Curate.

Mode of paying the Borough-Minister--The Curate has no such Resources--His Learning and Poverty--Erroneous Idea of his Parent--His Feelings as a Husband and Father--The dutiful Regard of his numerous Family--His Pleasure as a Writer, how interrupted--No Resource in the Press--Vulgar Insult--His Account of a Literary Society, and a Fund for the Relief of indigent Authors, &c.

LETTER III.

THE VICAR--THE CURATE, &c.

Where ends our chancel in a vaulted space, Sleep the departed vicars of the place; Of most, all mention, memory, thought are past-- But take a slight memorial of the last. To what famed college we our Vicar owe, To what fair county, let historians show. Few now remember when the mild young man, Ruddy and fair, his Sunday-task began; Few live to speak of that soft soothing look He cast around, as he prepared his book; It was a kind of supplicating smile, But nothing hopeless of applause, the while; And when he finish'd, his corrected pride Felt the desert, and yet the praise denied. Thus he his race began, and to the end His constant care was, no man to offend; No haughty virtues stirr'd his peaceful mind, Nor urged the priest to leave the flock behind; He was his Master's soldier, but not one To lead an army of his martyrs on: Fear was his ruling passion; yet was love, Of timid kind, once known his heart to move; It led his patient spirit where it paid Its languid offerings to a listening maid; She, with her widow'd mother, heard him speak, And sought awhile to find what he would seek. Smiling he came, he smiled when he withdrew, And paid the same attention to the two; Meeting and parting without joy or pain, He seem'd to come that he might go again. The wondering girl, no prude, but something nice, At length was chill'd by his unmelting ice; She found her tortoise held such sluggish pace, That she must turn and meet him in the chase. This not approving, she withdrew till one Came who appeared with livelier hope to run; Who sought a readier way the heart to move, Than by faint dalliance of unfixing love. Accuse me not that I approving paint Impatient hope or love without restraint; Or think the passions, a tumultuous throng, Strong as they are, ungovernably strong: But is the laurel to the soldier due, Who cautious comes not into danger's view? What worth has virtue by desire untried, When Nature's self enlists on duty's side? The married dame in vain assail'd the truth And guarded bosom of the Hebrew youth; But with the daughter of the Priest of On The love was lawful, and the guard was gone; But Joseph's fame had lessen'd in our view, Had he, refusing, fled the maiden too. Yet our good priest to Joseph's praise aspired, As once rejecting what his heart desired; "I am escaped," he said, when none pursued; When none attack'd him, "I am unsubdued;" "Oh pleasing pangs of love," he sang again, Cold to the joy, and stranger to the pain. Ev'n in his age would he address the young, "I too have felt these fires, and they are strong;" But from the time he left his favourite maid, To ancient females his devoirs were paid; And still they miss him after morning prayer; Nor yet successor fills the Vicar's chair, Where kindred spirits in his praise agree, A happy few, as mild and cool as he-- The easy followers in the female train, Led without love, and captives without chain. Ye lilies male! think (as your tea you sip, While the town small-talk flows from lip to lip; Intrigues half-gather'd, conversation-scraps, Kitchen-cabals, and nursery-mishaps) If the vast world may not some scene produce, Some state, where your small talents might have use. Within seraglios you might harmless move, 'Mid ranks of beauty, and in haunts of love; There from too daring man the treasures guard, An easy duty, and its own reward; Nature's soft substitutes, you there might save From crime the tyrant, and from wrong the slave. But let applause be dealt in all we may: Our priest was cheerful, and in season gay; His frequent visits seldom fail'd to please; Easy himself, he sought his neighbour's ease. To a small garden with delight he came, And gave successive flowers a summer's fame; These he presented with a grace his own To his fair friends, and made their beauties known, Not without moral compliment: how they "Like flowers were sweet, and must like flowers decay." Simple he was, and loved the simple truth, Yet had some useful cunning from his youth; A cunning never to dishonour lent, And rather for defence than conquest meant; 'Twas fear of power, with some desire to rise, But not enough to make him enemies; He ever aim'd to please; and to offend Was ever cautious; for he sought a friend; Yet for the friendship never much would pay, } Content to bow, be silent, and obey, 100 } And by a soothing suff'rance find his way. } Fiddling and fishing were his arts; at times He alter'd sermons, and he aim'd at rhymes; And his fair friends, not yet intent on cards, Oft he amused with riddles and charades. Mild were his doctrines, and not one discourse But gain'd in softness what it lost in force: Kind his opinions; he would not receive An ill report, nor evil act believe; "If true, 'twas wrong; but blemish great or small Have all mankind; yea, sinners are we all." If ever fretful thought disturbed his breast, If aught of gloom that cheerful mind oppress'd, It sprang from innovation; it was then He spake of mischief made by restless men, Not by new doctrines: never in his life Would he attend to controversial strife; For sects he cared not; "They are not of us, Nor need we, brethren, their concerns discuss; But 'tis the change, the schism at home I feel; Ills few perceive, and none have skill to heal: Not at the altar our young brethren read (Facing their flock) the decalogue and creed; But at their duty, in their desks they stand, With naked surplice, lacking hood and band: Churches are now of holy song bereft, And half our ancient customs changed or left; Few sprigs of ivy are at Christmas seen, Nor crimson berry tips the holly's green; Mistaken choirs refuse the solemn strain Of ancient Sternhold, which from ours amain [Comes] flying forth, from aile to aile about, Sweet links of harmony and long drawn out." These were to him essentials, all things new He deem'd superfluous, useless, or untrue; To all beside indifferent, easy, cold, Here the fire kindled, and the wo was told. Habit with him was all the test of truth, "It must be right: I've done it from my youth." Questions he answer'd in as brief a way, "It must be wrong--it was of yesterday." Though mild benevolence our priest possess'd, 'Twas but by wishes or by words express'd: Circles in water, as they wider flow, The less conspicuous, in their progress grow; And when at last they touch upon the shore, Distinction ceases, and they're view'd no more. His love, like that last circle, all embraced, But with effect that never could be traced. Now rests our Vicar. They who knew him best Proclaim his life t' have been entirely rest-- Free from all evils which disturb his mind Whom studies vex and controversies blind. The rich approved--of them in awe he stood; The poor admired--they all believed him good; The old and serious of his habits spoke; The frank and youthful loved his pleasant joke; Mothers approved a safe contented guest, And daughters one who back'd each small request: In him his flock found nothing to condemn; Him sectaries liked--he never troubled them; No trifles fail'd his yielding mind to please, And all his passions sunk in early ease; Nor one so old has left this world of sin, More like the being that he entered in.