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haps you'd let bygones be bygones, and not make no difference? That wasn't all, Mr. Wentworth," he continued, eagerly, as the curate gave an impatient nod, and turned to go on. "I've heard as this villain is rich, sir, by means of robbing of his own flesh and blood;-but it aint for me to trust to what folks says, after the experience I've had, and—and nobody wouldn't care!" These utternever can forgive myself for being led away," ances, it may be imagined, went to the very said Elsworthy; "it's well known in Car- heart of the errand-boys, who were collected lingford ”— in a circle, plotting how to release Rosa, when Elsworthy, mortified and furious, came back from his unsuccessful assault on the curate. They scattered like a covey of little birds before the angry man, who tossed their papers at them, and then strode up the echoing stairs. If you don't hold your d-d tongue," said Elsworthy, knocking furiously at Rosa's door, "I'll turn you to the door this instant, I will, by -." Nobody in Carlingford had ever before heard an oath issue from the respectable lips of the clerk of St. Roque's. When he went down into the shop again, the outcries sank into frightened moans. Not much wonder that the entire neighborhood became as indignant with Elsworthy as it ever had been with the Perpetual Curate. The husband and wife took up their positions in the shop after this, as far apart as was possible from each other, both resenting in silent fury the wrong which the world in general had done them. If Mrs. Elsworthy · had dared, she would have exhausted her passion in abuse of everybody,—of the curate for not being guilty, of her husband for supposing him to be so, and, to be sure, of Rosa herself, who was the cause of all. But Elsworthy was dangerous, not to be approached or spoken to. He went out about noon to see John Brown, and discuss with him the question of damages; but the occurrences which took place in his absence are not to be mixed up with the present narrative, which concerns Mr. Frank Wentworth's visit to Lucy Wodehouse, and has nothing to do with ignoble hates or loves.
The curate went rapidly on to the green door, which once more looked like a gate of paradise. He did not know in the least what he was going to do or say; he was only conscious of a state of exaltation, a condition of mind which might precede great happiness or great misery, but had nothing in it of the common state of affairs in which people ask each other" How do you do?"
For Heaven's sake, come to the point and be done with it," said the curate. "What is it you want me to do?"
"Sir,” said Elsworthy, solemnly, "you're a real gentleman, and you don't bear no malice for what was a mistake-and you aint one to turn your back on an unfortunate family
and, Mr. Wentworth, sir, you aint a-going to stand by and see me and mine wronged, as have always wished you well. If we can't get justice of him, we can get damages! "cried Elsworthy. "He aint to be let off as if he'd done no harm-and seeing as it was along of you
"Hold your tongue, sir!" cried the curate. "I have nothing to do with it. Keep out of my way, or at least learn to restrain your tongue. No more—not a word more," said the young man, indignantly. He went off with such a sweep and wind of anger and annoyance, that the slower and older complainant had no chance to follow him. Elsworthy accordingly went off to the shop where his errand-boys were waiting for the newspapers, and where Rosa lay up-stairs, weeping, in a dark room, where her enraged aunt had shut her up, Mrs. Elsworthy had shut up the poor little pretty wretch, who might have been penitent under better guidance, but who by this time had lost what sense of shame and wrong her childish conscience was capable of in the stronger present sense of injury and resentment and longing to escape; but the angry aunt, though she could turn the key on poor Rosa's unfortunate little person, could not shut in the piteous sobs which now and then sounded through and through the house, and which converted all the errand-boys without exception into indignant partisans of Rosa, and even moved the heart of Peter Hayles, who could hear them at the back window where he was making up Dr. Marjoribanks's prescriptions. As the sense of injury waxed stronger and
stronger in Rosa's bosom, she availed herself, like any other irrational, irresponsible creature, of such means of revenging herself and annoying her keepers as occurred to her. Nobody ever took no care of me," sobbed Rosa. "I never had no father or mother. Oh, I wish I was dead! I wish I was dead!
Notwithstanding, the fact is, that when looked for something better than gratitude. Lucy entered that dear familiar drawing- Not for any consequences, however much room, where every feature and individual they might be to be avoided, could she be expression of every piece of furniture was as shabby enough to refrain from due acknowlwell known to him as if they had been so edgment of devotion so great. Therefore, many human faces, it was only "How do while the Perpetual Curate was doing all he you do?" that the curate found himself able could to remind himself of his condition, and to say. The two shook hands as demurely to persuade himself that it would be utterly as if Lucy had indeed been, according to the wrong and mean of him to speak, Lucy looked deceptive representation of yesterday, as old up at him,-looked him in the face, with her as Aunt Dora; and then she seated herself blue eyes shining dewy and sweet through in her favorite chair, and tried to begin a tears of gratitude and a kind of generous adlittle conversation about things in general. miration; for, like every other woman, she Even in these three days, nature and youth felt herself exalted and filled with a delicious had done something for Lucy. She had pride in seeing that the man of her unconslept and rested, and the unforeseen misfor-scious choice had proved himself the best. tune which had come in to distract her grief, The curate walked to the window, very had roused all the natural strength that was in her. As she was a little nervous about this interview, not knowing what it might end in, Lucy thought it her duty to be as composed and self-commanding as possible, and in order to avoid all dangerous and exciting subjects, began to talk of Wharfside.
"I have not heard anything for three or four days about the poor woman at No. 10. I meant to have gone to see her to-day; but somehow one gets so selfish when when one's mind is full of affairs of one's own."
Yes," said the curate, "and speaking of that, I wanted to tell you how much comfort your letter had been to me. My head, too, has been very full of affairs of my own. I thought at one time that my friends were forsaking me. It was very good of you to write as you did.”
much as Mr. Proctor had done, in the tumult and confusion of his heart, and came back again with what he had to say written clear on his face, without any possibility of mistake. "I must speak," said the young man ; "I have no right to speak, I know; if I had attained the height of self-sacrifice and selfdenial, I might, I would be silent; but it is impossible now." He came to a break just then, looking at her to see what encouragement he had to go on; but as Lucy did nothing but listen and grow pale, he had to take his own way. What I have to say is not anything new," said the curate, laboring a little in his voice, as was inevitable when affairs had come to such a crisis, "if I were not in the cruelest position possible to a man. I have only an empty love to lay at your feet; I tell it to you only because I am obliged,-because, after all, love is worth telling, even if it comes to nothing. I am not going to appeal to your generosity," continued the young man, kneeling down at the table, not by way of kneeling to Lucy, but by way of bringing himself on a evel with her, wheres he sat with her head bent down on her low chair, "or to ask you to bind yourself to a man who has nothing in the world but love to of fer you; but after what has been for years, after all the hours I have spent here, I cannot-part-I cannot let you go-without a word "—
Upon which there followed another little pause. Indeed, the goodness was all on your side," said Lucy, faltering. "If I had ever dreamt how much you were doing for us! but it all came upon me so suddenly. It is impossible ever to express in words onehalf of the gratitude we owe you," she said, with restrained enthusiasm. She looked up at him as she spoke with a little glow of natural fervor, which brought the color to her cheek and the moisture to her eyes. She was not of the disposition to give either thanks or confidence by halves; and even the slight not unpleasant sense of danger which gave And here he stopped short. He had not piquancy to this interview, made her reso- asked anything; so that Lucy, even had she lute to express herself fully. She would not been able, had nothing to answer; and as suffer herself to stint her gratitude because for the young lover himself, he seemed to have of the sweet suspicion which would not be come to the limit of his eloquence. He kept quite silenced, that possibly Mr. Wentworth | waiting for a moment, gazing at her in breath
less expectation of a response for which his own words had left no room. Then he rose in an indescribable tumult of disappointment and mortification, unable to conclude that all was over, unable to keep silence, yet not knowing what to say.
"I have been obliged to close all the doors of advancement upon myself," said the curate, with a little bitterness; "I don't know if you understand me. At this moment I have to deny myself the dearest privilege of existence. Don't mistake me, Lucy," he said, after another pause, coming back to her with humility, "I don't venture to say that you would have accepted anything I had to offer; but this I mean,-that to have a home for you now, to have a life for you ready to be laid at your feet, whether you would have had it or not; what right have I to speak of such delights?" cried the young man. "It does not matter to you; and as for me, I have patience, patience to console myself with"
Poor Lucy, though she was on the verge of tears, which nothing but the most passionate self-restraint could have kept in, could not help a passing sensation of amusement at these words. "Not too much of that either," she said, softly, with a tremulous smile." But Patience carries the lilies of the saints," said Lucy, with a touch of the sweet asceticism which had once been so charming to the young Anglican. It brought him back like a spell to the common ground on which they used to meet; it brought him back also to his former position on his knee, which was embarrassing to Lucy, though she had not the heart to draw back, nor even to withdraw her hand, which somehow happened to be in Mr. Wentworth's way.
"I am but a man," said the young lover. "I would rather have the roses of life; but, Lucy, I am only a Perpetual Curate," he continued, with her hands in his. Her answer was made in the most heartless and indifferent words. She let two big dropswhich fell like hail, though they were warmer than any summer rain-drop out of her eyes, and she said, with lips that had some difficulty in enunciating that heartless sentiment, "I don't see that it matters to me "Which was true enough, though it did not sound encouraging; and it is dreadful to confess, that for a little while after, neither Skelmersdale, nor Wentworth, nor Mr. Proctor's
new rectory, nor the no income of the Perpetual Curacy of St. Roque's, had the smallest place in the thoughts of either of these perfectly inconsiderate young people. For half an hour they were an emperor and empress seated upon two thrones, to which all the world was subject; and when at the end of that time they began to remember the world, it was but to laugh at it in their infinite youthful superiority. Then it became apparent that to remain in Carlingford, to work at "the district," to carry out all the ancient intentions of well-doing which had been the first bond between them, was, after all, the life of lives;-which was the state of mind they had both arrived at when Miss Wodehouse, who thought they had been too long together under the circumstances, and could not help wondering what Mr. Wentworth could be saying, came into the room, rather flurried in her own person. She thought Lucy must have been telling the curate about Mr. Proctor and his hopes, and was, to tell the truth, a little curious how Mr. Wentworth would take it, and a littlethe very least-ashamed of encountering his critical looks. The condition of mind into which Miss Wodehouse was thrown when she perceived the real state of affairs would be difficult to describe. She was very glad and very sorry, and utterly puzzled how they were to live; and underneath all these varying emotions was a sudden, half-ludicrous, half-humiliating sense of being cast into the shade which made Mr. Proctor's fiancée laugh and made her cry, and brought her down altogether off the temporary pedestal upon which she had stepped, not without a little feminine satisfaction. When a woman is going to be married, especially if that marriage falls later than usual, it is natural that she should expect, for that time at least, to be the first and most prominent figure in her little circle. But, alas! what chance could there be for a mild, dove-colored bride of forty beside a creature of half her age, endued with all the natural bloom and natural interest of youth?
Miss Wodehouse could not quite make out her own feelings on the subject. "Don't you think if you had waited a little it would have been wiser?" she said, in her timid way; and then kissed her young sister, and said, "I am so glad, my darling-I am sure dear papa would have been pleased," with a
sob which brought back to Lucy the grief a distinct sensation of disgust, even in the from which she had for the moment escaped. moment of his triumph-which is one inUnder all the circumstances, however, it may stance of the perennial inequality between well be supposed that it was rather hard upon the two halves of mankind. He had to brace Mr. Wentworth to recollect that he had en- himself up to the encounter of all his people, gaged to return to luncheon with the squire, while she had to meet nothing less delightful and to prepare himself, after this momentous than her own dreams. This was how matters morning's work, to face all the complications came to an issue in respect of Frank Wentof the family, where still Skelmersdale and worth's personal happiness. His worldly afWentworth were hanging in the balance, and fairs were all astray as yet, and he had not where the minds of his kith and kin were al- the most distant indication of any gleam of ready too full of excitement to leave much light dawning upon the horizon which could room for another event. He went away re-reconcile his duty and honor with good fortune and the delights of life. Meanwhile other discussions were going on in Carlingford, of vital importance to the two young people who had made up their minds to cast themselves upon Providence. And among the various conversations which were being
luctantly enough-out of the momentary paradise where his perpetual curacy was a matter of utter indifference, if not a tender pleasantry, which rather increased than diminished the happiness of the moment-into the ordinary daylight world, where it was a very serious matter, and where what the young carried on about the same moment in respect couple would have to live upon became the to Mr. Wentworth,-whose affairs, as was real question to be considered. Mr. Went-natural, were extensively canvassed in Grange worth met Wodehouse as he went out, which Lane, as well as in other less exclusive quardid not mend matters. The vagabond was ters,-it would be wrong too mit a remarkable loitering about in the garden, attended by consultation which took place in the rectory, one of Elsworthy's errand-boys, with whom where Mrs. Morgan sat in the midst of the he was in earnest conversation, and stopped great bouquets of the drawing-room carpet, in his talk to give a sulky nod and "Good- making up her first matrimonial difficulty. morning," to which the curate had no desire It would be difficult to explain what influence to respond more warmly than was necessary. the drawing-room carpet in the rectory had Lucy was thinking of nothing but himself, on the fortunes of the Perpetual Curate; but and perhaps a little of the "great work" at when Mr. Wentworth's friends come to hear Wharfside, which her father's illness and the entire outs and ins of the business, it will death had interrupted; but Mr. Wentworth, be seen that it was not for nothing that Mr. who was only a man, remembered that Tom Proctor covered the floor of that pretty apartWodehouse would be his brother-in-law with ment with roses and lilies half a yard long.
MR. HOTTEN of Piccadilly is about to publish a dictionary of colloquial expressions, giving, where possible, their origin, with instances of their use, which has been in course of preparation for some time by the compiler of the small "Dictionary of Modern Slang," published in 1859. The new book is entitled "The Slang Dictionary; or, the Vulgar Words, Street Phrases, and Fast' Expressions of High and Low Society;" and it will contain, it is said, several thousand words and phrases in daily use, but which are not contained in our English dictionaries.
A LIBERAL CONTRIBUTOR.-A gentleman waited on Douglas Jerrold to ask his aid in behalf of a mutual friend in distress. It was not the first time such an appeal had been made to him for the same person. On this occasion, therefore, the agent was received in any other but a complying humor. "Well," said Jerrold, "how much does owe this time?" "Why, just a four and two noughts will, I think," replied the petitioner, "put him straight.' Well, then, put me down for one of the noughts," said Jerrold.
From The Spectator, 9 July.
MR. COBDEN, in the splendid speech in which, on Tuesday night, he denounced manliness as a crime, called the "balance of 66 a power mere figment," and in the sense in which the phrase is popularly employed he was undoubtedly in the right. When he adds that the idea began with the unsettlement of all things called the Treaty of Vienna," he talks the kind of nonsense to be expected from a man who does not know history; but the blunder affects the influence of his arguments over educated men rather than his arguments themselves. The "balance of power" is a modern phrase; but it has been the governing principle of Europe since the death of Charlemagne,-since, that is, the last successful attempt to revive the imperial system, which looked to a world controlled, or rather guided, by a single chain of ideas, in preference to a world in which all ideas have scope. It is, in fact, the formula invented to defend the independence of separate nations against the revival of the imperial system, which would make them all mere sections of one grand but monotonous whole. Of late years it has, however, been used by statesmen so as to imply only an equality of territorial power, and in that sense it is of course, as Mr. Cobden exclaims, a meaningless figment. Modern political science has proved that mere increase of territory is one of the smallest additions to a nation's active strength. Great Britain of two centuries of successful industry, England a century of Stuart government, a revolution, and an arrest in development of a hundred years, and America the surrender of her most fertile soils to a race who after three hundred years are giving way in every direction before the unimprovable red tribes. Louis XIV. made the attempt, and it cost England twelve years of war and the creation of a national debt, Germany the desolation of two provinces and the elevation of the Hapsburgs to imperial power, Holland her position as a progressive country, and France the awful series of events which, beginning with her great monarch's" death and the Regency, have not ended yet. Napoleon renewed the struggle, and there is not a country in Europe which has fully recovered its effects,-witness our debt, German disunion, the Russian military organization, and the French readiness to bow before the rule of a Cæsar; and the mere fear lest a second Napoleon should once again play this role curses the world with unendurable taxation, turns one per cent. of the European family into soldiers, and makes even Mr. Cobden allow that the British navy must cost us fifteen millions a year.
has not only not increased her territory since 1815, but she is from geographical situation incapable of increase; but her power has more than quintupled. The elevation of an Italian of genius to supreme power indefinitely multiplied for twenty years the inherent resources of France. A discovery made by a spinner tripled within ten years the fighting strength of Great Britain. The lucky hit of an old martinet who thought ramrods might as well be iron as wood doubled in six months the strength of the Prussian line. The life of Cavour was worth whole provinces to Italy; the physicians who murdered him had better have killed an army; and German savans could hardly predict the addition which unity hearty unity-might make to the effective force of the Fatherland. Russia owes more to Peter the Great's reforms than to all his conquests, and the discovery of a great coalfield might do more for Spain than the restoration of all her transatlantic dominion. Suppose the population of France to have multiplied like that of Great Britain, or the people of Denmark like the people of the United States; what would be the worth of territorial treaties? Internal progress alters
The attempt may never be made again, but
the relations of States more rapidly than any treaty or any diplomatic combination, and Spain has fallen and England risen, though both have equally lost their transatlantic possessions.
Thus far the old theory of the balance of power is demonstrably false, and Mr. Cobden in exposing its falsity before diplomatists have obtained the courage to abandon the ancient grooves does a very great public service; but the ancient formula has yet another meaning. It implies, besides a desire for the independence of all existing nations, also, a fear lest any one nation should acquire such strength as to make it temporarily and after great exertions supreme over Europe. That supremacy more or less avowed has from time to time been the object, four or five times the attained object, of a single European power. The authority so acquired has always been obtained by violence, has always so arrested or so crossed the aspirations of its subjects as to stir them to present revolt and an enduring hatred, has never endured for a generation, and has usually brought on the aggressive nation a terrible retribution; but so frightful have been its immediate consequences, so long continued its permanent effects, that far-sighted statesmen have always believed its prevention worth a great European war. Spain nearly obtained it, had the Armada not been dispersed would have obtained it altogether, and her success cost Italy three hundred years of slavery, the Low Countries the accumulations