close-coil'd serpent with a deadly sting,
Brimful of pride, of bigotry, and spite,
Though all the world be wrong, yet thou art right.

Lonely he spent his early years from homeNone know the smart save those compell'd to roam! How many thousands gambol at their ease, Enjoying every pastime that they please, No care of want or dress, all these supplied Quite lavish to maintain their keenest pride, Seeking new pleasures like the birds that fly In airy ease throughout the summer-sky.

Yet discontent had seldom cross'd his soul; Though small his prospects, hope inspired the whole,

And even at this age he would indite
Some soft effusions, yielding him delight,
That chased away the sorrows of his breast,
While others crept unthinkingly to rest,
And every ray of happiness to come
Were chiefly centred in his getting home.

Home, all endearing haven to the young!
Thy accent melts like honey on the tongue-
The weary exile wandering far away
Through tears looks back-the schoolboy at his
play

Reckons his dearest joys at Christmas times,
When by his friends his village belfry rings-
The youthful mariner, afar at sea,
Looks to his ship, but always thinks of thee-
The distant lover, gazing on the skies,
Hopes that the moon is seen by brighter eyes!
He had an aged aunt, who loved him dear,
Of mind enlighten'd, happy, and sincere,
Who sung him lays of olden times so sweet
That he was charm'd with all she would repeat,
And in her room at eve he long'd to stay,
Sorry the moments pass'd so fleet away.

This aged lady easily could trace, For many generations back, her raceHad been brought up comparatively well, And own'd the goodly house where she did dwell. Besides this house some property she had, That served her wants, and kept her neatly clad, Had friends of consequence in wealth and fame, That now and then upon a visit came,And in her heart there dwelt perpetual peace, A Christian spirit, always on increase! Not modell'd in severity and woe; Not wordy goodness-that desire of showNot melancholy, sombreness, and stuff, That never was religion; but enough! She was a cheerful and a good old woman, And to our youthful poet seem'd uncommon.

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The house, as I have said, was very good, Some lovely trees behind it closely stood; Up stairs old remnants, ancient and decay'd, In furniture and dresses, were displayed, Obsolete fashions, shoes and pattens layLadies were patten'd in her early day

Old spinnets, spinning-wheels, carvings, and gear,

That made the place quite haunted-like appear.

No man e'er felt love's passion more severe, And none e'er breathed a fondness more sincere; No man e'er wish'd to tell the gentle maid So anxiously, yet was so much afraid; Full many schemes pass'd rapid through his mind By which to learn if she were also kind; He dreaded, too, the prospects of his life, Even were she willing to become his wife; Had seen so many fail in the attempt To keep appearance up, he kept exempt; Had seen sweet love decay just like a flower Transplanted in some hot meridian hour; These and a thousand unions of pretence, Made him keep single, like a man of sense!

He said the maid I love is she whose mind Is gentle, prudent, and sincerely kind,— Whose life is always constancy and love,— Whose modest eye is never prone to rove,— Whose equal conscience is serenely right,Whose breast is free of jealousy and spite,Whose thoughts are not too much of the ideal,— Whose feelings, though acute, are always real,Whose judgment in advance is of her years,Whose genuine sense in every act appears,Whose cautious tongue from slandering is free,Whose soul despises all iniquity,Whose face is lighted with a graceful smile,Whose conduct is incapable of guile,Whose ready laugh is not the laugh of folly,— Whose manner is untouch'd by melancholy,Whose chiefest joy is in her neighbour's weal,Whose tender heart reciprocal can feel,— Whose hopes are always longing for the best,Whose wishes are but simple in request,Who knows herself a knowledge too uncommon!

And ne'er forgets the character of Woman.

Caution is, then, a necessary rule For men of sense, but chiefly for the fool! Know ye not this-ye unreflecting raceWhat daily passes 'fore your very face:

Man raises structures so sublimely grand,
That, set in motion by his artful hand,
We stand aghast, so potent is their might,
To gaze thereon with wonder and delight.
Know ye not this,-the time is not afar
When these shall teach you what mere tools ye

are;

These vast machines, for selfish interest made,
Shall soon annihilate each honest trade,-
Shall do the work of millions; as for you,
Ye then may have no calling to pursue.
A few can guide where thousands toil'd before,
And leave you standing idle at your door.
Have ye not seen it? Will ye never see
What ye are now, and what ye soon must be,
What time each nation imitates your rules,
And leaves you staring like a crowd of fools?
And will ye rush to matrimonial care,
As if your offspring could survive on air?
Think as you will—laugh, if ye have the mind—
Once more I tell you, ye are worse than blind.

How many rush into this unknown state Is past the power of mortal to relate, Without one thought of what they mean to do, Or even an occupation to pursue. Delusive madness could no further go, And nothing can engender greater woe, Than unprepared, untaught, unthinking men, To do what they can ne'er undo again. Sane men ne'er leap into a dangerous stream, Regardless whether they may sink or swim; Nor do they force their fingers in the flame In hopes to be uninjured by the same; Nor do they nurse a serpent in their breast, To put its rankerous poison to the test. Can power and wisdom, then, invent no rules To check the frenzy of such daring fools? And must the world with paupers everywhere Be cramm'd, because they double their despair? Go to the crowded cities, learn and read The desperate lives these abject mortals lead; Tigers disputing savage in their den

Are not more rabid than these wretched men!
Where is the love one would suppose they had?
There was but lust-that passion that runs
mad!

Disease and famine fill each dark abode,
Without even trust in mankind or in God!

Whence comes all this distress? We know it

well;

From drunkenness-that vice which peoples hell!

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