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Of senates disputing, of battle-fields gory,

Of story and glory and odes laudatory,

He could not have thought less had he been a John Doree.
Much amazed, he beholds all the pomps they bestow

On that Body so long his most pitiless foe;

With the plate on the coffin, the wreaths on the bier,
And the scholar explaining in Latin severe,

That he lived for all races, and died to lie Here.

Saith the Mind, "What on earth are those boobies about?
That black box but contains my lumbago and gout.
Why such pomps to my vilest tormentor assigned,
And what has that black box to do with this Mind?
Hark! They talk of a statue !-of what? not of me?
Can they think that my likeness in marble can be?
Has the Mind got a nose, and a mouth, and a chin?
Is this Mind the old fright which that Body has been?
Is it civil to make me the marble imago

Of the gone incarnation of gout and lumbago?"
Thus the Mind. While the Body, as if for preferment,
Goes in state through the crowd to his place of interment.
Solemn princes and peers head the gorgeous procession.

March the mutes-mourning best, for they mourn by profession;
And so many grand folks, in so many grand carriages,
Were not seen since the last of our royal love-marriages.
A little time more; the black box from men's eyes,
Has sunk under the stone door inscribed "Here he lies!"
And the princes and peers who had borne up the pall—
Undertakers, spectators, dean, chapter, and all—
Leave the church safely locked all alone with its tombs,
And the heir takes the lawyer to lunch in his rooms;
And each lesser great man in the party he'd led,

Thinks, "An opening for me, now the Great Man is dead!"
And the chief of the other wrong half of the nation,
Sheds a tear o'er the notes of a funeral oration;
For the practice of statesmen (and long may it thrive!)
Is to honour their foes-when no longer alive.

In short, every Man-save the Man who knows Town-
Would have said for three days, "This is lasting renown!"
But of lasting renown one so soon becomes weary-
The most lasting I know of is that of Dundreary.

Now the Mind having done with our world's men and things,
High o'er all that know death poised the joy of his wings;
Every moment from light gaining strength more and more,
Every moment more filled with the instinct to soar,
Till he sees, through a new sense of glory, his goal,
And is rapt to the gates which Mind enters as Soul.

CHRONICLES OF CARLINGFORD: THE PERPETUAL CURATE.

PART VIII.-CHAPTER XXV.

MR WENTWORTH got up very early the next morning. He had his sermon to write, and it was Saturday, and all the events of the week had naturally enough unsettled his mind, and indisposed him for sermon-writing. When the events of life come fast upon a man, it is seldom that he finds much pleasure in abstract literary composition, and the style of the Curate of St Roque's was not of that hortatory and impassioned character which sometimes gives as much relief to the speaker as excitement to the audience. So he got up in the early sweetness of the summer morning, when nobody but himself was astir in the house, with the sense of entering upon a task, and taking up work which was far from agreeable to him. When he came into the little room which he used as a study, and threw the window open, and breathed the delicious air of the morning, which was all thrilling and trembling with the songs of birds, Mr Wentworth's thoughts were far from being concentrated upon any one subject. He sat down at his writing-table and arranged his pens and paper, and wrote down the text he had selected; and when he had done so much, and could feel that he had made a beginning, he leaned back in his chair, and poised the idle pen on his finger, and abandoned himself to his thoughts. He had so much to think about. There was Wodehouse under the same roof, with whom he had felt himself constrained to remonstrate very sharply on the previous night. There was Jack, so near, and certainly come to Carlingford on no good errand. There was Gerald, in his great perplexity and distress, and the household at home in their anxiety; and last, but worst of all, his fancy would go fluttering about

VOL. XCV.-NO. DLXXIX.

the doors of the sick-chamber in Grange Lane, longing and wondering. He asked himself what it could be which had raised that impalpable wall between Lucy and himself-that barrier too strong to be overthrown, too ethereal to be complained of; and wondered over and over again what her thoughts were towards him-whether she thought of him at all, whether she was offended, or simply indifferent? -a question which any one else who had observed Lucy as closely could have solved without any difficulty, but which, to the modest and true love of the Perpetual Curate, was at present the grand doubt of all the doubts in the universe. With this matter to settle, and with the consciousness that it was still only five o'clock, and that he was at least one hour beforehand with the world, it is easy to understand why Mr Wentworth mused and loitered over his work, and how, when it was nearly six o'clock, and Sarah and the cook were beginning to stir from their sleep, there still remained only the text written upon the sermon-paper, which was SO nicely arranged before him on the table. "When the wicked man turneth away from the evil of his ways and doeth that which is lawful and right."-This was the text; but sitting at the open window, looking out into the garden, where the birds, exempt, as they seemed to think, for once from the vulgar scrutiny of man, were singing at the pitch of all their voices as they prepared for breakfast; and where the sweet air of the morning breathed into his mind a freshness and hopefulness which youth can never resist, and seduced his thoughts away from all the harder problems of his life to dwell upon the sweeter trouble of that doubt about Lucy,-was not the best means

D

of getting on with his work. He sat thus leaning back-sometimes dipping his pen in the ink, and hovering over the paper for two or three seconds at a time, sometimes reading over the words, and making a faint effort to recall his own attention to them; for, on the whole, perhaps, it is not of much use getting up very early in the morning when the chief consequence of it is, that a man feels he has an hour to spare, and a little time to play before he begins.

Mr Wentworth was still lingering in this peaceful pause, when he heard, in the stillness, hasty steps coming down Grange Lane. No doubt it was some workmen going to their work, and he felt it must be nearly six o'clock, and dipped his pen once more in the ink; but, the next moment, paused again to listen, feeling in his heart a strange conviction that the steps would stop at his door, and that something was going to happen. He was sure of it, and yet somehow the sound tingled upon his heart when he heard the bell ring, waking up echoes in the silent house. Cook and Sarah had not yet given any signs of coming down-stairs, and nobody stirred even at the sound of the bell. Mr Wentworth put down his pen altogether, and listened with an anxiety which he could scarcely account for-knowing, as he said to himself, that it must be the milk, or the baker, or somebody. But neither the milk nor the baker would have dared to knock, and shake, and kick the door as the new arrivals were doing. Mr Wentworth sat still as long as he could, then he added to the din they were making outside by an indignant ring of his own bell; and, finally getting anxious, as was natural, and bethinking himself of his father's attack and Mr Wodehouse's illness, the Curate took the matter into his own hands, and hastened down-stairs to open the door. Mrs Hadwin called to him as he passed her room, thinking it was Sarah, and begging for good

ness gracious sake to know directly what was the matter; and he felt himself growing agitated as he drew back the complicated bolts, and turned the key in the door, which was elaborately defended, as was natural. When he hurried out into the garden, the songs of the birds and the morning air seemed to have changed their character. He thought he was about to be summoned to the deathbed of one or other of the old men upon whom their sons had brought such misery. He was but little acquainted with the fastenings of the garden door, and fumbled a little over them in his anxiety. "Wait a moment and you shall be admitted," he called out to those outside, who still continued to knock; and he fancied, even in the haste and confusion of the moment, that his voice caused some little commotion among them. Mr Wentworth opened the door, looking anxiously out for some boy with a telegram, or other such mournful messenger; but to his utter amazement was nearly knocked down by the sudden plunge of Elsworthy, who entered with a spring like that of a wild animal, and whose face looked white and haggard as he rushed in. He came against the Curate so roughly as to drive him a step or two farther into the garden, and naturally aroused somewhat sharply the temper of the young man, who had already begun to regard him with disagreeable sensations as a kind of spy against himself.

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What in the world do you want at such an early hour in the morning?" cried Mr Wentworth-" and what do you mean by making such a noise? Is Mr Wodehouse worse? or what has happened?" for, to tell the truth, he was a little relieved to find that the two people outside both belonged to Carlingford, and that nowhere was there any visible apparition of a telegraph boy.

"Don't trifle with me, Mr Wentworth," said Elsworthy. "I'm a poor man ; but a worm as is trodden

upon turns. I want my child, sir! -give me my child. I'll find her out if it was at the end of the world. I've only brought down my neighbour with me as I can trust," he continued hoarsely-"to save both your characters. I don't want to make no talk; if you do what is right by Rosa, neither me nor him will ever say a word. I want Rosa, Mr Wentworth. Where's Rosa ? If I had known as it was for this you wanted her home! But I'll take my oath not to make no talk," cried the clerk with passion and earnestness, which confounded Mr Wentworth "if you'll promise to do what's right by her, and let me take her home."

"Elsworthy, are you mad?" cried the Curate" is he out of his senses? Has anything happened to Rosa? For heaven's sake, Hayles, don't stand there like a man of wood, but tell me if the man's crazy, or what he means."

"I'll come in, sir, if you've no objection, and shut the door not to make a talk," said Elsworthy's companion, Peter Hayles the druggist. "If it can be managed without any gossip it'll be best for all parties," said this worthy, shutting the door softly after him. "The thing is, where's Rosa, Mr Wentworth? I can't think as you've got her here."

I don't understand how it is," said the young man, growing red and angry, "that you try so persistently to connect this child with me. I have never had anything to do with her, and I will not submit to any such impertinent suspicion. Leave my house, sir, immediately, and don't insult me by making such inquiries here."

Mr Wentworth was very angry in the first flush of his wrath. He did not think what misery was involved in the question which had been addressed to him, nor did he see for the moment the terrible calamity to Rosa which was suggested by this search for her. He thought only of himself, as was natural, at the first shock-of the injurious and insulting suspicion with which he seemed to be pursued, and of the annoyance which she and her friends were causing him. "What do you mean by rousing a whole household at this hour in the morning?" cried Mr Wentworth, as he saw with vexation, Sarah, very startled and sleepy, come stealing round by the kitchen door.

"You don't look as if you had wanted any rousing," said Elsworthy, who was too much in earnest to own the Curate's authority. "She was seen at your door the last thing last night, and you're in your clothes, as bright as day, and a-wait"She's all the same as my own ing for us afore six o'clock in the child," cried Elsworthy, who was morning. Do you think as I've greatly excited. "I've had her and shut my eyes because it's my clergyloved her since she was a baby. I man?" cried the injured man, pasdon't mean to say as I'd put myself sionately. "I want my little girl forward to hurt her prospects if she was married in a superior line o' life; but them as harms Rosa has me to reckon with," he said, with a kind of fury which sat strangely on the man. "Mr Wentworth, where's the child? God forgive you both, you've given me a night o' weeping; but if you'll do what's right by Rosa, and send her home in the mean time

"Be silent, sir," cried the Curate. "I know nothing in the world about Rosa. How dare you venture to come on such an errand to me?

my little Rosa-as is flesh of my flesh and bone of my bone. If Mr Wentworth didn't know nothing about it, as he says," cried Elsworthy, with sudden insight, "he has a feelin' heart, and he'd be grieved about the child; but he ain't grieved, nor concerned, nor nothing in the world but angry; and will you tell me there ain't nothing to be drawn from that? But it's far from my intention to raise a talk," said the clerk, drawing closer and touching the arm of the Perpetual Curate; "let her come

back, and if you're a man of your word, and behave honourable by her, there shan't be nothing said in Carlingford. I'll stand up for you, sir, against the world."

Mr Wentworth shook off his assailant's hand with a mingled sense of exasperation and sympathy. "I tell you, upon my honour, I know nothing about her," he said. "But it is true enough I have been thinking only of myself," he continued, addressing the other. "How about the girl? When was she lost? and can't you think of any place she can have gone to? Elsworthy, hear reason," cried the Curate, anxiously. "I assure you on my word, that I have never seen her since I closed this garden gate upon her last night."

"And I would ask you, sir, what had Rosa to do at your garden gate?" cried the clerk of St Roque's. "He ain't denying it, Hayles; you can see as he ain't a-denying of it. What was it as she came here for but you? Mr Wentworth, I've always had a great respect for you," said Elsworthy. "I've respected you as my clergyman, sir, as well as for other things; but you're a young man, and human nature is frail. I say again as you needn't have no fear for me. I ain't one as likes to make a talk, and no more is Hayles. Give up the girl, and give me your promise, and there ain't a man living as will be the wiser; Mr Went

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"Hold your tongue, sir," cried the Curate, furious with indignation and resentment. "Leave this place instantly! If you don't want me to pitch you into the middle of the road, hold your tongue and go away. The man is mad!" said Mr Wentworth, turning towards the spectator, Hayles, and pausing to take breath. But it was evident that this third person was by no means on the Curate's side.

"I don't know, sir, I'm sure," said Hayles, with a blank countenance. "It appears to me, sir, as it's an awkward business for all parties. Here's the girl gone, and

no one knows where. When a girl don't come back to her own 'ome all night, things looks serious, sir; and it has been said as the last place she was seen was at your door." "Who says so?" cried Mr Wentworth.

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Well-it was-a party, sir—a highly respectable party-as I have good reason to believe," said Hayles, being a constant customer-one as there's every confidence to be put in. It's better not to name no names, being at this period of the affair."

And at that moment, unluckily for Mr Wentworth, there suddenly floated across his mind the clearest recollection of the Miss Hemmings, and the look they gave him in passing. He felt a hot flush rush over his face as he recalled it. They, then, were his accusers in the first place; and for the first time he began to realise how the tide of accusation would surge through Carlingford, and how circumstances would be patched together, and very plausible evidence concocted out of the few facts which were capable of an inference totally opposed to the truth. The blood rushed to his face in an overpowering glow, and then he felt the warm tide going back upon his heart, and realised the position in which he stood for the first time in its true light.

"And if you'll let me say it, sir," said the judicious Hayles, "though a man may be in a bit of a passion, and speak more strong than is called for, it ain't unnatural in the circumstances; things may be better than they appear," said the druggist, mildly; "I don't say nothing against that; it may be as you've took her away, sir (if so be as you have took her away), for to give her a bit of education, or such like, before making her your wife; but folks in general ain't expected to know that; and when a young girl is kep' out of her 'ome for a whole night, it ain't wonderful if her friends take fright. It's a sad thing for Rosa whoever's taken her away, and wherever she is."

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