You desire, then, my dear Eusebius, to hear more of the Curate's
difficulty. We left him, you remember, with Gratian, who took him by the
arm, and walked off to see what his authority would do to quell the
parochial disturbance. You have seen the general opinion upon the
countenance Gratian would give to delinquents; you will not, therefore,
augur very favourably of this expedition. Loving a little mischief, as
you do, you will, perhaps, be not quite agreeably disappointed. Had
Gratian trusted alone to his character, he would have failed; which
shows that sometimes it is dangerous to have too good a one.
Not a parishioner but would have looked upon the patronage of Gratian to
the Curate as resulting from the weakness--those who meant to turn it to
compliment would say, the excessive kindness, of his nature. A little
malice interposing, they were by no means disposed, if they loved
Gratian, "to love his dog,"--in the light of which comparison they now
looked upon the Curate. Gratian's sly wit, however, availed more than
his authority. It seems they had not proceeded very far when they met
Prateapace. The Curate having some business in another direction, left
Gratian with the maiden-lady. You can imagine his first advances,
complimenting her upon her fresh morning looks. Then taking her by the
arm, as if for familiar support, transferring his stick to the other
hand, and looking his cajolery inimitably, and with a low voice saying,
"My dear Miss Lydia, what is all this story I hear that you charge the
Curate with?" "Oh, no, not I!" interrupted the maiden; "it is you have
done that. I only know that I heard you reprove him for his behaviour to
some one or other, whom you seriously declared either must be or ought
to be his wife." "My dear _young_ lady," said Gratian, "that is now
quite a mistake of yours:" he then, as he reports, told her what they
had been reading, and that his remarks were upon the book, and the
author of it, and had nothing to do with the Curate. To all which she
nodded her head incredulously, and laughingly said, "Oh, you good,
_good_-natured man; and pray who may that improper author be?" "Why,"
quoth Gratian, "Miss Lydia Prateapace wouldn't, I know, have me
recommend her any _improper_ author." "Oh, no, no!--I don't ask with any
intention to read him, I assure you," she replied. Gratian went on,
"Believe me, he is a very old author, a Roman." "A Roman indeed!" she
quite vociferated--"one of those horrid Papists, I suppose! A Roman is
he? Then the Curate--why should he read Papistical books, and learn such
tricks from them?" It was in vain for Gratian to endeavour to explain.
Miss Prateapace had but one notion of the Romans--that there never was
one that had not kissed the Pope's toe. So here he very wisely took
another tack, and drawing her a little aside, as if he would not have
even the very hedges hear him, and with no little affected caution,
looking about him, he said, in a half whisper--"Now let me, my dear
young lady, tell you a bit of a secret. All this is an idle tale, and is
just as I have told you; but this I tell you, that to my certain
knowledge, the Curate's _affections_"--laying stress on the word
affections--"are seriously engaged;" at which Miss Lydia stared, and
looked the personification of curiosity. "Engaged is he, did you say?"
"No, _he_ is not engaged," said Gratian, "but I happen to know that his
affections are--" "Then," quoth she, "I suppose he has declared as much
to the object." "Ah--no!--there is the very point--you are quite
mistaken--she has not the slightest suspicion of it." This was scarcely
credible to the lady's notion of love-making, but the earnest manner of
Gratian was every thing. "No," said he; "he is a most exemplary
conscientious young man, and so far avoids the making any show of his
feelings, that he affects, I really believe, more indifference towards
that lady than to any other. He tells me that he thinks it would not be
honourable in his present circumstances and position to engage _her_
affections; but he looks forward, as his prospects are fair." Miss Lydia
was interested--pondered awhile, and then said, "You dear good man, do
tell me who the lady is!" "No," replied Gratian, "I dare not betray a
secret; but be assured, my dear Miss Lydia Prateapace, that if our
Curate marries, he will make his choice not very far from this." "You
don't say so!" cried she: "Really now, who can it be?" "I can only say
one thing more," replied our fox Gratian, "and perhaps that is saying
too much; but--" whispering in her ear--"of all the letters in the
alphabet, her name begins with Lydia." Whereupon he made a start, put
his finger upon his lips, as if he had in his hurry told the secret; and
she started back a pace in another direction, looked in his face to see
if he was in jest; finding there nothing but apparent simplicity, she
looked a little confused, and evidently took the compliment and the
_hopes_ into her own bosom. When she could sufficiently collect her
thoughts, she expressed her sorrow for any mischief she might have done,
unintentionally; and added, that she would do all in her power to set
all things right again. At this point the Curate returned: he addressed
her somewhat distantly, which to her was a sign stronger than
familiarity, upon the power of which she gave him her hand _of
encouragement_. Gratian took care to leave well alone--let go her arm,
and leaning upon the Curate's wished her good morning, with a gracious
smile about his insidious mouth, to which he put his finger
significantly as if entreating her silence upon the subject of their
conversation. I have told you the particulars of this interview,
Eusebius, as I could gather them from Gratian's narration; and he has a
way of acting what he says, as if he had studied in that school where
the first requisite for an orator is--action; the second--action; the
third--action!
Our friend Gratian, Eusebius, made no matter of conscience of this
fibbing--did not hesitate--wanted no "ductor dubitantium"--as he told it
to us. He gave, it is true, his limb a smarter tapping; but it was no
twinge of conscience that caused the movement of the stick, and there is
nothing of the Franciscan about our friend. Did he _say_ a word that was
not perfect truth?
But what was the intention?--did he mean to deceive? But this is not a
question to discuss with you. You will do more than acquit him. So I am
answered, and silent. Gratian's answer was this. In his fabulous mood,
he asked--"If you should see a lion, an open-mouthed lion of the
veritable [Greek: chasm' odonton] breed, traversing a wood, and he
should accost you thus, 'Pray, sir, did you chance to see a man I am
looking after go this way?' would you point out his lurking place, his
path of escape? or would you not, if you knew he went to the right,
direct the lion by all means to continue his pursuit on the left? Then,
sir, which will your worshipful morality prefer, to be the accessary to
the murder, or the principal in the deceit?"
I must not omit to tell you that a few days ago Gratian and the Curate
spent a pleasant day with the Bishop, who was not a little amused at
their narration of the circumstances that produced the singular
parochial epistle, which his lordship had duly received. The Bishop's
hospitality is well seasoned with conversational ease, and perfect
agreeability, and has besides that
"Seu quid suavius elegantiusve est"
which our Catullus promises to his friend Fabullus. The Bishop, a ripe
scholar, spoke much and critically of Catullus, and laid most stress
upon the extreme suavity of his measures, especially in the "Acmen
Septimius." There were present two archdeacons and a very agreeable
classical physician. All had at one time or other, they acknowledged,
translated "Vivamus, mea Lesbia, atque amemus." The physician said he
had only satisfied himself with three lines, and yet he thought their
only merit was the being line for line. He repeated both the original
and his translation:--
"Soles occidere et redire possunt:
Nobis, quum semel occidit brevis lux,
Nox est perpetua una dormienda.
"Suns die, but soon their light restore,
While we, when our brief day is o'er,
Sleep one long night to wake no more."
The Curate, with the jealousy of a rival translator, objected to "suns
_die_," and thought "suns _set_" would be quite as well and a closer
translation. The Physician assented. The Bishop smiled, and said, "suns
_die_" was probably a professional lapsus. The Physician replied, that
such would be a very unprofessional lapsus; and Gratian quoted the
passage from Fielding, who says it is an unjust misrepresentation that
"physicians are the friends of death," and instanced the two physicians
who, in the case of the death of Captain Blifil, "dismissed the corpse
with a single fee, but were not so disgusted with the living patient."
At parting, the Bishop took the Curate most kindly by the hand, and
recommended him by all means to cultivate the amiability of
versification.
After this, Gratian and the Curate had much business in hand, and we did
not meet for some time. Gratian stirred a little in this affair of the
Curate's, and with effect. We did meet, however, and recommenced the