Life, 1899-08-10 · page 3 of 20
Life — August 10, 1899 — page 3: what you’re looking at
What you’re looking at
# "The Curé of St. Cyr's" This page presents a poem by Theodesia Pickering Garridon about a village priest (curé). The accompanying illustrations show an elderly clergyman in his garden and later in his modest home. The poem celebrates this rural priest's character and sacrifices. It describes him as a former soldier who devoted his life to serving his parish despite hardship and poverty. Key themes include his kindness to villagers, his small material possessions (an old flute, cherished books), and his acceptance of loneliness and loss. Rather than satirizing a specific figure or event, this appears to be sentimental Victorian-era literature praising rural clergy as moral exemplars—a common theme in period magazines. The illustrations romanticize humble religious devotion and rural life.
📄 Transcribed text from this page (OCR, searchable)
Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.
The Curé of St. Cyr’s, HE tangled roses twist and bloom Against the garden wall, So thick they leave but scanty room For the ripened peach to fall, Among the stately hollyhocks Tho wild bee drones and vere, And here at eve he always walks, ‘The Curé of St. Cyr’s. Tho village knows the kindly faco, ‘Tho old hats broken rim; Tho veriest baby in the place Flings out a smite to him, Tho gentlo hand, the silvered hair, ‘The look that chides or cheers; He always has a laugh to spare, ‘The Curé of St. Cyr’s. His‘houso is small and dismal, yet His treasures are not few; An old flute and a silhouctto, A cherished book or two, Still, rumor says that long ago, In dim, forgotton years, His life had other gifts to show. The Curé of Bt, Cyr’s. Ho was a soldier of the king— A courtier learned in bliss; No mun can say what made him fling The old life by for this, Ho bears, instead of love and mirth, ‘The parish hopes and fears — Tho littlo burdens of the earth— Tho Curé of St. Cyr’s, The sunshine floods his garden ways, Tho rose nods to the wind. Who knows if he regrets the days Ho lett so long behind? Perhaps the silhouette could tell— Whose faco bas folt his tears— Methinks sho knows them over-woll, is abject Oh, Curé of St, Cyr’st Theodosia Pickering Garrison, aod comicbooks.com