PRISON AMUSEMENTS.

THE PLEASURES OF IMPRISONMENT:

AN EPISTLE TO A FRIEND

 

 

YOU ask, my friend, and well you may

You afk me how I fpend the day;

I'll tell you, in unftudied rhyme,

How wifely I befool my time:

Expect not wit, nor fancy then,

In this effufion of my pen;

Thefe idle lines - they might be worfe -

Are fimple profe, in fimple verfe.

 

Each morning, then, at five o'clock,

The adamantine doors unlock;

Bolts, bars, and portals crafh and thunder;

The gates of iron burft afunder;

Hinges that creak, and keys that jingle,

With clattering chains, in concert mingle:

So fweet the din, your dainty ear,

For joy, would break its drum to hear;

While my dull organs, at the found,

Reft in tranquillity profound!

Fantaftic dreams amuse my brain,

And waft my fpirit home again:

Though captive all day long, 'tis true,

At night I am as free as you;

Not ramparts high, nor dungeons deep,

Can hold me - when I'm faft afleep!

 

But every thing is good in feafon,

I dream at large - and wake in prifon!

Yet think not, fir, I lie too late,

I rife as early even as eight;

Ten hours of drowfinefs are plenty,

For any man, in four and twenty.

You fmile - and yet tis nobly done,

I'm but five hours behind the fun!

For thus, by Phaeton's folly taught,

I keep my diftance as I ought,

Left I, like him, fhould chance to break,

By rifing with the fun - my neck!

 

When dreffed, I to the yard repair,

And breakfaft on the pure, frefh, air;

But though this choice Caftalian cheer,

Keeps both the head and ftomach clear,

For weighty reafons I make free

To mend the meal with toaft aud tea.

Now air and fame, as poets fing,

Are both the fame, the felf-fame thing;

Yet bards are not cameleons quite,

And heavenly food is very light:

Who ever fattened on a name?

Or made a pigeon pie of fame?

Even bifhops will not be confined

To dine on air and fup on wind.

 

Breakfaft difpatched I fometimes read,

To clear the cob-webs from my head

For books, my friend, are charming brooms

To fweep the dust of upper rooms!

As in an ample Chefhire cheefe,

Fat, lazy maggots dwell at eafe,

Or mites, in millions, fwarm and thrive,

Till every atom is alive;

So in the chamber of a brain,

O'er which the moon extends her reign,

Strange creeping things, called thoughts, are bred,

Among the lumber of the head,

That throng around the pineal gland,

Rank as the frogs in Egypt's land!

A brain, with fuch wild tenants fraught,

Would foon be bit to death with thought,

If reading, writing, eating, drinking,

Did not fometimes relieve the thinking!

 

But books, befides, are cures, I ween,

Both for the cholic and the fpleen.

When genius, wifdom, wit abound,

And honeft fenfe fhakes hands with found;

When art and nature both combine,

And live, and breathe, in every line;

The reader glows along the page,

With all the author's native rage!

But books there are of nothing full,

Except the wit of being dull;

With moft unmeaning meaning fraught,

Ten thoufand words and ne'er a thought!

Where periods without period crawl,

Like caterpillars on a wall,

That fall to climb, and climb to fall;

While ftill their efforts only tend

To keep them from their journey's end!

The readers yawn with pure vexation,

And nod - but not with approbation!

As in a wildernefs of fnow,

An afs may ramble to and fro;

From drift to drift purfue his way,

Yet wander more and more aftray;

Blind with the dazzling wafte of white,

He cannot fee his road for light:

But plunges, finks, and brays amain,

While cold benumbs each drowfy vein;

Till night and sleep at length o'er take him,

And then - not all the world can wake him!

Thus in a fog of dulnefs loft,

Job's patience muft give up the ghoft:

Not Argus' eyes awake could kecp;

Even death might read himfelf to fleep!

 

At half paft ten, or there about,

My eyes are all upon the fcout,

To fee the lounging poft-boy come,

With letters or with news from home.

Believe me, fir, upon my word,

Alhough the doctrine feem abfurd,

The paper meffengers of friends

For abfence almoft make amends:

But if you think I jeft or lie,

Come to York Casftle, fir, and try!

 

When high the tide of fancy flows,

The mufes take me by the nofe:

With brains on fire, I boldly then

Beftride my Pegafean pen;

Borne on an honeft gander's quill,

I fly tnumphant where I will;

Beneath my feet York Caftle falls,

With all its bolts, and bars, and walls;

I burft the bounds of day and night -

The world's too little for my flight ;

I dance with ftars, with planets run,

Explore the moon, falute the fun:

Then leaving nature's narrow bound,

(Bards fcorn to tread on folid ground)

I wing my way, with toil and pain,

Where endlefs night and nothing reign:

There, in a fea, without a coaft,

My fenfes and myfelf are loft!

 

Sometimes to fairy land I rove:

Thofe iron rails become a grove;

Thefe ftately buildings fall away

To mofs-grown cottages of clay;

Debtors are changed to jolly fwains,

Who pipe and whiftle on the plains;

Yon felons grim, with fetters bound

Are fatyrs wild, with garlands crowned:

Their clalnking chains are wreaths of flowers;

Their horrid cells ambrofial bowers;

The oaths, expiring on their tongues,

Are metaphofed into fongs;

While wretched female prifoners, lo!

Are Dian's nymphs of virgin fnow!

Thofe hideous walls with verdure fhoot;

Their pillars bend with blufhing fruit;

That dunghill fwells into a mountain,

And, lo! the pump becomes a fountain

The noifome fmoke of yonder mills*,  

*The Castle Steam Mills, the fmoke of which is an infufferable nuifance here, and a punishment to which the unfortunate inhabitants of this place are doomed

without the authority of judge and jury.

 The circling air with fragrance fills;

Yon horse-pond fpreads into a lake

And fwans of ducks and geefe I make!

Sparrows are changed to turtle dovers,

That bill and coo their pretty loves;

Wagtails, turned thrufhes, charm thc vales,

And tomtits fing like nightingales!

No more the wind through keyholes whiftles,

But fighs on beds of pinks and thiftles;

The rattling rain, that beats without,

And gargles down the leaden fpout,

In light, delicious dew diftills,

And melts away in amber rills!

Elyfium rifes on the green,

And health and beauty crown the fcene:

While, prince of thefe romantic plains,

Our ever-honourcd keeper reigns,

Whofe generous foul, with equal eafe,

Knows how to rule, and how to pleafe!

 

Then by the' enchantrefs Fancy led,

On violet banks I lay my head;

Legions of radiant forms arife,

In fair array, before mine eyes;

Poetic vifions gild my brain,

Then melt in liquid air again!

As in a magic lantern clear,

Fantaftic images appear,

That beaming from the' enamelled glafs,

In beautiful fuccession pafs;

Yet fteal the luftre of their light

From the deep fhadow of the night:

Thus in the darknefs of my head,

Ten thoufand fhining things are bred,

That borrow fplendour from the gloom,

As glow-worms twinkle in a tomb!

 

But left thefe glories fhould confound me,

Kind Dulnefs draws her curtain round me;

The vifions vanifh in a trice,

And I awake as cold as ice:

Nothing remains of all the vapour,

Save what I fend you - ink and paper!

 

Thus flow rny morning hours along,

Smooth as the numbers of my fong:

Yet let me ramble as I will,

I feel am a prifoner ftill.

Thus Robin, with the blufhing breaft,

Is ravifhed from his little nest

By barbarous boys, who bind his leg,

To make him flutter round a peg:

See the glad captive fpreads his wings,

Mounts, in a moment,- mounts and fings,

When fuddenly the cruel chain

Twitches him back to prifon again!

- The clock ftrikes one - I can't delay,

For dinner comes but once a day!

At prefent, worthy friend, farewell;

But by tomorrow's poft I'll tell,

How, during thefe half dozen moons!

I cheat the lazy afternoons! 

Caftle of York, June 13, 1796

.

The man who firft invented dinners

Was certainly the chief of finners;

For thofe who once the habit gain,

May long to leave them off in vain:

Nor even in gaol can folk forget,

To eat, to drink, and run in debt!

Thoufands, by dinners, are undone,

But woe to thofe who can get none!

Though many a one has died with dining,

Yet many more have perifhed pining:

While too much dinner is a curfe,

No dinner is as bad, or worfe;

But who would give a pin to chufe,

To die of famine or roaft goofe?

In this fweet place, where freedom reigns,

Secured by bolts and fnug in chains;

Where innocence and guit together

Rooft like two turtles of a feather;

Where debtors safe at anchor lie

From faucy duns and baliffs fly;

Where highwaymen and robbers ftout,

Would, rather than break in, break out;

Where all's fo guarded aud reclufe,

That none his liberty can lofe!

Where each may, as his means afford,

Dine like a pauper or a lord;

And he who can't the coft defray,

Is welcome, fir, to faft and pray!

There is a fympathy between

The flomach and the purfe, I ween;

For here, ill every change of weather,

They fill and empty both together:

Yet with the heart at variance quite,

When thofe are heavy this is light;

But when the former lofe their weight,

Then doth the heart preponderate!

 

Now let us ramble o'er the green,

To fee and hear, be heard and feen;

To breathe the air, enjoy the light,

And hail yon sun who fhines as bright

Upon the dungeon and the gallows,

As on York Minfter or Kew Palace!

And here let us the fcene review:

That's the old castle, this the new;

Yonder the felons walk and there

The lady-prifoners take the air;

Behind are folitary cells,

Where hermits live like fnails in shells;

There ftands the chapel for good people,

And yon balcony is the fteeple;

How gayly fpins the weather-cock!

How proudly fhines the crazy clock!

A clock, whofe wheels eccentric run,

More like my head than like the fun!

And yet it fhews us, right or wrong,

The days are only twelve hours long,

Though captives often reckon here,

Each day a month, each month a year!

There honeft William ftands in ftate,

Like grim St. Peter at heaven's gate;

But not fo fcrupulous is he,

Entrance to all the world is free;

Yet what, methinks, is rather hard,

Egrefs is frequently debarred

Of all the joys in prison that reign,

There's none like - getting out again!

Acrofs the green, behold the court

Where jargon reigns and wigs refort;

Where bloody tongues figth bloodlefs battles,

For life and death, for ftraws and rattles;

Where juries yawn their patience out,

And judges dream in fpite of gout.

There, on the outfide of the door,

(As fang a wicked wag of yore*)

"On the outside ftands Juftice, who never walks in!"

Vide a Song well known in York Caftle.

Stands Mother Juftice; tall and thin,

Who never yet hath ventured in!

The caufe, my friend, may foon be fhewn,

The lady was a ftepping ftone,

Till - though the metamorphofe odd is-

A chiffel made the block a goddefs!

- "Odd!" did I fay? - I'm wrong this time;

But I was hampered for a rhyme:

Juftice at - I could tell you where -

Is juft the same as juffice here!

 

But, lo' my frifking dog attends,

The kindeft of four footed friends,

Brim full of giddinefs and mirth,

He is the prettieft fool on earth !

I call this fond companion Billy,

But wifer people call him Silly ;

Beaufe, in fpite of rhyme and reafon,

He chufes to refide in prifon;

And, though his home is in the city,

He boards. with me for bones - or pity!

The rogue's about a fquirrel's fize,

With fhort fnub nofe and big black eyes;

A cloud of brown: adorns his tail,

That curls and ferves him for a fai1;

The fame deep auburn dyes his ears,

That neyer were abridged by fhears;

While white, around, as Lapland fnows,

His hair, in foft profufion, flows;

Waves on his breaft and plumes his feet,

With gloffy fringe, like feathers fleet.

Billy's a mendicant by trade,

And begs -or fteals - his daily bread;

A thoufand antic tricks he plays,

And looks, at once, a thousand ways,

His wit, if he has any, lies

Somewhere between his tail and eyes;

Sooner the light thofe eyes will fail;

Than Billy ceafe to wag that tail.

Though never taught to read or write,

I've heard him bark, and felt him bite:

For teeth and tongue he freely lends;

To plague his foes or pleafe his friends.

 

And yet the fellow ne'er is fafe

From the tremendous beak of Ralph;

A raven grim, in black and blue,

As' arch a knave as e'er you knew;

Who hops about with broken pinions,

And thinks thefe walls his own dominions!

 

This wag a mortal foe to Bill is,

They fight like Hector and Achilles,

Bold Billy runs with all his might,

And conquers, Parthian-like, in flight;

While Ralph his own importance feels,

And wages endlefs war with heels:

Horfes and dogs, and geefe and deer,

He flily pinches in the rear;

They ftart, fturprifed with fudden pain,

While honeft Ralph fheers off again!

 

Next an unhappy buck appears,

With rueful look and flagging ears;

A feeble, lean, confumtptive elf,

The very picture of myfelf!

My ghoft-like form and new-moon phiz,

Are juft the counter parts of his:

Blafted like me by fortune's frown;

Like me TWICE hunted, TWICE run down!

Like me purfued, almoft to death,

He's come to gaol to fave his breath !

Still, on his painful limbs, are feen

The fcars where worrying dogs have been;

Still, in his woe-imprinted face,

I weep a broken heart to trace.

Daily the mournful wretch I feed,

With crumbs of comfort and of bread;

But man, falfe man! fo well he knows,

He deems the species all his foes:

In vain I fmile to foothe his fear,

He will not, dare not, come too near;

He lingers - looks - and fain he would -

Then ftrains his neck to reach the food.

Oft as his plaintive looks I fee,

A brother's bowels yearn in me;

I fhare his griefs with feelings fond,

As ftrings in unifon refpond.

What rocks and tempefts yet await

Both his and mine, we leave to fate:

We kuow, by paft experience taught,

That innocence availeth nought:

I know, and 'tis my proudeft boaft,

That confience is itfelf an hoft;

While this infpires my fwelling breaft,

Let all forfake me - I'm at reft!

But yonder comes the victim's wife,

A dappled doe, all fire and life;

She trips along with gallant pace,

Her limbs alert, her motion grace;

Soft as the moon-light fairies bound,

Her footfteps fearcely kifs the ground;

Gently fhe lifts her fair brown head,

And licks my hand, and begs for bread:

I pat her forehead, ftroke her neck,

She ftarts and gives a modeft fqueak;

Then, while her eye with brilliance burns,

The fawning animal returns;

Pricks her bob-tail, and waves her ears,

And happier than a queen appears!

Sweet nymph from fierce ambition free,

And all the WOES OF LIBERTY;

 

Born in a gaol, a prifoner bred,

No dreams of hunting rack thine head;

Ah ! mayft thou never pafs thefe bounds,

To fee the world - and feel the hounds! -

Still all her beauty, all her art,

Have failed to win her hufband's heart;

Her lambent eyes, and lovely cheft;

Her fwan-white neck, and ermine breaft;

Her taper legs, and fpotty hide,

So foftly, delicately pied,

In vain their fond allurements fpread,

Her fpoufe - has antlers on his head!

Yet why should thofe be deemed unpleafant,

They're Nature's and not Nanny's prefent!

 

But, lo! the evening fhadows fall

Broader and browner from the wall;

A warning voice, like curfew bell,

Commands each captive to his cell;

My faithful dog and I retire,

To play and chatter by the fire:

Soon comes a turnkey with " Good night, fir !"

And bolts the door with all his might, fir!

Then leifurely to bed I creep,

And fometimes wake - and fometimes fleep.

 

Thefe are the joys that reign in prifon,

And if I'm happy, 'tis with reafon:

Yet ftill this profpect, o'er the reft,

Makes every bleffing doubly bleft;

That foon thefe pleafures will be vanifhed,

And I, from all thefe comforts, banifhed!

 

Caftle of York, June 14, 1796