EVERY DAY CHARACTERS. I. THE VICAR. SOME years ago, ere Time and Taste St. Mary's Hill and Sandy Thicket, Back flew the bolt of lissom lath; Fair Margaret, in her tidy kirtle, Led the lorn traveller up the path, Through clean-clipped rows of box and myrtle; And Don and Sancho, Tramp and Tray, Upon the parlour steps collected, Wagged all their tails, and seemed to say, "Our master knows you; you're expected!" Up rose the Reverend Doctor Brown, Up rose the Doctor's winsome marrow, The lady laid her knitting down, Her husband clasped his ponderous Barrow; Whate'er the stranger's caste or creed, Pundit or papist, saint or sinner, He found a stable for his steed, And welcome for himself, and dinner. If, when he reached his journey's end, And twenty curious scraps of knowledge;If he departed as he came, With no new light on love or liquor,Good sooth, the traveller was to blame, And not the Vicarage, nor the Vicar. His talk was like a stream which runs It passed from Mahomet to Moses; The planets in their radiant courses, And ending with some precept deep For dressing eels or shoeing horses. He was a shrewd and sound divine, Of loud Dissent the mortal terror; The Baptist found him far too deep; The Deist sighed with saving sorrow; And the lean Levite went to sleep, And dreamed of tasting pork to-morrow. His sermon never said or showed That Earth is foul, that Heaven is gracious, Without refreshment on the road From Jerome, or from Athanasius; And sure a righteous zeal inspired The hand and head that penned and planned For all who understood, admired, [them, And some who did not understand them. He wrote, too, in a quiet way, Small treatises, and smaller verses; And sage remarks on chalk and clay, And hints to noble lords and nurses; Lines to a ringlet or a turban; He did not think all mischief fair, Although he had a taste for smoking: He held, in spite of all his learning, That if a man's belief is bad, It will not be improved by burning. And he was kind, and loved to sit And when his hand unbarred the shutter, The clammy lips of Fever smiled The welcome which they could not utter. He always had a tale for me Of Julius Cæsar or of Venus: From him I learned the rule of three, Cat's-cradle, leap-frog, and Quæ genus: I used to singe his powdered wig, To steal the staff he put such trust in; And make the puppy dance a jig When he began to quote Augustine. Alack the change! in vain I look For haunts in which my boyhood trifled; The level lawn, the trickling brook, The trees I climbed, the beds I rifled: The church is larger than before; You reach it by a carriage entry: It holds three hundred people more: And pews are fitted up for gentry. Sit in the Vicar's seat: you'll hear HIC JACET GVLIELMVS BROWN, (1-29.) II.—QUINCE. "Fallentis semita vitæ."-Horace. NEAR a small village in the West, Of which, for forty years and four, My good friend Quince was lord and master! Welcome was he in hut and hall, To maids and matrons, peers and peasants, |