TO MRS. FRY IN NEWGATE
Sermons in stones.As You Like It.
Out! out! damned spot.Macbeth.
I like you, Mrs. Fry! I like your name!
It speaks the very warmth you feel in pressing
In daily act round Charitys great flame
I like the crisp Browne way you have of dressing,
Good Mrs. Fry! I like the placid claim
You make to Christianity,professing
Love, and good worksof course you buy of Barton,
Beside the young frys bookseller, Friend Darton!
I like, good Mrs. Fry, your brethren mute
Those serious, solemn gentlemen that sport
I should have said, that wear, the sober suit
Shapd like a court dressbut for heavens court.
I like your sisters too,sweet Rachels fruit
Protestant nuns! I like their stiff support
Of virtueand I like to see them clad
With such a differencejust like good from bad!
I like the sober colorsnot the wet;
Those gaudy manufactures of the rainbow
Green, orange, crimson, purple, violet
In which the fair, the flirting, and the vain, go
The others are a chaste, severer set,
In which the good, the pious, and the plain, go
Theyre moral standards, to know Christians by
In short, they are your colours, Mrs. Fry!
As for the naughty tinges of the prism
Crimsons the cruel uniform of war
Bluehue of brimstone! minds no catechism;
And green is young and gaynot noted for
Goodness, or gravity, or quietism,
Till it is saddend down to tea-green, or
Oliveand purples givn to wine, I guess;
And yellow is a convict by its dress!
Theyre all the devils liveries, that men
And women wear in servitude to sin
But how will they come off, poor motleys, when
Sins wages are paid down, and they stand in
The Evil presence? You and I know, then,
How all the party colours will begin
To partthe Pittite hues will sadden there,
Whereas the Foxite shades will all show fair!
Witness their goodly labors one by one!
Russet makes garments for the needy poor
Dove-colour preaches love to alland dun
Calls every day at Charitys street door
Brown studies scripture, and bids woman shun
All gaudy furnishingolive doth pour
Oil into wounds: and drab and slate supply
Scholar and book in Newgate, Mrs. Fry!
Well! Heaven forbid that I should discommend
The gratis, charitable, jail-endeavor!
When all persuasions in your praises blend
The Methodists creed and cry are, Fry for ever!
NoI will be your friendand, like a friend,
Point out your very worst defectNay, never
Start at that word!But I must ask you why
You keep your school in Newgate, Mrs. Fry?
Too well I know the price our mother Eve
Paid for her schooling: but must all her daughters
Commit a petty larceny, and thieve
Pay down a crime for entrance to your quarters?
Your classes may increase, but I must grieve
Over your pupils at their bread and waters!
Oh, tho it cost you rent(and rooms run high)
Keep your school out of Newgate, Mrs. Fry!
O save the vulgar soul before its spoild!
Set up your mounted sign without the gate
And there inform the mind before tis soild!
Tis sorry writing on a greasy slate!
Nay, if you would not have your labors foild,
Take it inclining towrds a virtuous state,
Not prostrate and laid flatelse, woman meek!
The upright pencil will but hop and shriek!
Ah, who can tell how hard it is to drain
The evil spirit from the heart it preys in,
To bring sobriety to life again,
Chokd with the vile Anacreontic raisin,
To wash Black Betty when her blacks ingrain,
To stick a moral lacquer on Moll Brazen,
Of Suky Tawdrys habits to deprive her;
To tame the wild-fowl-ways of Jenny Diver!
Ah, who can tell how hard it is to teach
Miss Nancy Dawson on her bed of straw
To make Long Sal sew up the endless breach
She made in mannersto write heavens own law
On hearts of granite.Nay, how hard to preach,
In cells, that are not memorysto draw
The moral thread, thro the immoral eye
Of blunt Whitechapel natures, Mrs. Fry!
In vain you teach them baby-work within:
Tis but a clumsy botchery of crime;
Tis but a tedious darning of old sin
Come out yourself, and stitch up souls in time
It is too late for scouring to begin
When virtues ravelld out, when all the prime
Is worn away, and nothing sound remains;
Youll fret the fabric out before the stains!
I like your chocolate, good Mistress Fry!
I like your cookery in every way;
I like your shrove-tide service and supply;
I like to hear your sweet Pandeans play;
I like the pity in your full-brimmd eye;
I like your carriage, and your silken grey,
Your dove-like habits, and your silent preaching;
But I dont like your Newgatory teaching.
Come out of Newgate, Mrs. Fry! Repair
Abroad, and find your pupils in the streets.
O, come abroad into the wholesome air,
And take your moral place, before Sin seats
Her wicked self in the Professors chair.
Suppose some morals raw! the true receipts
To dress them in the pan, but do not try
To cook them in the fire, good Mrs. Fry!
Put on your decent bonnet, and come out!
Good lack! the ancients did not set up schools
In jailbut at the Porch! hinting, no doubt,
That Vice should have a lesson in the rules
Before twas whipt by law.O come about,
Good Mrs. Fry! and set up forms and stools
All down the Old Bailey, and thro Newgate-street,
But not in Mr. Wontners proper seat!
Teach Lady Barrymore, if, teaching, you
That peerless Peeress can absolve from dolour;
Teach her it is not virtue to pursue
Ruin of blue, or any other colour;
Teach her it is not Virtues crown to rue,
Month after month, the unpaid drunken dollar;
Teach her that flooring Charleys is a game
Unworthy one that bears a Christian name.
O come and teach our childrenthat arnt ours
That heavens straight pathway is a narrow way,
Not Broad St. Giless, where fierce Sin devours
Children, like Timeor rather they both prey
On youth togethermeanwhile Newgate lowrs
Evn like a black cloud at the close of day,
To shut them out from any more blue sky:
Think of these hopeless wretches, Mrs. Fry!
You are not nicego into their retreats,
And make them Quakers, if you will.Twere best
They wore straight collars, and their shirts sans pleats;
That they had hats with brims,that they were drest
In garbs without lappelsthan shame the streets
With so much raggedness.You may invest
Much cash this waybut it will cost its price,
To give a good, round, real cheque to Vice!
In brief,oh teach the child its moral rote,
Not in the way from which it wont depart,
But outoutout! Oh, bid it walk remote!
And if the skies are closd against the smart,
Evn let him wear the single-breasted coat,
For that ensureth singleness of heart.
Do what you will, his every want supply,
Keep himbut out of Newgate, Mrs. Fry!