The ponderous grit, and for the portion paid; 300 This he re-sold, and, with each trifling gift, Made shift to live, and wretched was the shift. Now will it be by every reader told Who was this humble trader, poor and old.-- In vain an author would a name suppress, From the least hint a reader learns to guess; Of children lost our novels sometimes treat; We never care--assured again to meet. In vain the writer for concealment tries, We trace his purpose under all disguise; 310 Nay, though he tells us they are dead and gone, Of whom we wot--they will appear anon; Our favourites fight, are wounded, hopeless lie; Survive they cannot--nay, they cannot die: Now, as these tricks and stratagems are known, ’Tis best, at once, the simple truth to own. This was the husband--in an humble shed He nightly slept, and daily sought his bread. Once for relief the weary man applied; “Your wife is rich,” the angry vestry cried; 320 Alas! he dared not to his wife complain, Feeling her wrongs, and fearing her disdain: By various methods he had tried to live, But not one effort would subsistence give. He was an usher in a school, till noise Made him less able than the weaker boys; On messages he went, till he in vain Strove names, or words, or meanings to retain; Each small employment in each neighbouring town By turn he took, to lay as quickly down; 330 For, such his fate, he fail’d in all he plann’d, And nothing prosper’d in his luckless hand. At his old home, his motive half suppress’d, He sought no more for riches, but for rest: There lived the bounteous wife, and at her gate He saw in cheerful groups the needy wait; “Had he a right with bolder hope t’ apply?” He ask’d--was answer’d, and went groaning by; For some remains of spirit, temper, pride, Forbade a prayer he knew would be denied. 340 Thus was the grieving man, with burthen’d ass, Seen day by day along the street to pass: “Who is he, Susan? who the poor old man? He never calls--do make him, if you can.”-- The conscious damsel still delay’d to speak, She stopp’d confused, and had her words to seek; From Susan’s fears the fact her mistress knew, And cried--“The wretch! what scheme has he in view? Is this his lot?--but let him, let him feel-- Who wants the courage, not the will to steal.” 350 A dreadful winter came, each day severe, Misty when mild, and icy cold when clear; And still the humble dealer took his load, Returning slow, and shivering on the road: The lady, still relentless, saw him come, And said--“I wonder, has the wretch a home?”-- “A hut! a hovel!”--“Then his fate appears To suit his crime;”--“Yes, lady, not his years-- No! nor his sufferings--nor that form decay’d.”--