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 or the Vicar. His talk was like a stream which runs It passed from Mahomet to Moses; For dressing eels or shoeing horses. He was a shrewd and sound divine, Of loud dissent the mortal terror; And when by dint of page and line, He 'stablished truth or startled error, The Baptist found him far too deep; The Deist sighed with saving sorrow, And the lean Levite went to sleep And dreamt of eating 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 them, For all who understood admired, And some who did not understand them. He wrote too, in a quiet way, Small treatises and smaller verses, He did not think all mischief fair, He held, in spite of all his learning, It will not be improved by burning. And he was kind and loved to sit In the low hut or garnished cottage, And praise the farmer's homely wit, And share the widow's homelier pottage. At his approach complaint grew mild, The welcome that 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; To steal the staff he put such trust in, When he began to quote Augustine. Alack the change! In vain I look For haunts in which by boyhood trifled; The level lawn, the trickling brook, The trees I climbed, the beds I rifled! You reach it by a carriage entry; Sit in the Vicar's seat: you'll hear Whose tone is very Ciceronian. Where is the old man laid? Look down And construe on the slab before you— "Hic jacet Gulielmus Brown, Vir nullâ non donandus lauro." The man who wrote the above admirable portrait was as good as he was clever. The next has equal merit : QUINCE. Near a small village in the West, My good friend Quince was lord and master. Welcome was he in hut and hall, To maids and matrons, peers and peasants; He won the sympathies of all By making puns and making presents. Though all the parish was at strife, He kept his counsel and his carriage, And laughed, and loved a quiet life, And shrunk from chancery suits and marriage. Sound was his claret and his head, Warm was his double ale and feelings; His partners at the whist-club said That he was faultless in his dealings. He went to church but once a-week, Asylums, hospitals and schools He used to swear were made to cozen; All who subscribed to them were fools- Had first abuse and then a shilling. Some public principles he had, But was no flatterer nor fretter; And much he loathed the patriot's snort, With, "Patience, gentlemen, and shuffle!" For full ten years his pointer, Speed, Had couched beneath his master's table, For twice ten years his old white steed Had fattened in his master's stable. Old Quince averred upon his troth They were the ugliest beasts in Devon ; And none knew why he fed them both With his own hands, six days in seven. Whene'er they heard his ring or knock, Quicker than thought the village slatterns Flung down the novel, smoothed the frock, And took up Mrs. Glasse or patterns. Alice was studying baker's bills; Louisa looked the queen of knitters; Jane happened to be hemming frills; And Nell by chance was making fritters. |