WEARY.

"M sick of the world and its trouble,
I'm weary of pleasures that cloy,
I see through the bright-coloured bubble,
And find no enjoyment in joy.

Is all that we earn worth the earning?
Is all that we gain worth the prize?
Is all that we learn worth the learning?
Is pleasure but pain in disguise?

Is sorrow e'er worth our dejection?
Is life but a snare and a sell?
Is love ever worth our affection?
Le jeu vaut-il, donc, la chandelle?

O where are the eyes that enthralled us,
And where are the lips that we kissed?
Where the syren-like voices that called us,
And where all the chances we missed?

We know not what mortals call pleasure-
For clouded are skies that were blue;
To dross now has melted our treasure,
And false are the hearts that were true.

The flowers we gathered are faded,
The leaves of our laurels are shed;

Our spirit is broken and jaded,

The hopes of our youth are all dead.

A dull, dreary feeling comes o'er us,

That night has o'ershadowed our day;
Bright fruits of this earth only bore us;
They ripen-to fall and decay!

I'm sick of the world and its trouble,
For rest and seclusion I thirst ;
I'm tired of the gay tinted bubble,
That brighteneth only to burst!

CHRISTOPHER KENRICK.

HIS LIFE AND ADVENTURES.

CHAPTER XXX.

A CHAPTER BY THE WAY: CHIEFLY CONCERNING THE REV. PAUL FELTON; BUT ALSO INTERESTING ΤΟ THE FRIENDS AND ADMIRERS OF FATHER ELLIS.

T Hallow once again, amidst "the uncertain glories of an April day." But the changes that the showery month rings upon the fickle winds are not more variable than

our fortunes. Let the following dialogue bear witness: the time is twelve; the scene, the drawing-room which you did me the honour to enter at an early stage of this most veracious history. Myself. Now then, quick, Ellis, before Cissy comes; tell us all about it.

Ellis. (He has insisted that I call him "father" no longer,-that article in the Review, against celibacy, is from my friend's pen.) I will tell you all I know.. The Reverend (Heaven save the mark !) Paul Felton married the Widow Naseby whilst you were in Scotland.

Mrs. Kenrick. Yes, we know that, Mr. Ellis.

Ellis. During the honeymoon, which they spent in Paris, Felton was followed about by a person named White, who had also been in the Church. White turned up everywhere, and made himself excessively disagreeable, irritating and annoying Mrs. Felton immensely. This lasted for a few days; and then, Felton getting angry with his visitor, there was a row, and White, at the table d'hôte of the Grand Hotel, said, "You are a convict and a scoundrel, and I will expose you." He repeated this in French, that nobody should miss the point of the remark. There was a tremendous scene: Mrs. Felton fainted; the men would have fought like English blackguards, but the waiters prevented them. Mr. White disappeared, and so did the Feltons, who went to London, and thence returned home. Mrs. Kenrick. When did all this come out?

Mr. Ellis. A few days ago in the police reports of a Suffolk paper, which I hold in my hand.

Myself. Finish the story, Ellis.

Mr. Ellis. They no sooner got home than the postman brings, post after post, anonymous letters, bearing the Suffolk post-mark, addressed to the "Rev. Paul Fenton, alias Jones, convict, the Rectory, Hallow." These threaten Mr. Felton, that if he does not at once pay a certain sum of money to White, he will be exposed. The end of the story is told by the Reverend Paul Felton himself, who has White arrested, and taken before a Suffolk bench of magistrates and committed for trial at the assizes.

Myself. What an extraordinary case!

Mr. Ellis. White and Felton appear to have had some transactions together in the purchase and sale of benefices (a scandal upon the Church which I hope to see bear good fruit in the Church's own interest), and the settlement of accounts was unsatisfactory to White. Felton had retired from the "business" when he came here, and intended to lead a good and exemplary life. A few months ago White learnt, for the first time, the story of Felton's antecedents, and threatened him with exposure. This, by the way, was the time when he broke off his engagement with Cissy. Soon afterwards, however, he paid White a sum of money to secure silence. In the course of a short time he married Mrs. Naseby. Thereupon, White recommenced his persecutions; Felton paid him extortionate demands in Paris to keep him quiet, and, even after that outburst in the Grand Hotel, made another and a final settlement with him; but the persecution was continued by personal letters and anonymous communications. Mrs. Felton grew alarmed and angry, and upbraided her husband; and, altogether, the poor fellow was in a very miserable state. He started off to London, took counsel's advice, had White arrested, and got him committed for sending threatening and menacing letters. Felton stood up in the witness-box and confessed that his name was Jones; that when he was a deacon he was charged with forging a bill, and sentenced to three years' imprisonment, which he served, afterwards changed his name, got ordained, and is now rector of Hallow. Mrs. Kenrick. Good heavens! What an escape our poor dear Cissy has had.

Myself. I dare say she will believe, now, that he broke off the engagement because he really loved her, and would not run the risk of making her unhappy.

. Mrs. Kenrick. Probably she will, Christopher, and she may do so without forfeiting her title to the most affectionate consideration.

Mr. Ellis. I am myself inclined to think that you have correctly interpreted Felton's conduct with regard to Cissy.

Myself. Generous being! But is there not a crime called simony? Mr. Ellis. There is; and to that the lawyers would not let either Felton or White confess.

Myself. A very pretty story as it stands; and we shall have our friend S. G. O. down upon it, no doubt. The practice of trading in livings is a blot upon Church administration

Mr. Ellis. Which must and shall be wiped out, sir.

[Enter Cissy and BESS.]

Cissy. How do you do, Mr. Ellis? I told Bess you were here. Mr. Ellis. Thank you, my pretty Cissy; you look as fresh as the April daisies, in that morning robe.

Cissy. Thank you, sir; and what do you think of Bess?

Mr. Ellis. (Taking Bess by the hand.) Think she is worthy to be your sister, Cissy.

Cissy. (Curtseying and smiling.) Thank you, again. Mr. Ellis, you must have been to court lately.

Mr. Ellis. No; nor am I in a parlous state. Miss Bessie, there were numerous inquiries for you in the village this morning.

Bess. Indeed; why am I in request ?

Mrs. Kenrick. I know all about it, Bess, and will see the people for you.

Cissy. Pa, when shall you have finished your story?

Myself. Very soon now, my dear.

Cissy. We want you to take us out for a month when you are off what you call the literary treadmill.

Bess. Who would have imagined that father could be so sentimental as he confesses to have been?

Myself. Ellis could have imagined it. You should have heard his reverence talking about you the other evening.

Cissy. What did he say, pa? Tell us all about it.

Bess. Do, father, if you like.

Mr. Ellis. And you may for me.

Myself. No, I will not betray the bashful young lover's confidence. Bess. Mr. Kenrick is going to be facetious, I can see; take me into the garden, Mr. Ellis.

[Exit FATHER ELLIS and BESS, the latter pretending to be very angry, and casting pleasant side glances at MRS. KENRICK.]

Mrs. Kenrick. You should not plague them so much, Christopher. Cissy. Oh, they don't mind it, mamma. Bess likes it; she often says funny things herself to Mr. Ellis. She told him, the other day, if he was only marrying her for the sake of having a nurse in his old

age he had better reconsider his offer, as she could not nurse, and

hated making gruel.

Myself. Bess is an odd creature.

Cissy. She is, indeed.

There she is at the window, beckoning.

Let me go and see what she wants.

[Exit CISSY.]

Mrs. Kenrick. I suppose you have no objection to our people at Hallow having some festivities on Bessie's wedding-day?

Myself. Let me see-when is it?

Mrs. Kenrick. Really, it is too bad of you to forget in this way. On Monday week.

Myself. My darling, I cannot help my memory failing; I am getting into the sear and yellow leaf.

Mrs. Kenrick. I certainly wish your memory were not so defective; the illustrations of that failing are very remarkable in the recent chapters of your professed biography.

Myself. Name them, my dear, name them.

Mrs. Kenrick. Not now; I wish to talk of matters more important. Your lawyer called, when you were out after breakfast, to say that the settlements are ready.

Myself. Yes, all right.

Mrs. Kenrick. And what about the church? Is it to be decorated? and shall we ask Lady Somerfield's brother to assist at the ceremony? Myself. Do whatever you think best, my dear.

Mrs. Kenrick. But I am anxious to know what you wish.

Myself. Nothing more and nothing less than you wish. I should think one parson will be able to marry them; but, if you would like two, you could not have a better fellow than Lady Somerfield's brother. Mrs. Kenrick. And about decorating the church?

Myself. If the school-children wish to do it, let them by all means. Mrs. Kenrick. Mr. Ellis's parishioners are going to present him with a salver, and Bessie with a brooch. The Hallow people are subscribing for a silver tea-service.

Myself. The Hallow people are very kind.

Mrs. Kenrick. I wish Tom could have been here.

Myself. Ah! so do I; but he would have been a tyrant to Ellis. It seems so absurd, Ellis marrying, and Bess, too, for that

matter.

Mrs. Kenrick. I really cannot see it. I have known younger men than Mr. Ellis whose hair has been as white as snow. It is nonsense to call a man of forty-five old.