Where the small eels that left the deeper way
For the warm shore, within the shallows play;
Where gaping muscles, left upon the mud,
Slope their slow passage to the fallen flood ;-
Here dull and hopeless he'd lie down and trace
How sidelong crabs had scrawl'd their crooked race,
Or sadly listen to the tuneless cry

Of fishing gull or clanging golden-eye;

What time the sea-birds to the marsh would come,
And the loud bittern, from the bull-rush home,
Gave from the salt ditch side the bellowing boom:
He nursed the feelings these dull scenes produce,
And loved to stop beside the opening sluice;
Where the small stream, confined in narrow bound,
Ran with a dull, unvaried, sadd'ning sound;
Where all, presented to the eye or ear,
Oppress'd the soul with misery, grief, and fear.
Besides these objects, there were places three,
Which Peter seem'd with certain dread to see;
When he drew near them he would turn from each,
And loudly whistle till he pass'd the reach.*

A change of scene to him brought no relief,
In town, 'twas plain, men took him for a thief:
The sailor's wives would stop him in the street,
And say, "Now, Peter, thou'st no boy to beat;"
Infants at play when they perceived him, ran,
Warning each other-"That's the wicked man;'
He growl'd an oath, and in an angry tone
Cursed the whole place and wish'd to be alone.

Alone he was, the same dull scenes in view,
And still more gloomy in his sight they grew:
Though man he hated, yet employ'd alone
At bootless labour, he would swear and groan,
Cursing the shoals that glided by the spot,
And gulls that caught them when his arts could not.
Cold nervous tremblings shook his sturdy frame,
And strange disease-he couldn't say the name;
Wild were his dreams, and oft he rose in fright,
Waked by his view of horrors in the night,-
Horrors that would the sternest minds amaze,
Horrors that demons might be proud to raise :
And though he felt forsaken, grieved at heart,
To think he lived from all mankind apart;
Yet, if a man approach'd, in terrors he would start.
A winter pass'd since Peter saw the town,
And summer lodgers were again come down;
These, idly curious, with their glasses spied
The ships in bay as anchor'd for the tide,-
The river's craft,-the bustle of the quay,-
And sea-port views, which landmen love to see.
One, up the river, had a man and boat

The reaches in a river are those parts which extend from point to point Johnson has not the word precisely in this sense; but it is very common, and I believe, used wheresoever a navigable river can be found in this country.

Seen day by day, now anchor'd, now afloat;
Fisher he seem'd, yet used no net nor hook;
Of sea-fowl swimming by no heed he took,
But on the gliding waves still fix'd his lazy look:
At certain stations he would view the stream,
As if he stood bewilder'd in a dream,

Or that some power had chain'd him for a time,
To feel a curse or meditate on crime.

This known, some curious, some in pity went,
And others question'd-" Wretch, dost thou repent?"
He heard, he trembled, and in fear resign'd
His boat: new terror fill'd his restless mind;
Furious he grew, and up the country ran,
And there they seized him-a distemper'd man:-
Him we received, and to a parish-bed,

Follow'd and cursed, the groaning man was led.
Here when they saw him, whom they used to shun,
A lost, lone man, so harass'd and undone;

Our gentle females, ever prompt to feel,
Perceived compassion on their anger steal;

His crimes they could not from their memories blot,
But they were grieved, and trembled at his lot.

A priest too came, to whom his words are told;
And all the signs they shudder'd to behold.

"Look! look!" they cried; "his limbs with horror shake And as he grinds his teeth, what noise they make !

How glare his angry eyes, and yet he's not awake:
See! what cold drops upon his forehead stand,
And how he clenches that broad bony hand."
The Priest attending, found he spoke at times
As one alluding to his fears and crimes;
"It was the fall," he mutter'd, "I can show
The manner how,-I never struck a blow: "—
And then aloud,—" Unhand me, free my chain;
On oath he fell-it struck him to the brain :-
Why ask my father?—that old man will swear
Against my life; besides, he wasn't there:
What, all agreed ?—Am I to die to-day?——
My Lord, in mercy give me time to pray."

Then as they watch'd him, calmer he became,
And grew so weak he couldn't move his frame,
But murmuring spake-while they could see and hear
The start of terror and the groan of fear;
See the large dew-beads on his forehead rise,
And the cold death-drop glaze his sunken eyes:
Nor yet he died, but with unwonted force
Seem'd with some fancied being to discourse :
He knew not us, or with accustom❜d art
He hid the knowledge, yet exposed his heart;
'Twas part confession and the rest defence,
A madman's tale, with gleams of waking sense.
"I'll tell you all," he said," the very day
When the old man first placed them in my way:
My father's spirit-he who always tried

To give me trouble, when he lived and died-
When he was gone he could not be content
To see my days in painful labour spent,
But would appoint his meetings, and he made
Me watch at these, and so neglect my trade.
""Twas one hot noon, all silent, still, serene,
No living being had I lately seen;

I paddled up and down and dipp'd my net,
But (such his pleasure) I could nothing get,-
A father's pleasure, when his toil was done,
To plague and torture thus an only son!
And so I sat and look'd upon the stream,
How it ran on and felt as in a dream:
But dream it was not: No!-I fix'd my eyes
On the mid stream and saw the spirits rise:
I saw my father on the water stand,
And hold a thin pale boy in either hand;
And there they glided ghastly on the top
Of the salt flood, and never touch'd a drop:

I would have struck them, but they knew th' intent,
And smiled upon the oar, and down they went.
"Now, from that day, whenever I began

To dip my net, there stood the hard old man--
He and those boys: I humbled me and pray'd
They would be gone; they heeded not, but stay'd:
Nor could I turn, nor would the boat go by,
But, gazing on the spirits, there was I:

They bade me leap to death, but I was loth to die:
And every day, as sure as day arose,

Would these three spirits meet me ere the close;
To hear and mark them daily was my doom,

And Come,' they said, with weak, sad voices,' come.'

To row away, with all my strength I tried,

But there were they hard by me in the tide,

The three unbodied forms-and 'Come,'still 'come,' they cried. "Fathers should pity-but this old man shook

His hoary locks, and froze me by a look:

Thrice when I struck them, through the water came
A hollow groan, that weaken'd all my frame:

Father!' said I, 'have mercy:'-he replied,

I know not what-the angry spirit lied,

'Didst thou not draw thy knife?' said he :-'Twas true, But I had pity and my arm withdrew :

He cried for mercy, which I kindly gave,

But he has no compassion in his grave.

"There were three places, where they ever rose,

The whole long river has not such as those

Places accursed, where, if a man remain,

He'll see the things which strike him to the brain;
And there they made me on my paddle lean,

And look at them for hours;-accursed scene!

When they would glide to that smooth eddy-space,
Then bid me leap and join them in the place;
And at my groans each little villain sprite

Enjoy'd my pains and vanish'd in delight.

"In one fierce summer-day, when my poor brain
Was burning hot, and cruel was my pain,
Then came this father-foe, and there he stood
With his two boys again upon the flood:
There was more mischief in their eyes, more glee
In their pale faces, when they glared at me:
Still they did force me on the oar to rest,
And when they saw me fainting and oppress'd,
He with his hand, the old man, scoop'd the flood,
And there came flame about him mix'd with blood;
He bade me stoop and look upon the place,
Then flung the hot-red liquor in my face;
Burning it blazed, and then I roar'd for pain,
I thought the demons would have turn'd my brain.
"Still there they stood, and forced me to behold
A place of horrors-they can not be told-
Where the flood open'd, there I heard the shriek
Of tortured guilt-no earthly tongue can speak:
All days alike! for ever!' did they say,

And unremitted torments every day'

Yes, so they said"-But here he ceased and gazed
On all around, affrighten'd and amazed;
And still he tried to speak, and look'd in dread
Of frighten'd females gathering round his bed;
Then dropp'd exhausted, and appear'd at rest,
Till the strong foe the vital powers possess'd;
Then with an inward, broken voice he cried,
Again they come !" and mutter'd as he died.*

The character of Grimes, his obduracy and apparent want of feeling, his gloomy kind of misanthropy, the progress of his madness, and the horrors of his imagination, I must leave to the judgment and observation of my readers. The mind here exhibited is one untouched by pity, unstung by remorse, and uncorrected by shame; yet is this hardihood of temper and spirit broken by want, disease, solitude, and disappointment: and he becomes the victim of a distempered and horror-stricken fancy. It is evident, therefore, that no feeble vision, no half-visible ghost, not the momentary glance of an unbodied being, nor the half-audible voice of an invisible one, would be created by the coutinual workings of distress on a mind so depraved and flinty. The ruffian of Mr Scott (Marmion) has a mind of this nature; he has no shame or remorse, but the corrosion of hopeless want, the wasting of unabating disease, and the gloom of unvaried solitude, will have their effect on every nature and the harder that nature is, and the longer time required to work upon it, so much the more strong and indelible is the impression. This is all the reason I ara Able to give, why a man of feeling so dull should yet become insane, and why the visions of his distempered brain should be of so horrible a nature.

LETTER XXIII.

Pœna autem vehemens ac multò sævior illis,
Quas et Cæditius gravis invenit aut Rhadamanthus,
Nocte dieque suum gestare in pectore testem.

Juv. Sat. viii.

The Mind of Man accommodates itself to all Situations; Prisons otherwise would be intolerable-Debtors: their different kinds: three particularly described; others more briefly-An arrested Prisoner: his Account of his Feelngs and his Situation-The Alleviations of a Prison-Prisoners for Crimes Two Condemned: a vindictive Female: a Highwayman-The Interval be. tween Condemnation and Execution-His Feelings as the Time approaches -His Dream.

"Tis well-that Man to all the varying states
Of good and ill his mind accommodates;
He not alone progressive grief sustains,
But soon submits to unexperienced pains:
Change after change, all climes his body bears;
His mind repeated shocks of changing cares:
Faith and fair Virtue arm the nobler breast;
Hope and mere want of feeling aid the rest.

Or who could bear to lose the balmy air
Of summer's breath, from all things fresh and fair,
With all that man admires or loves below;

That a Letter on Prisons should follow the narratives of such characters as Keene and Grimes is unfortunate, but not to be easily avoided. I confess it is not pleasant to be detained so long by subjects so repulsive to the feelings of many as the sufferings of mankind; but, though I assuredly would have altered this arrangement, had I been able to have done it by substituting a better, yet am I not of opinion that my verses, or, indeed, the verses of any other person, can so represent the evils and distresses of life as to make any material impression on the mind, and much less any of injurious nature. Alas! sufferings real, evident, continually before us, have not effects very serious or lasting, even in the minds of the more reflecting and compassionate; nor, indeed, does it seem right that the pain caused by sympathy should serve for more than a stimulus to benevolence. If, then, the strength and solidity of truth placed before our eyes have effect so feeble and transitory. I need not be very apprehensive that my representations of Poor-houses and Prisons, of wants and sufferings, however faithfully taken, will excite any feelings which can be seriously lainented. It has always been held as a salutary exercise of the mind to contemplate the evils and miseries of our nature: I am not therefore without hope that even this gloomy subject of Imprisonment, and more especially the Dream of the Condemned Highwayman, will excite in some minds that mingled pity and abhorrence which, while it is not unpleasant to the feelings, is useful in its operation. It ties and binds us to all mankind by sensations common to us all, and in some degree connects us, without degradation, even to the most miser able and guilty of our fellow-men.