(To his Wine-server.)
Pour me out, boy, the generous juice.
The racy, true, the old Falernus;
Such wines as, to Posthumia's thinking,
Are only fit for mortals' use;
When in her glory, drunk, and winking,
The dame would quaff, and wisely learn us
The good old simple law of drinking.
But water shun;--Hence, waters! go,
E'en as ye will, to chill Avernus,
Or whereso'er ye please to flow;--
Be drink for all the dull, the slow,
The sad, the serious, the phlegmatic;
But leave this juice, this pure stomachic,
Its own, its unadulterate glow;--
This--this alone is genuine Bacchic!
GRATIAN.--Well, then, that must be our parting cup for the night, and a
pretty good "_night-cap_" it is. I was afraid, Aquilius, when you came
to the "phlegmatic" you would rhyme it to "rheumatic," and so on to the
"water-cure." You know that is recommended in rheumatic cases; but
perhaps you don't know that I tried it. I had the water-drinking, the
wet sheets, and all the rest of it.
AQUILIUS.--And are here to tell of it!
GRATIAN.--Yes, and return to the old _tap_, (tapping his thigh and leg
pretty smartly;) and I suppose I must _stick_ to it.
CURATE.--A medical friend told me the other day of a discussion upon
this subject, which I thought very amusing, as he narrated it remarkably
well, imitating the tones and dialect (Somersetshire) of at least one of
the speakers. He had some years before attended an old man in the
country--a farmer well to do in the world--a man of very strong natural
understanding, but entirely uneducated. He had lost sight of him for
some years, when, not long since, he was sent for to the old farm-house.
Instead of the old stone floor, there was a carpet laid down, and an air
of smartness over every thing, which he had never seen before. It turned
out, that the old man's daughter had married: a smartish man, the
husband, was in the room, and to show his general knowledge of things,
and acquaintance with the world, he advocated the water-cure, and
questioned my medical friend as to his opinion. A voice from the
chimney-corner (the settle in it) cried out, "It ain't na'tral." My
friend had not before seen the old man, he was so retired into the
recess. After having given his opinion to the bridegroom, he turned to
his old acquaintance, and said "You remarked that it is not natural.
What do you mean by _natural?_" "Why," replied the old man, "I do think,
most dumb critturs knows what's good for 'em; and when a dog's sick
doesn't he eat grass? If a sheep's ill, don't he lick chalk or salt if
he can get it? And if a beast's ill," (I forget what he said was the
cure for a beast);--"but did you ever see any of them go and lie down in
the water, or fill themselves wi' it? There's plenty of it in ditches,
and every where else, too, hereabouts. No, you never did." Then, looking
up in the face of his orator son-in-law, he added, "And you don't know
why you never see'd it, nor why they don't do it. No, I know you don't.
Vy, I do--because they ha' got more zense." This was said with a kind of
contempt which was quite a floorer to the new wiseacre.
GRATIAN.--Thanks for the story! now that is just the sense that I have
acquired at some cost, and no cure; but I didn't get at it naturally as
your old friend did. So now for sleep, and good-night.
The Curate and I did not part so soon. Time flew, and we seemed to
shorten the night--"noctem vario sermone," as sayeth Virgil of poor
Dido, who must have found the conversation considerably flag with the
stupid AEneas.
"Noctem vario sermone _trahebat_--it was a sad _drag_. It must have
become very tiresome, a little while before that, when ill-mannered
Bitias drank up all the wine, and buried his face in the cup, "pleno se
proluit auro." And they had been obliged to resort to singing, always
the refuge from the visible awkwardness of _nothing to say_. And here I
cannot but remark, Eusebius, what dull things their songs must have been
on natural philosophy, sun, moon, and stars--songs, Virgil tells you,
edited by the old Astronomer-general Atlas. But as this was before the
foundation of Rome, they had not that variety for their selection,
which was as much in fashion afterwards in Rome as Moore's Melodies in
England, as we learn from Mr Macaulay, and his version and edition of
the "Lays." They had no piccolo pianofortes in those days, or they would
have had something lighter than the Lays, as the better after-supper
Poet calls it--a
"Something more exquisite still."
But I am apparently, Eusebius, leaving the Curate to sleep or to
meditate upon his own unhappy condition while I thus turn the current of
my talk upon you. Unhappy condition, did I say? He seems to bear it
wonderfully lightly; and once or twice, when the subject has been
mentioned, indulged in an irreverend laugh. Now, I know you will ask how
a laugh can be irreverend. Don't you know the world well enough,
Eusebius, to know, that before a very great number of men, women, and
children, a curate must not laugh, dare not laugh--blessed indeed, and
divested of the wretched rags of humanity, if he _cannot_ laugh. None
but a Bishop, or a Dean, who, in the eyes of the many, is a kind of
extra-parochial nonentity, can really, in these times of severe
reprobation for trifling peccadillos, afford to laugh; and they had
better do it in private, and with aprons off--never before the Chapter,
who all, themselves, laugh in private. Man, you know, is the only
risible creature; but a Curate must begin to know, from the moment he
has put on his surplice, that he is to discard at once, and for ever,
this human and irreverend instinct. Had you lived in the triumphal days
of the Puritans, what penalties would you not have had to undergo, what
buffetings and duckings, ere you could finally have overcome your strong
natural wicked propensity, and have sobered down, and riveted in iron
gravity and moroseness those flexible, those mockingly flexible features
of yours. As it is, in these days of "revival," you only meet with
considerable contempt, and evil opinion, which, as it comes rather late
upon you, comes as an amusing novelty and additional provocative. But
you may be sure what you can afford to do, the Curate cannot. For the
present, therefore, let his few indulgences that way be a secret. He
will mend in time. For so it happens, that though the longer we live the
more we have to laugh at, we lose considerably our power of laughing.
And that--between ourselves be it said, Eusebius--is, I think, a strong
proof of our deterioration. A man, to laugh well, must be an honest
man--mind, I say _laugh_: when Shakspeare says
"A man may smile and smile,
And be a villain,"
he purposely says _smile_, in contradistinction to laugh. He cannot
laugh and be a villain. A man cannot plot and laugh. A man may be much
less innocent even when he thinks himself devout, than in his hour of
merriment, when he assuredly has no guile; but a man may even pray with
a selfish and a narrow mind, and his very prayers partake of his
iniquity: no bad argument for a prescribed form. A man that laughs well
is your half-made friend, Eusebius, from the moment you hear him. It is
better to trust the ear than the eye in this matter--such a man is a man
after your own heart. _After your own heart_, did I say, Eusebius? Words
are the _ignes fatui_ to thoughts, and lead to strange vagaries--of
which you have here a specimen; but these few words remind me to tell
you an anecdote, in this lull of the _Horae Catullianae_, which I would on
no account keep from you. And you will see at once in it a large history
in the epitome and the very pith of a fable--such as AEsop's. But I
assure you it is no fable, but the simple plain truth; and I will vouch
for it, for I had it from the month of our friend S., the truest,
honestest of men, who saw with his own eyes, and heard with his own
ears, the persons and the sayings. S. was travelling some time ago,
beyond the directions of railroads, in a coach. There were two
companions--preachers as he found, self-dubb'd Reverends of some
denomination or other, besides that reverend one of their own. Their
conversation, as is usual with them, was professional, and they spoke of
their brethren. In speaking of different preachers, one was mentioned,
of whom one of the speakers said emphatically--"Now that's what I call
a really good man--that's _a man after my own heart_--a man quite after
my own heart!" The other said with rather doubtful and hesitating
confirmation, "Ye-s." "You don't seem to think so highly of him as I
do," said the first speaker. "Why," replied the doubter, "I can't say I
do; you remember some time ago he _failed_, and certainly upon that
occasion he behaved _very ill_ to, not to say _cheated_, his creditors."
"Ah!" said the first commendator again, "that is very likely--I should
have expected _that_ of him."--Henceforth, Eusebius, whenever I hear
such a commendation, I shall look out for a map of the gentleman's heart
who ventures upon this mode of expressing his admiration. Oh! what a
world we live in! This is a fact which would have been immortal, because
true and from nature, in the hands of Le Sage; and is worthy of a place
in a page of a modern "Gil Blas."
And so all this digression has arisen from a laugh of the Curate's, to
whom it is time to turn; or you will think we have been but bad company
to each other. I will, however, end this passage with the remark, that a
man may do a worse thing than laugh, and happy is he that can do a
better.
The Curate and I, then, for the rest of the night conversed upon the
affair of his, which so unaccountably was making no little stir in the
place. The Curate told me, he was quite sure that his movements had been
watched; for that only yesterday, as he was entering the gate of his
friends, the family at Ashford, he saw Miffins's boy not far behind him
on a poney; and he thinks he came out for the purpose of watching him,
for he had scarcely reached the door, when he saw the lad ride hastily
back. The Curate likewise confessed to me, that he did entertain some
tender sentiments towards one of the inmates, Miss Lydia ----, that the
family had lived much abroad, and that they had a French lady's-maid,
whom on one or two occasions he had certainly seen in this township. You
see the thread, Eusebius, which will draw out innumerable proofs for
such a mind as Miffins's. Taking a paper out of his pocket, he said it
was put into his hands as he was coming away, and he had not opened it.
"Perhaps," said he, "it may throw some light on the affair, as it was
given me by one who is, I know, on the all-important committee." He
broke the seal, read, laughed immoderately for five minutes, and put it
into my hands:--
"REV. SIR,--Wishing to do the handsome to you, and straightforward and
downright honest part, the committee inform you that they have reported
your misconduct to the Lord Bishop, and I am desired accordingly to send
you a copy of their letter. By order of committee.--I am, sir,
"JAMES JONES."
Enclosed was the following, which these wiseacres had concocted--and I
have no doubt it was their pride in the composition, and in the
penmanship, which induced them to send the copy to the Curate.
"TO MY LORD, YOUR LORDSHIP THE BISHOP.
"We the undersigned, the respectable inhabitants parishioners, approach
most dutifully our Bishop's worshipful Lordship. Hoping humbly that you
will be pleased to dismiss our curate, who, we are credibly informed,
and particularly by three exemplary and virtuous ladies, they having
been cautioned against him by one who knows him well, and is a friend
likewise to said ladies, and doing all the good kindness he can. We
learn with sorrow, that our curate has confessed to unbecomingly
behaviour, and that he has been seen even kissing. My Lord, our wives
and daughters are not safe--we implore your Honour's Lordship to dismiss
the curate, and take them under your protection and keeping: We are
informed the curate has a foreign lady, not far from this, whom he
almost daily visits--and a Papist, which is an offence to your Lordship,
and the glorious Protestant cause, to which we are uniformly and
respectfully attached, and to your worshipful Lordship very devoted--"
here follow the names, headed by Matthew Miffins.
"And what steps do you intend to take?" said I.
"None whatever," said he.
"Let it wear itself out. I won't lengthen the existence of this scandal
by the smallest patronage. I will not take it up, so it will die."
"But the Bishop?" said I.
"Is a man of sense," he replied, "and good feeling; so all is safe, in
his hands."
We parted for the night.
The Curate called rather early the following morning, and we thought to
have an hour over Catullus, and went to seek our host Gratian. We found
him in his library in consultation with his factotum Jahn. He was
eloquent on the salting, and not burning his weeds, on Dutch
clover--"and mind, Jahn," said he, "every orchard should have a
pig-stye: where pigs are kept, there apple-trees will thrive well, and
bear well, if there be any fruit going:" and he moved his stick on the
floor from habit, as if he were rubbing his pigs' backs; and then
turning to us he said,--"Why, Jahn has been telling me strange things:
Prateapace and Gadabout have gone over to the chapel--left the church;
not there last Sunday. But I saw that Brazenstare there, trying, as she
sat just before you, to put you, Mr Curate, out of countenance. Well,
Jahn tells me that the Reverend the Cow-doctor preached last evening a
stirring sermon on the occasion, and was very hot upon the impurities
and idolatries of the 'Establishment.' And Jahn tells me they don't
speak quite so well of me as they should; for when he plainly told
Miffins in his own shop, that he was sure his master would not
countenance any thing wrong, the impudent fellow only said, 'May be not;
but he and his master might not be of the same opinion as to what _is_
wrong.' The rogue! I should like to have put all his weights in the
inspector's scales."
"Yes," quoth Jahn, "but I am 'most ashamed to tell your honour what Tom
Potts, the exciseman, said, who happened to be present."
"Out with it, by all means, Jahn," said our friend.
"Well then, sir, as true as you are there, he said that your honour was
a very kind gentleman, and your word was worth any other ten men's in
most things; but where it might be to get a friend out of trouble, and,
for aught he knew, foe either, why then, he thought your honour might
fib a bit."
"Surely," said Gratian, "he didn't say quite that?"
"Yes," quoth Jahn, "quite that, and more; something remarkable."
"Remarkable!" said I,--"what could that be?"
"Why, something I shan't forget; and I don't think it was religious and
proper," said Jahn; and lowering his voice, and addressing me and the
Curate rather than his master, he added,--"He thought his honour had a
kind heart, too kind; for that if Belzebub should come of a wet and dark
night, and knock at his honour's door, and just say in a humble voice
that he was weary and foot-sore, that his honour would be sure to take
him in, give him a bed, and a stiff tumbler of brandy and water, and
send for the farrier in the morning to fresh shoe him unknowingly; for
he would make him stoop, put his claws on the ground, and throw a
blanket over him, and make the farrier believe that, out of a whim, he
was only a shoeing a great big goat."
Gratian laughed at the whimsical idea of the exciseman, called him a
true and good spirit-gauger; then giving some sharp taps to his hip, his
knee, and his legs with his stick, rose from his seat, and said, "Come,
Curate, you and I must take a walk amongst these people, and see what we
can do: it is most time to put a stop to this mischievous absurdity,
and, I fear me, of our own making."
Away they went, and I put up my remaining translations from Catullus,
took down a book, read awhile, and then meditated this letter to you.
And now, my dear Eusebius, when you publish it in Maga, as you did my
last, folk will say--"Why, what is all this about? _Horae Catullianae!_ It
is no such thing." Be it, then, I say, what you will. Do you think I am
writing an essay?--no, a letter; and I may, if I please, entitle it, as
Montaigne did--"On coach horses," and still make it what I please. It
shall be a novel, if they please, for that is what they look for now: so
let the Curate be the hero,--and the heroine--but must it be a love
story? Then I won't forestall the interest, so wait to the end; and in
my next, Eusebius, we will repeat Catullus for the play, and say with
the announcing actor, "to conclude with an after-piece which will be
expressed in the bills."
My dear Eusebius, ever yours,