LITERARY SPECTATOR.
THE COUNTRY CURATE.*
Trim is a book as soothing and consolatory, by the mildness and beauty of the spirit in which it is written, as it is interesting by the force and vigour of its descriptions, and the general truth and interest of the ma- terials of which it is composed. The character of the high-minded but broken-hearted curate, who, though bearing his sorrow with resigna- tion, and working it out as it were by charity to all men, has ceased to have any interest in the world except through others, and whose every action seems but a solemn preparation for the grave, throws over the merely human adventures and histories he records a charm which it is impossible to appreciate except by a perusal of the work itself. For it spreads itself imperceptibly and indirectly over all, like some horizontal lights which we have seen, lighting up tower and town and sea on the decline of day, which suddenly clothe every visible thing in a raiment of placid and almost supernatural splendour, while the effect is in- creased by our notimmediately detecting the quarter whence it springs. The sky is grey overhead, the west is perhaps even massively heavy, when under the brow of some dense black cloud comes a parting glance of splendour, which we feel pleased in comparing with the complexion thrown over the supposed remains of the Curate of St. Alphage. The scenery and character of the country, too, are as well-chosen as they are well-described. How the little church and churchyard, the clipped- hedge-surrounded vicarage, live before us ! how well they contrast with the bleak downs and the snug glens and vallies which surround them ! Who can doubt the existence of the Toll and its old manor-house ap- pendages, of Team Hill farm, or the poacher's house on the moor? Would it not be easy, without any other topographical guide, to find the romantic way to St. Alphage, by the by-lane that leads from the high London road ? When we pursue this identical route, how disap- pointed shall we be, if, "before we obtain a view of Folkstone and the British Channel," we do not find the spot where " stands the church and parsonage of St. Alphage, in one of the most striking of these glens.' But alas! even if the church of St. Alphage should prove among things existing, it is certain that the gentle curate is not there. Mr. Williams no longer opens the hospitable door to the wayfaring man; and even his sister no longer exists: the author, after informing us of the brother's death, has the barbarity to add that the sister is the mother of his children!
We reserve to ourselves the pleasure of a ride or a walk from Bar- ham Downs across the wild country to Folkstone and Hythe ; and shall contrive, according to the author's advice, to choose the moment when a storm of wind and rain is abroad, and, if possible, the blast driving directly in the face; but in the interim of a visit to the scenes of these stories, let us content ourselves with the histories them- selves.
In subject they remind us of CRABBE : we have said enough to show how different they are in spirit. Mr. GeBin's sketches are scarcely less vigorous, but they are not so minute ; or if they are minute, the circumstances selected are from beings calculated to disgust us with humanity and life. The spirit of CRABBE'S writings is hopeless and unredeemed : we have in the Country Curate crime enough, stern character, and vile adventure ; but they are not cut off from all hope and consolation ; they are not represented isolated from all those cir- cumstances that soften, and marked with all those that aggravate. As HOGARTH is said always to have introduced one redeeming beautiful face among all his caricatures of the human features, so does our author contrive, as indeed does Nature herself, to put into every picture of sorrow or crime some restingplace, some spot of consolation, for the relief of the fainting spirit. CRABBE'S portraits bear the marks of having been sat for by the originals:; and Mr. GLEIG tells us, as we might have concluded, that in the county of Kent many of his subjects will be remembered. Who could, for instance, mistake the Miser? There is something about that extraordinary character, which says it could not have been invented. The Poacher, too, is as sturdy a piece of true nature as ever set a spiiage or defied a gamekeeper. The Pa- rish Apprentice, likewise a true story, is more after the manner of CRABBE than any of the rest,—probably becauseit was taken from a printed narrative, and not collected in the experience and consequently reconceived and impressed by the character of the author's own mind. it is a tremendous picture of crime and remorse, worked up by the skill Of the writer to a pitch of horror. It is not our favourite story, and yet we think it perhaps the author's chef d'ceurre, so acutely are dis- tinguished the nascent seeds of crime in the young man's mind—so naturally are they developed—so well hung together are all the circuin- * By the Author a the Subaltern and the Chelsea Pensioners. 2 vols. London,
1830.
stances, and to such a degree of interest is the reader excited on the night when the pedlar Jew lets into the house the sturdy apprentice to smother the blacksmith his master in his sleep. The longest story in the two volumes, and the one which we esteem on the whole the best, is undoubtedly the Miser. It is rare to find a country clergyman of small income a miser, but much rarer to find one becoming so under the motives of this Mr. Davies. It appeared to his neighbours, that though in possession of a good income, he de- nied himself every comfort of life, and all except such ;necessaries as served to keep body and soul together. His sole attendant was an old Welshwoman ; and it was rumoured that they sat at the same table to- gether, and that their entire food was potatoes and water. He was strictly attentive to all his clerical duties, and the breath of slander had in no respect sullied his moral character : but in all matters of social intercourse, he was rude, repulsive, and uncourteous, and hardly at tended to personal appearance in a sufficient degree to secure himself from the ridicule of his neighbours. With all this, there was a man- ner, an air about him, which could not be regarded without a certain feeling of respect ; and though the world could see nothing in his pe- nuriousness but the vulgar appetite of saving, Mr.Williams, the Coun- try Curate, being admitted to see him on occasion of severe sickness, detected the existence of some mysterious object, and ventured to sug gest to him that he was inclined to believe that his manner of living was dictated by the influence of a more worthy motive than avarice. The Miser's heart warmed to his visitor ; and in the course of the ac- quaintance that ensued, the only one he had made for thirty years, he communicated his history. It is a very interesting one, not merely because it developes the motives under which this extraordinary character was acting. It appears that Mr. Davies is the last de- scendant of one of the most ancient families of Denbighshire ; that they had been time immemorial the proprietors and landlords of an estate and house called Llanwrst; from which, by the extravagance or carelessness of the father of Mr. Davies, the family were ejected for debt and resistance to the sheriff's force, and the principal members of it imprisoned in Chester Gaol. Various circumstances produce a powerful impression upon the feelings of Mr. Davies, the Miser, then a young man, and he resolves to live in such a manner as that in the course of time he may repurchase the seat of his ancestors. This is the object of all his savings, and in it he finally succeeds. This story reminds us of an anecdote which is forcibly told in FORSYTH'S Essays, in the one upon Resolution. There, it is a spendthrift, who, driven from house and home, and wandering pennyless, accidentally arrives at a spot which over- looks the magnificent property which he has alienated : the effect upon his feelings inspires a determination to repossess it ; and he com- mences a course of industry, beginning with the very lowest occupa- tions, and a system 'of saving, which eventually restores him to the condition in life he had lost.
We are sorry that we can afford little room for an extract. Extracts are, however, not necessary for the making of the work known, for the author's fame will undoubtedly spread his book far and wide; and they are the less necessary, since three of the stories have already ap- peared in Blackwood's Magazine, and probably all the world remem- bers them. The following is a description of the Miser in his sick room.
"We mounted a wooden stair, and traversed a wooden landingplace„ both of them, like the parlour below, uncontaminated by the presence of any covering. At the extremity of the latter, a door stood ajar ; and the female, pushing it open, pronounced my name in a loud voice, and formally intro- duced me to her master. I advanced, and beheld seated, or rather reclining, in an old-fashioned backed chair, with pillows placed behind and on each side of him, the individual concerning whom so strange an account had reached me. He was a tall, thin man, apparently about fifty years of age, exceedingly pale, with a sunken check and a hollow eye ; but bearing about him traces of very considerable beauty, upon which care or sickness, or both, had made deep inroads. His dress was a clean, threadbare, white flannel nightgown, which wrapped him entirely round : upon his head he wore a woollen nightcap, likewise perfectly clean ; and the coverings of his pillows, together with the counterpane on his bed, were all as white as the skill of the bleacher could make them. Yet, in spite of so much attention to cleanliness, the bedroom, not less than the parlour, bore witness to the penurious disposition of its occupant ; for it was as dreary and ill-assorted a dormitory as I had ever entered—even in the cottages of the poorest of my own parishioners. A truckle bedstead, without posts or curtains, occupied one ex- tremity, in front of which a bit of sacking was substituted for a rug. A large trunk supplied the place of a chest of drawers ; there was but one chair, in addition to that occupied by the curate, the rush bottom of which had given way ; and a solitary small table seemed to do the triple duty of toilet, writing- desk, and dinner -board. A few sticks were burning in the fire-place, for the purpose, as it seemed, of cooking, rather than to give warmth, for a moderate- sized saucepan simmered over them ; and the supply of spare fuel was so scanty, as td denote that it would not be needed after the contents of the ves- sel should have been sufficiently subjected to the process of boiling. I was very much shocked, as well as greatly astonished, at the desolate aspect of the chamber ; yet was there something in the air of its occupant calculated to excite other feelings besides those of disgust and contempt. "Mr. Davies made an effort to rise as I entered; but his strength was not adequate to carry him through, and he immediately fell back again. " I am too feeble to do the honours as I ought,' said he, with a bitter smile ; I must therefore request you to take a seat—that is, if you can find one !'
"I sat down accordingly on the edge of the broken chair, and Mr. Davies continued.
" •` My housekeeper informs me that you have declined the remuneration which is legally your due, and that you required a personal introduction to me as the price of your services. I am sorry for it : first, because I do not love to lay myself under an obligation to a stranger ; and next, because I never wish to see a stranger within my doors. If you have any business to discuss, say on ; if not, take my thanks, and let our interview be as brief as possible.'
"I was not a little perplexed, as may well be imagined, by such an open- ing to our dialogue, not knowing very well how to meet it, or what to say in reply. How I did express myself, indeed, I have forgotten ; but before Mr. Davies could offer any rejoinder, the old housekeeper, greatly to my relief, took part in the conversation.
"'Nay, now, honey dear ! didn't you promise to meet this gentleman as a friend? Didn't! tell you that he came from Caernarvonshire?—that he was in some degree a countryman, and that he deserved diviner treatment at your hands, than a mere Saxon ? It arn't like you to say a rude thing to any one, and least of all to a Welshman.'
" I beg pardon,' said I, if I have inadvertently done that which is disa- greeable to you. I was told of your illness, and considered it no more than an act of common civility as well as duty, to inquire for you.' . "'Well, and could not that be done abroad? Could not Margery tell you all that you needed to know, or had any right to pry into ? Besides, it is not your coming here that offends me.—You see that I am poor—very poor,— that I live meanly and fare hardly ; but there is nothing disnaceful in that ; and I care not if all the world knew it. But your refusal tcibe paid for your services wounds my pride. Tell me how I may clear scores with you, and then perhaps we shall better understand one another.'
"'By doing the same friendly act for me, should I hereafter stand in need of it, which I have just done for you.' ; "'Be it so,' replied he, I take you at your word : and though I do not wish you illness, I shall be glad to hear that business or amusement may have taken you hence, as soon as my health is sufficiently re-established to permit my fulfilling my part of the contract. And now, good morning to you,—the day wears apace,—and you probably desire to reach home ere it be dark.'"
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