I here send you, Eusebius, the last of our Horae Catullianae, which has
been lying by a week or more. This little delay enables me to wind up
the Curate's affair to your satisfaction. Our friend Gratian gave
verbally the Bishop's reply to Mathew Miffins, who, seeing himself
deserted by his principal witness and informer, Prateapace, was not
sorry to veer round with the weather-cock, and was obsequiously civil.
It was characteristic of our friend Gratian, that he should settle it as
he did with that huckster. Going through, as it is called, the main
street, I saw him engaged with Miffins, in his shop, and went in. He was
talking somewhat familiarly with the man--of all subjects, on what do
you suppose?--on fishing. Gratian had been a great fisherman in his day,
as his rheumatic pains can now testify. As he afterwards told me,
fearing he might have given the Bishop's message rather sharply, and not
liking to pain the man, he turned off the subject, and talked of
fishing, to which he knew Miffins was addicted; and so it ended by
Gratian's obtaining his good-will for ever, for he sent him some choice
hackles. Prateapace and Gadabout have returned to the church, whereupon
the Rev. the cow-doctor has stirred up the wrath of the chapel by a very
strong discourse upon backsliding. A poor woman spoke of it as very
affecting, adding, "Some loves 'sons of consolation,' but I loves 'sons
of thunder.'" Doubtless there was lightning too; and there is of that
vivid kind which bewilders and leaves all darker than before. The Curate
_has_ found bouquets in the vestry and the desk, and has been in danger
of becoming "a popular."
A subscription has actually been set on foot, by Nicholas Sandwell, at
the instigation, it is said, of certain ladies, and even encouraged by
Miffins, to purchase a coffee-pot and tea-spoons for the Curate; but an
event a few days ago has put an end to the affair, and given rather a
new turn to the parochial feelings. This event is of such moment, that I
ought, perhaps, to have told you of it at first--but I should have
spoiled my romance, my novel--and what is any writing without a tale in
it worth now-a-days? The Curate, then, is actually married--even since
the termination of the Horae Catullianae.
Miss Lydia, ("alas, false man!" sighed some one,) of the family at
Ashford, is the happy bride. The Curate had unexpectedly come into a
very decent independence; and is, and will be for ever after, according
to the usual receipt, happy.
Since this event, the bouquets have ceased to be laid in the vestry and
the desk. Lydia Prateapace has been heard to say she should not wonder
if all was true after all, and affects to be glad, for propriety's sake,
that they _are_ married. Gadabout runs every where repeating what
Prateapace said; and Brazenstare looks audacious indifference, and once
stared in the Curate's face and asked him how many Misses Lydia there
might be of his acquaintance. My dear Eusebius,
"So goes the world, and such the Play of Life.
This loves to make, and t'other mends a strife;
Old fools write rhymes--the Curate takes a wife."
Yours ever, AQUILIUS.