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or not, and finding a certain vague consola- | was included in the duties of his office, he tion in it.

“Ah, that is true," said Miss Wodehouse -"that is true; what a blessing things are so changed; and these blessed young creatures," she added softly, with tears falling out of her gentle old eyes-" these blessed young creatures are near the Fountainhead."

With this speech Miss Wodehouse held out her hand to the rector, and they parted with a warm mutual grasp. The rector went straight home-straight to his study, where he shut himself in, and was not to be disturbed; that night was one long to be remembered in the good man's history. For the first time in his life he set himself to inquire what was his supposed business in this world. His treatises on the Greek verb, and his new edition of Sophocles, were highly creditable to the Fellow of All-Souls; but how about the rector of Carlingford? What was he doing here, among that little world of human creatures who were dying, being born, perishing, suffering, falling into misfortune and anguish, and all manner of human vicissitudes, every day? Young Wentworth knew what to say to that woman in her distress; and so might the rector, had her distress concerned a disputed translation, or a disused idiom. The good man was startled in his composure and calm. To-day he had visibly failed in a duty which even in All-Souls was certainly known to be one of the duties of a Christian priest. Was he a Christian priest, or what was he? He was troubled to the very depths of his soul. To hold an office the duties of which he could not perform, was clearly impossible. The only question, and that a hard one, was, whether he could learn to discharge those duties, or whether he must cease to be rector of Carlingford. He labored over this problem in his solitude, and could find no answer. Things were different when we were young," was the only thought that was any comfort to him, and that was poor consolation.

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For one thing, it is hard upon the most magnanimous of men to confess that he has undertaken an office for which he has not found himself capable. Magnanimity was perhaps too lofty a word to apply to the rector; but he was honest to the bottom of his soul. As soon as he became aware of what

must perform them, or quit his post. But how to perform them? Can one learn to convey consolation to the dying, to teach the ignorant, to comfort the sorrowful? Are these matters to be acquired by study, like Greek verbs or intricate measures? The rector's heart said No. The rector's imagination unfolded before him, in all its halcyon blessedness, that ancient paradise of All-Souls, where no such confounding demands ever disturbed his beatitude. The good man groaned within himself over the mortification, the labor, the sorrow, which this living was bringing upon him. "If I had but let it pass to Morgan, who wanted to marry," he said with self-reproach; and then suddenly bethought himself of his own most innocent filial romance, and the pleasure his mother had taken in her new house and new beginning life. At that touch the tide flowed back again. Could he dismiss her now to another solitary cottage in Devonshire, her old home there being all dispersed and broken up, while the house she had hoped to die in cast her out from its long-hoped-for shelter? The rector was quite overwhelmed by this new aggravation. If by any effort of his own, any sacrifice to himself, he could preserve this bright new home to his mother, would he shrink from that labor of love?

Nobody, however, knew any thing about those conflicting thoughts which rent his sober bosom. He preached next Sunday as usual, letting no trace of the distressed, wistful anxiety to do his duty which now possessed him gleam into his sermon. He looked down upon a crowd of unsympathetic, uninterested faces, when he delivered that smooth little sermon, which nobody cared much about, and which disturbed nobody. The only eyes which in the smallest degree comprehended him were those of good Miss Wodehouse, who had been the witness and the participator of his humiliation. Lucy was not there. Doubtless Lucy was at St. Roque's, where the sermons of the perpetual curate differed much from those of the rector of Carlingford. Ah me! the rectorship, with all its responsibilities, was a serious business; and what was to come of it yet, Mr. Proctor could not see. He was not a hasty man-he determined to wait and see what events might make of it; to consider it ripely-to take full counsel with himself.

Every time he came out of his mother's pres- conscience supplied all that was wanting. ence, he came affected and full of anxiety to preserve to her that home which pleased her so much. She was the strong point in favor of Carlingford; and it was no small tribute to the good man's filial affection, that for her chiefly he kept his neck under the yoke of a service to which he knew himself unequal, and, sighing, turned his back upon his beloved cloisters. If there had been no other sick-beds immediately in Carlingford, Mrs. Proctor would have won the day.

CHAPTER IV.

If good Miss Wodehouse had been there with her charitable looks, and her disefficiency so like his own, it would have been a consolation to the good man. He would have turned joyfully from Lucy and her blue ribbons to that distressed dove-colored woman, so greatly had recent events changed him. But the truth was, he cared nothing for either of them now-a-days. He was delivered from those whimsical, distressing fears. Something more serious had obliterated those lighter apprehensions. He had no leisure now to think that somebody had planned to marry him; all his thoughts were fixed on matters so much more important that this was entirely forgotten.

Mrs. Proctor was seated as usual in the place she loved, with her newspapers, her books, her work-basket, and silver-headed cane at the side of her chair. The old lady, like her son, looked serious. She beckoned

SUCH a blessed exemption, however, was not to be hoped for. When the rector was solemnly sent for from his very study to visit a poor man who was not expected to live many days, he put his prayer-book under his arm, and went off doggedly, feeling that now was the crisis. He went through it in as exemplary a manner as could have been desired, but it was dreadful work to the rec-him to quicken his steps when she saw him tor. If nobody else suspected him, he suspected himself. He had no spontaneous word of encouragement or consolation to offer; he went through it as his duty with a horrible abstractness. That night he went home disgusted beyond all possible power of self-reconciliation. He could not continue this. Good evangelical Mr. Bury, who went before him, and by nature loved preaching, had accustomed the people to much of such visitations. It was murder to the Fellow of All-Souls.

appear at the drawing-room door, and pointed to the chair placed beside her, all ready for this solemn conference. He came in with a troubled face, scarcely venturing to look at her, afraid to see the disappointment which he had brought upon his dearest friend. The old lady divined why it was he did not lift his eyes. She took his hand and addressed him with all her characteristic vivacity.

"Morley, what is this you mean, my dear? When did I ever give my son reason to distrust me? Do you think I would suffer you to continue in a position painful to yourself for my sake? How dare you think such a thing of me, Morley? Don't say so; you didn't mean it! I can see it in your eyes."

The rector shook his head, and dropped into the chair placed ready for him. He might have had a great deal to say for himself could she have heard him. But as it was, he could not shout all his reasons and apologies into her deaf ear.

That night Mr. Proctor wrote a long letter to his dear cheery old mother, disclosing all his heart to her. It was written with a pathos of which the good man was wholly unconscious, and finished by asking her advice and her prayers. He sent it up to her next morning on her breakfast-tray, which he always furnished with his own hands, and went out to occupy himself in paying visits till it should be time to see her, and ascertain her opinion. At Mr. Wodehouse's there was nobody at home but Lucy, who was very friendly, and took no notice of that sad encounter which had changed his views so entirely. The rector found, on inquiry, that the woman was dead, but not until Mr. lingford. I've no associations with the place. Wentworth had administered to her fully the consolations of the Church. Lucy did not look superior, or say any thing in admiration of Mr. Wentworth, but the rector's

"As for the change to me," said the old lady, instinctively seizing upon the heart of the difficulty, "that's nothing-simply nothing. I've not had time to get attached to Car

Of course I shall be very glad to go back to all my old friends. Put that out of the question, Morley."

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But the rector only shook his head once

more. The more she made light of it, the duty, Morley dear," continued his mother, more he perceived all the painful circum- melting a little, and in a coaxing, persuastances involved. Could his mother go sive tone, "of course I know you will do back to Devonshire and tell all her old ladies it, however hard it may be.” that her son had made a failure in Carlingford? He grieved within himself at the thought. His brethren at All-Souls might understand him; but what could console the brave old woman for all the condolence and commiseration to which she would be subject? "It goes to my heart, mother," he cried in her ear.

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"That's just the difficulty," cried the rector, venturing on a longer speech than usual, and roused to a point at which he had no fear of the listeners in the kitchen ;\" such duties require other training than mine has been. I can't!-do you hear me, mother? and I must not hold a false position; that's impossible."

"Well, Morley, I am very sorry you find "You sha'n't hold a false position," cried it so," said the old lady; very sorry you the old lady; "that's the only thing that is can't see your way to all your duties. They impossible-but, Morley, let us consider, tell me the late rector was very Low Church, dear. You are a clergyman, you know; you and visited about like a Dissenter, so it is ought to understand all that's required of not much wonder you, with your differ- you a great deal better than these people do. ent habits, find yourself a good deal put My dear, your poor father and I trained you out; but, my dear, don't you think it's only up to be a clergyman," said Mrs. Proctor, at first? Don't you think after awhile the rather pathetically," and not to be a Fellow people would get into your ways, and you of All-Souls." into theirs? Miss Wodehouse was here this morning, and was telling me a good deal about the late rector. It's to be expected you should find the difference; but by and by, to be sure, you might get used to it, and the people would not expect so much."

"Did she tell you where we met the other day?" asked the rector, with a brevity rendered necessary by Mrs. Proctor's infirmity. "She told me she's a dear confused good soul," said the old lady-" about the difference between Lucy and herself, and how the young creature was twenty times handier than she, and something about young Mr. Wentworth of St. Roque's. Really, by all I hear, that must be a very presuming young man," cried Mrs. Proctor, with a lively air of offence. "His interference among your parishioners, Morley, is really more than I should be inclined to bear."

Once more the good rector shook his head. He had not thought of that aspect of the subject. He was, indeed, so free from vanity or self-importance, that his only feeling in regard to the sudden appearance of the perpetual curate was respect and surprise. He would not be convinced otherwise even now. "He can do his duty, mother," he answered, sadly.

"Stuff and nonsense!" cried the old lady. "Do you mean to tell me a boy like that can do his duty better than my son could do it, if he put his mind to it? And if it is your

THIRD SERIES. LIVING AGE.

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The rector groaned. Had it not been advancement, progress, unhoped-for good fortune, that made him a member of that learned corporation? He shook his head. Nothing could change the fact now. After 'fifteen years' experience of that Elysium, he could not put on the cassock and surplice with all his youthful fervor. He had settled into his life-habits long ago. With the quick perception which made up for her deficiency, his mother read his face, and saw the cause was hopeless; yet with female courage and pertinacity made one effort more.

"And with an excellent, hard-working curate," said the old lady—“ a curate whom, of course, we'd do our duty by, Morley, and who could take a great deal of the responsibility off your hands; for Mr. Vincent though a nice young man, is not, I know, the man you would have chosen for such a post; and still more, my dear son-we were talking of it in jest not long ago, but it is perfect earnest, and a most important matter-with a good wife, Morley; a wife who would enter into all the parish work, and give you useful hints, and conduct herself as a clergyman's wife should—with such a wife—”

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lively old mother's memory, and how could any reminiscences of that uncongenial locality disturb the recovered beatitude of the Fellow of All-Souls?

Yet all was not so satisfactory as it ap-' peared. Mr. Proctor paid for his temporary

it. His mother sat looking at him in silence, with tears in her lively old eyes. She was saying within herself that she had seen his father take just such a "turn," and that it was no use arguing with them under such circumstances. She watched him, as women often do watch men, waiting till the crea- absence. All-Souls was not the Elysium it ture should come to itself again and might be spoken to. The incomprehensibleness of women is an old theory, but what is that to the curious, wondering observation with which wives, mothers, and sisters watch the other unreasoning animal in those moments when he has snatched the reins out of their hands, and is not to be spoken to! What he will make of it in those unassisted moments afflicts the compassionate female understanding. It is best to let him come to, and feel his own helplessness. Such was Mrs. Proctor's conclusion, as, vexed, distressed, and helpless, she leant back in her chair, and wiped a few tears of disappointment and vexation out of her bright old eyes.

The rector saw this movement, and it once more excited him to speech. "But you shall have a house in Oxford, mother," he cried "you sha'n't go back to Devonshire -where I can see you every day, and you can hear all that is going on. Bravo! that will be a thousand times better than Carlingford."

It was now Mrs. Proctor's turn to jump up, startled, and put her hand on his mouth and point to the door. The rector did not care for the door; he had disclosed his sentiments, he had taken his resolution, and now the sooner all was over the better for the emancipated man.

Thus concluded the brief incumbency of the Reverend Morley Proctor. When he returned to Oxford everybody was glad to see him, and he left Carlingford with universal good wishes. The living fell to Morgan, who wanted to be married, and whose turn was much more to be a working clergyman than a classical commentator. Old Mrs. Proctor got a pretty house under shelter of the trees of St. Giles', and half the undergraduates fell in love with the old lady in the freshness of her second lifetime. Carlingford passed away like a dream from the

had been before that brief, disastrous voyage into the world. The good man felt the stings of failure; he felt the mild jokes of his brethren in those Elysian fields. He could not help conjuring up to himself visions of Morgan with his new wife in that pretty rectory. Life, after all, did not consist of books, nor were Greek verbs essential to happiness. The strong emotion into which his own failure had roused him—the wondering silence in which he stood looking at the ministrations of Lucy Wodehouse and the young curate-the tearful, sympathetic woman as helpless as himself, who had stood beside him in that sick-chamber, came back upon his recollection strangely, amidst the repose, not so blessed as heretofore, of AllSouls. The good man had found out that secret of discontent which most men find out a great deal earlier than he. Something better, though it might be sadder, harder, more calamitous, was in this world. Was there ever human creature yet that had not something in him more congenial to the thorns and briers outside to be conquered, than to that mild paradise for which our primeval mother disqualified all her children? When he went back to his dear cloisters, good Mr. Proctor felt that sting: a longing for the work he had rejected stirred in him a wistful recollection of the sympathy he had not sought.

And if in future years any traveller, if travellers still fall upon adventures, should light upon a remote parsonage in which an elderly, embarrassed rector, with a mild wife in dove-colored dresses, toils painfully after his duty, more and more giving his heart to it, more and more finding difficult expression for the unused faculty, let him be sure that it is the late rector of Carlingford, selfexpelled out of the uneasy paradise, setting forth untimely, yet not too late, into the laborious world.

From The Athenæum.

KING JEROME AND HIS AMERICAN WIFE.
Memoirs and Correspondence of King Je-
rome and Queen Catherine-[Mémoires et
Correspondance du Roi Jérôme et de la Reine
Catherine. Première Partie]. Paris,
Dentu.

grace, varied in Jerome's case by an occasional duel, the folly of which was only to be equalled by its ferocity. The English reader will find as much difficulty in understanding the author's account of the political events of the period as if they were "wars in Flanders." But, as all the political RECENT French trials have given to the events are made subservient to the hero, and early days of King Jerome the interest of serve only as a background and mise-en-scène romance. Jerome was a naughty boy, and for Jerome, to enable him to assume a pose, his naughtiness led him into scrapes which the historical unities are not of much imporhad their comic and their tragic sides. The tance; they bear as much resemblance to law courts of his nephew have, indeed, been actual facts as the cannon's smoke and dead very kind to him, and very hard upon the soldiers represent the battle raging behind beautiful young lady whom he betrayed and the Marquis of Granby on a village signabandoned; but opinion in Europe is not post. Jerome was sent to join the French yet governed by the Code Napoléon; and fleet about to sail under Admiral Gauteaume. hence appears to have arisen a necessity for Jerome was on board the Indivisible. The some further literary defence of Jerome's fleet sailed about for some time up and down conduct, and especially of his engagement in the Mediterranean, without doing any with Elizabeth Patterson. It would almost thing particular, except allowing some of seem as if M. Alexandre Dumas had been their vessels to be captured. Frenchmen selected for this delicate work. The success are not in the least amphibious and the is not great. All the Chinese puzzles ever author's maritime facts are very hazy. The invented, all the hard riddles offered under French fleet sails, in these pages, hither and penalties by the Sphinx, all the hard tasks thither; and the reader will be as perplexed laid upon victims in fairy tales or out of as Nelson if he struggles to understand what them, were easy matters compared to the they are about. difficulty of transforming King Jerome into a hero. In fact, the task is no less than to make something out of nothing: où il n'y rien le roi perd ses droits.

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In the beginning Jerome is presented, in the Dumas fashion, as a student, at the College of Juilly-a spoiled, noisy, troublesome boy, whose escapades are told in the delicate paraphrases to which the French language lends itself so blandly that a foreigner might imagine the chief end for which it was created was to color and soften ugly facts with its delicately tinted epithets. The art of dress is as much shown in the French language as in the French fashions. "Endowed with an agreeable, elegant, and admirable appearance, full of impetuosity, Jerome at fifteen was the spoiled child of the First Consul, whose paternal watchfulness was defeated more than once by the unconsidered acts of this ardent and decided na

Jerome saw his first battle, and was rewarded by being sent home on board the prize Swiftsure, an English vessel captured and brought home in pomp; and on his arrival he received commendation, and the commission of an aspirant of the first-class. Napoleon, however, wrote a significant letter to his brother, expressing a hope that he would give his whole mind to learn his profession; that he would go aloft, learn the different parts of a ship, and suffer no one else to do his work. He expresses a hope that Jerome, in time, will become "aussi agile qu'un bon mousse."

Jerome assisted at the fêtes given to celebrate the brief peace, or rather armistice, which occurred as a lull in the great war. The "éclat incomparable" which, according to the author, these rejoicings shed upon the name of Bonaparte, and the "scènes magiques" which Paris presented to the whole world (for Paris has always understood the The "ardent and decided nature" exhib- art of getting up spectacles), completely ited itself in the ways by which prodigal turned the head of Jerome; he was the fly sons have distinguished themselves from on the chariot-wheel in all his glory; "le time immemorial; an unlimited faculty for trait dominant de son caractère, le sentiment spending money, getting into debt and dis- profond de sa dignité personelle " received a

ture."

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