You are far more anxious, my dear Eusebius, to know somewhat of the
progress or the result of the Curate's misfortune, than to read his or
my translations from Catullus. I have a great mind to punish that love
of mischief in you, by burying the whole affair in profound secresy. It
is fortunate for him that you are not here, or you would surely indulge
your propensity, and with malicious invention put the whole parish, with
the Curate, into inextricable confusion. It is bad enough as it is.
There!--it cannot be helped--I must tell you at once the condition we
are in, if I would have you read the rest of my letter with any
patience.
A committee has been sitting these two days, to sift, as they pronounce
them, "the late disgraceful proceedings;" so that you see, they are of
the school of Rhadamanthus,--condemn first, and hear afterwards. We
have, in this little township, two "general shopkeepers," dealers in
groceries, mops, calicoes, candles, and the usual "_omnium-gatherum_" of
household requirements.
These are great rivals--envious rivals--back-biting rivals; both, in the
way of tale-bearing, what Autolicus calls himself, "pickers-up of
unconsidered trifles." And truly, in the trade of this commodity, if in
no other, this may be called a "manufacturing district." Now the Curate,
unhappily, can buy his tea and sugar, and trifling matters, but of
one--for to patronise both, would be to make enemies of both; the poor
Curate, then, in preferring the adulterated goods of Nicolas Sandwell,
to the adulterated goods of Matthew Miffins, has made an implacable
enemy. Really, Eusebius, here is machinery enough for a heroic poem: for
Virgil's old Lady Fame on the top of the roof we have three, active and
lusty--and you may make them the Fates or the Furies, or what you
please, except the Graces. Prateapace, Gadabout, and Brazenstare--there
are characters enough for episodes; and a hero--but what, you will say,
are we to do for a heroine? Here is one, beat out of the brain of Mathew
Miffins, a ready-armed Minerva. You will smile, but it is so. The three
above-named ladies first made their way to the shop of Mr Miffins,
narrated what had passed and what had not. Having probably just
completed "sanding the sugar and watering the tobacco," he raised both
his hands and his eyes, and, to lose no time in business, dropped them
as soon as he decently could, and, pressing both palms strongly on the
counter, he asked, if they entertained any suspicion of a particular
person as being the object of the Curate's most unbecoming passion?
Lydia Prateapace remembered, certainly, a name being mentioned--it was
Lesby or Lisby, or something like that. "Indeed!" said Miffins, arching
his brows, and significantly touching the tip of his nose with his
forefinger--"ah! indeed! a foreigner, depend upon it--a Lisbon lady;
that, Miss, is the capital of Portugal, where them figs comes from. Only
think, a foreign lady--a lady from Lisbon--that is too bad!" to which
the three readily assented. "I doubt not, ladies," he continued, "it's
one of them foreigners as lives near Ashford, about five miles
off--where I knows the Curate goes two or three times in a week."
Thus, Eusebius, is Catullus's Lesbia, who herself stood for another,
converted into a Portuguese lady, whom the Curate visits some five miles
off--or, as the three ladies say, _protects_.
If you ask how I came by this accurate information, learn that our
Gratian's _Jahn_ was at the further counter, making a purchase of
mole-traps, and saw and heard, and reported. The first meeting was held
in Miffins' back-parlour; but fame had beat up for recruits, and that
was found far too small; so they have adjourned to the Blue Boar, where,
the tap being good, and the landlord a busybody, they are likely to
remain a little longer than Muzzle-brains can see to draw up a report.
The Curate's door is chalked, and adjacent walls--"No Kissing," "The
Clerical Judas," "Who Kissed the School-mistress?" and many such-like
morsels. But if fame has thus been playing with the kaleidoscope of
lies, multiplying and giving every one its match, she has likewise shown
them about through her magnifying glass, and brought the most distantly
circulated home to the poor Curate. In a little town a few miles off, it
has been reported that Miss Lydia Prateapace has been obliged to "swear
the peace against him," which "swearing the _peace_" is, in most cases,
a declaration of _war_.
Meanwhile the Curate has taken his cue, to do nothing and say nothing
upon the subject; and, as in all his misadventures, that was the part
taken by Yorick, if his friends do not rescue him, he may have Yorick's
penalty. Thus much at present, my dear Eusebius; I will occasionally
report progress, but it is now time that we resume our translations,
hoping you will find amusement in our