He waned to half a Cæsar. Him the frown Of ruin dash'd beneath thy axle down: Then horror shook him from his death-like sleep; His demon shadow still appals the world! When, Knowledge, when will mortals learn thy lore? Oh, rise, and reign, bless'd Power, that lov'st to bless; Thy book of life to Labour's children give: And Independence, smiling on thy brow, Sing hymns to Love and Plenty, o'er the plough! Thy kingdom come! on earth let discord cease; Come thy long sabbath of bless'd love and peace!'-p. 175-177. THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A CURATE.-A TALE.* • Mutato nomine de te fabula narratur.' My mother was the youngest daughter of a poor country curate, who had a large family, and but little to support them. His salary was not more than £15. per annum, and he was compelled to teach school in the little village where he resided, in order to eke out a maintenance, which was, after all, a very scanty pittance; his pupils being few, and his terms very low. The neighbourhood was thinly peopled, consisting chiefly of agricultural labourers, who could not afford to give their children an expensive education; and, though there were three or four substantial farmers, who sent their sons to the curate's school, they valued larnin,' as they called it, too little to pay even a moderate price for it. The profits arising from this source were so small that my maternal grandmother, the curate's wife, being an industrious and hard-working, though both a highly-talented and high-minded woman, to increase their income, washed and got up the fine linen and surplices of the vicar. This worthy vicar, who turned over to his curate all the laborious duties of his profession, such as preaching twice every Sunday, visiting the sick, and burying the dead, seemed to regard the converting the curate's wife into his washing-woman as an act of charity, of such A facetious story, miscalled an Autobiography,' having been lately published, by one who assumes the title of a 'Dissenting Minister,' intended to expose the evils of the voluntary system, we present to our readers another equally veritable story, touching upon some of the evils of the compulsory system, as illustrated in the history of a Country Curate. We have entitled it à Tale, but it might as properly be called Truth, under an allegory.-EDITOR. high merit as to exonerate him from every other liberal action, and to justify him in the irregular payment of both his drudges. It was a common saying with him, when irritated by calls for money long due and withheld, You needy wretches eat me up;' though the truth was, that, like the celebrated Acteon, he was eaten up by his dogs and horses, being a great hunter; and by his vices, being a jovial liver. He was, indeed, too fond of gay company, and the indulgence of his own expensive tastes and appetites, to save any portion of his income (which was very considerable) for charitable purposes: like the rich man in the parable, he fared sumptuously every day,' and many a poor Lazarus, who would have been content with the crumbs that fell from his table,' was driven with outrage from his gate, and often pursued by some of his yelping hounds, purposely let loose upon all beggars who ventured to approach the vicarage, as the best means of preventing such vagrants, as the vicar indiscriminately called them, from being troublesome. Many a round oath, too, his Reverence swore, if he met one of them in his grounds; and it was reported, I have heard my mother say, that, being a country magistrate, he often committed the wandering beggar to prison. He entertained an utter contempt and hatred of every thing that bore the face of poverty, which he appeared to regard rather as a vice than a misfortune, and the delicate feelings of his poor curate were often hurt by the evident suspicion which he entertained of his honesty, whenever they met, especially if the meeting took place in his own house. 'Mr. Curate,' he would say, literary men have often been guilty of purloining their richer neighbour's books, forgetting the great commandment, "Thou shalt not steal;" and I will confess to you, I am always uneasy when an indigent scholar is in my library. I have great reason to believe my last curate, your immediate predecessor, filched more than one volume from my shelves: and I have made it a rule, ever since his departure, not to suffer any one in my employ to touch a single author in my possession, under any pretence whatever. Of course, I do not question your honesty; but you will see the propriety of not infringing this irreversible rule.' It was a rare occurrence for this despotic priest to invite his hard-working slave to dine with him; and when he did, he always treated him as a humble dependant: in his most condescending moments, he took care to remind his visiter of the vast difference there was between them, and in ill-humour his rudeness amounted almost to insult. His supercilious politeness often expressed itself in such terms as these, when recommending any favourite dish, or high-prized wine: Do not be afraid of it, Mr. Curate; you do not get such good things as these every day;' and his suspicious temper, when in a peevish mood, would betray itself thus:Take care, Mr. Curate, you do not mistake that napkin for a pockethandkerchief. It is an error into which persons not accustomed to such accommodations are naturally enough apt to fall; but it is sure to be detected at my table.' Harsher observations were sometimes made, when, presuming on the vicar's good humour, the poor curate, who studied the molles aditus et tempora,' the soft approaches to his heart, and the proper seasons for making them, ventured, in some sunny hour of grace, when the generally-forbidding countenance of his reverend superior was relaxed into a smile, to remind him that a portion of his scanty salary had long been due, and was much wanted: then the transient smile would be suddenly succeeded by a portentous frown, and the storm, gathering on the contracted brow and in the darkened features, would cast the lightning of indignant wrath from the kindling eye, and hurl the thunder of abusive rebuke from the convulsed lips of the burly priest, who paid no regard, at such times, to the admonition of St. James, that blessing and cursing' ought not to proceed from the same mouth. Why, Mr. Curate,' he would say, you are enough to provoke a saint. Is it not enough that you are eating the food from my table, and drinking the wine from my cup, without also wishing to take all the money out of my pocket? I am astonished at your impertinence and your folly. Who but the most senseless of human beings would ever think of disturbing the hours of social enjoyment by obtruding upon them such unpleasant matters of business? If you are not satisfied by receiving your salary as it is convenient to me to pay it, you may quit my service as soon as you please; there are plenty of your ragged brethren who will be glad to fill your place. I will not tolerate a dun in the person of a menial or a curate. By the Lord Harry, I will not! Take my oath upon it; and if there be any sin in it, put it to your own account. Was I not just now as cool as a cucumber, and were not my words as soft as butter? You would impose upon my good nature, and commit an act of larceny on my purse whilst I was drinking your good health. Such ingratitude is beyond all endurance. Leave my house, sir, or drown the hateful subject for ever in a brimming bumper to oblivion.' Älas! for the dependant and degraded portion of the clergy, such insults, instead of being resented with becoming spirit, must be overlooked-nay, apologized for-or themselves and families must lose their daily bread, and face all the horrors of destitution and famine. These professional quarrels were generally terminated by the alarmed and subservient curate protesting he meant not to give offence, and accepting, as a peace-offering, the proposed terms of reconciliation. The rosy wine, however, could not banish from the curate's mind the thorns which such irritating and unjust treatment had planted in it: the vicar's returning smiles, and increased suavity of behaviour, could not remove the uneasiness of his dependant, which was too manifest, through all the vain attempts he made to conceal it. Come, come,' the pacified vicar would say, 'you meant no harm, Mr. Curate, I dare say. The matter was ill-timed, but not ill-intended. I can easily forgive an unintentional offence, even when it appears in a breach of good manners. You have not been initiated into the etiquette of the hospitable board. Gentlemen never talk of grave matters over their wine. It is the proper business of a guest and a feast to remove from the brow, not to plant on it, the wrinkles of care.— "Explicuit vino contracta seria frontis." The quotation, Mr. Curate, is from Horace, a favourite of mine in former years, when I studied at Oxford. You, unfortunately, were never at college, and I shall not, therefore, apologise for informing you that the meaning of the line is, that wine unfolds the wrinkles and dissipates the gloom of a contracted brow! We ministers—I mean, of course, those of us who have livings-are sometimes accused of being fond of the bottle-(fill your glass, Mr. Curate, and dont't be afraid of it)—and of indulging too much in the sports and vanities of life: but we have authority for it, which I have heard quoted a thousand times, at Oxford, by divines as well as scholars : And which I will give you in a college version, made, it is said, by one of the gravest of our tutors; nor is it improbable, for at Oxford, Mr. Curate, and at Cambridge too, Wisdom does not refuse, occasionally, to jingle the bells of Folly. Not a few pranks has many a bishop played there. before he was crowned with the mitre and invested with the lawn; and many now residing there, who wear learned gowns, laugh in their sleeves at the starched prudery of those dull religionists who never smile, and look, for all the world, like “ images cut in alabaster." But now for the version: "Ere the funeral torch of gloom Darkens life, and shows the tomb, How sweet it is to play the fool." Depend upon it, Mr. Curate, they carry their morality too far, who would banish from life its innocent amusements. The mind requires relaxation and the body indulgence. Without these there can be no society or enjoyment. Come, one more glass before you leave me— as I see my time is nearly expired-and should you hear any of my unintelligent parishioners blame me as too free a liver, recollect the lesson you have just heard, and vindicate both the wisdom and virtue of my conduct. That, you know, is as much your duty, as my curate, as any other you have to discharge.' Speeches of this kind, proceeding from the mouth of the rosy vicar, and touching upon many painful points, were not, of course, much relished by the worthy curate, who had studied only in the school of Christ, and had no reverence for classic authorities, even when quoted by his spiritual superior; but he did not dare to call in question the justice of the sentiments expressed in them, and was compelled, in fear of dismission, to sanction them by his silence. His subjection sometimes exposed him to greater insults than those I have hitherto mentioned, a few of which I will now record, as they are related in his Private Memoirs, written by himself, with the express intention of making known to the public, in the hope of relief, the evils to which poor country curates are exposed, and long preserved in the family in manuscript, as he could never muster a sufficient sum of money during his life to publish them. The manuscript has unfortunately suffered from the ravages of time and accident, many leaves having been torn out, and in those remaining the ink having, in some passages, faded so much as to render them almost illegible. Enough, however, is left to furnish a few more characteristic anecdotes illustrative of the misfortunes of this worthy man, and of the insults which patient merit of the unworthy takes;-enough, too, if the world were honest, or governments wise, to redress the miserable grievances under which so many humble ministers in the Church have suffered, and something like which some may still suffer, from the whims, the bad temper, and the vices of their spiritual superiors, who, like the lazy drones, have fed to repletion on the honey of the hive, whilst the working-bees have been exhausted with labour, and sometimes famished with want. The vicar, who, as before observed, delighted in the sports of the field, was equally fond, as may indeed be conjectured from what has already been related, of the pleasures of the table; and after the chace, he not unfrequently regaled his fox-hunting friends with a sumptuous dinner. On such festive occasions the curate was sometimes invited, to afford the company amusement. The vicar was fond of practical jokes, and the curate being a man of very simple and unsophisticated manners, a sort of Parson Adams, was an admirable subject to play them upon. He was, therefore, on these gala-days at the parsonage-house, the butt of all the rude jokes of its reverend owner and his jovial companions. Amongst the cruelties inflicted by his tormentors, at different times, on this harmless Christian, wholly unhackneyed in the ways of the world, one was, the mock respect they paid him. On going into the dining-room, the curate, with native timidity, would slink behind all the other guests, as if, in the humility of his soul, he considered every one superior to himself. This bashfulness, or modesty, (it was probably a mixture of both,) did not pass unobserved. The vicar, after whispering to some one nearest him, once said, Mr. Curate, stand up for the dignity of your cloth, and come forward; these gentlemen will make way for you.' On which all present drew themselves up into two lines, leaving between them a narrow path, through which the curate was called upon to advance, every one bowing to him with assumed respect as he passed along in confused disorder, but, at the same time, trying, at every step he took, by interposing a foot, to prick him with the spur with which each was armed, and to trip up his heels, so that he fell sprawling on the floor before he reached the reverend host, who, laughing with the rest at his misfortune, called aloud, amidst the roar of merriment, as he left the room, Well, Mr. Curate, when you have leisure to get up, and have arranged your dress, we shall be glad to see you in the next room, where the dinner is waiting.' Their modes of annoying this good man at dinner were numerous. That in which they most delighted was placing him at the head of the table by the vicar's sister, who, pretending to great gentility of manners, and having a very high opinion of herself, expected all those little polite attentions which the poor curate, in the confusion produced in his mind by absence and bashfulness, was sure not to pay her. This seat of honour was particularly assigned to him when the lady had before her any dish which was somewhat difficult to carve; and which, as the gentleman nearest to her, she would naturally look to the timid curate, ignorant, by the way, of all such arts, 'to cut up handsomely for her.' The wretchedness of the poor man in this situation may be more easily conceived than described, when the vicar called aloud from the bottom of the table, winking at his guests, Mr. Curate, I am astonished that a gentleman of your profound knowledge, being both a pedagogue and parson, should suffer a lady to weary herself in dissecting that large fowl, which requires both a strong hand and a skilful eye to carve without mutilation. Pray, sir, let us see how you can wield a knife and fork.' Whilst unable to stammer out an apology, and writhing in mental agony on his chair, the supercilious lady, turning from him with open contempt, to one of the most favoured persons in the company, would exclaim, I wish some gentleman' (making |