Sketches by Boz | Page 4

the form of a Norman arch, wore a brilliant
of the first water on the fourth finger of his left hand (which he always
applied to his left cheek when he read prayers), and had a deep
sepulchral voice of unusual solemnity. Innumerable were the calls
made by prudent mammas on our new curate, and innumerable the
invitations with which he was assailed, and which, to do him justice, he
readily accepted. If his manner in the pulpit had created an impression
in his favour, the sensation was increased tenfold, by his appearance in
private circles. Pews in the immediate vicinity of the pulpit or
reading-desk rose in value; sittings in the centre aisle were at a
premium: an inch of room in the front row of the gallery could not be
procured for love or money; and some people even went so far as to
assert, that the three Miss Browns, who had an obscure family pew just
behind the churchwardens', were detected, one Sunday, in the free seats
by the communion-table, actually lying in wait for the curate as he
passed to the vestry! He began to preach extempore sermons, and even
grave papas caught the infection. He got out of bed at half-past twelve
o'clock one winter's night, to half-baptise a washerwoman's child in a
slop-basin, and the gratitude of the parishioners knew no bounds--the
very churchwardens grew generous, and insisted on the parish
defraying the expense of the watch-box on wheels, which the new
curate had ordered for himself, to perform the funeral service in, in wet
weather. He sent three pints of gruel and a quarter of a pound of tea to a
poor woman who had been brought to bed of four small children, all at
once--the parish were charmed. He got up a subscription for her--the
woman's fortune was made. He spoke for one hour and twenty-five
minutes, at an anti-slavery meeting at the Goat and Boots--the
enthusiasm was at its height. A proposal was set on foot for presenting
the curate with a piece of plate, as a mark of esteem for his valuable
services rendered to the parish. The list of subscriptions was filled up in
no time; the contest was, not who should escape the contribution, but
who should be the foremost to subscribe. A splendid silver inkstand
was made, and engraved with an appropriate inscription; the curate was

invited to a public breakfast, at the before-mentioned Goat and Boots;
the inkstand was presented in a neat speech by Mr. Gubbins, the
ex-churchwarden, and acknowledged by the curate in terms which drew
tears into the eyes of all present--the very waiters were melted.
One would have supposed that, by this time, the theme of universal
admiration was lifted to the very pinnacle of popularity. No such thing.
The curate began to cough; four fits of coughing one morning between
the Litany and the Epistle, and five in the afternoon service. Here was a
discovery--the curate was consumptive. How interestingly melancholy!
If the young ladies were energetic before, their sympathy and solicitude
now knew no bounds. Such a man as the curate--such a dear--such a
perfect love--to be consumptive! It was too much. Anonymous presents
of black-currant jam, and lozenges, elastic waistcoats, bosom friends,
and warm stockings, poured in upon the curate until he was as
completely fitted out with winter clothing, as if he were on the verge of
an expedition to the North Pole: verbal bulletins of the state of his
health were circulated throughout the parish half-a- dozen times a day;
and the curate was in the very zenith of his popularity.
About this period, a change came over the spirit of the parish. A very
quiet, respectable, dozing old gentleman, who had officiated in our
chapel-of-ease for twelve years previously, died one fine morning,
without having given any notice whatever of his intention. This
circumstance gave rise to counter-sensation the first; and the arrival of
his successor occasioned counter-sensation the second. He was a pale,
thin, cadaverous man, with large black eyes, and long straggling black
hair: his dress was slovenly in the extreme, his manner ungainly, his
doctrines startling; in short, he was in every respect the antipodes of the
curate. Crowds of our female parishioners flocked to hear him; at first,
because he was SO odd- looking, then because his face was SO
expressive, then because he preached SO well; and at last, because they
really thought that, after all, there was something about him which it
was quite impossible to describe. As to the curate, he was all very well;
but certainly, after all, there was no denying that--that--in short, the
curate wasn't a novelty, and the other clergyman was. The inconstancy
of public opinion is proverbial: the congregation migrated one by one.

The curate coughed