Our curate, on his road to the rector's house, had to mount and descend several of those lofty hills which lie on the borders of Devonshire. According to the presage of dawn, the morning was cloudless and sultry; and before Mr. Westerwood had walked five miles, he felt almost burned by the sun's fierce rays, and nearly blinded by the white, glaring, and dusty road. Large weeds under the hedges hung their broad leaves flaccidly; and the lately-shorn meadows looked in their bareness as though it had been cruel to rob them of their green defence and leave them parched and cracking beneath the unrelenting solartyranny. In his haste to depart from home, and possess his half-year's salary, our curate had altogether forgotten breakfast, so that his thirst by this time was tormenting. Willingly would he have stopped at some of the cool-looking way-side inns to refresh himself; but, alas, he had no money! He must, therefore, toil on through the hot air, which breathed on him like a furnace, and endeavour to beguile the weary way by thinking of the happiness he should soon convey to his home. "Besides," thought he, "the rector will, doubtless, offer me both meat and drink."

Thus solacing himself, our curate stepped out amain; and in little more than three hours, came within sight of the rectory,-a pleasant house, on a wide and green lawn, dotted with low shrubs and circular patches of flowers, and shaded towards the east by a grove of beechtrees. It was with difficulty he suppressed a rising feeling of envy, on contrasting the fragrant paradise with his own narrow tenement in a close street.

Wiping his brow, and striking with his handkerchief the dust from off his shoes, in order to make the best appearance possible, he rang the gate-bell, and in a little time a powdered and liveried lackey appeared, fresh, trim, careless in face, and plump in person. He wouldn't have walked eleven miles under a July sun; not he. Such things might do very well for poor gentlemen, but were altogether beneath the dignity of a footman.

Our tired curate being admitted, was consigned to the hall, while the menial went to his master. Oh, how Mr. Westerwood enjoyed the grateful coolness of this porch, as he stood waiting to be summoned to Doctor Bruiner! He was glad that the rector was in no haste, as he felt the interval would restore his heated face to its natural colour.

In a short time, our curate was conducted to the library, where the pluralist, in a flowing morning-gown and slippers, sat on his cushioned sofa. Green Venetian blinds, excluding sun, but admitting air, threw a subdued and grateful light over the richly-furnished apartment. A tempting breakfast, odorous with coffee, and lacking not the substantial adjuncts of cold fowl and ham, stood before the doctor, who had no idea of mortifying the flesh. The animal part of our nature seemed to predominate in him, though the perfect whiteness of his thick hair gave him a sanctimonious, if not a reverend look. Snow-white damask, bright silver, and transparent porcelain, made a goodly show on the table. Gladly would Mr. Westerwood have been asked to sit and partake, for he was tired, and hungry, and thirsty.

"You have had a long walk this hot morning, and look rather fatigued," said the rector, "therefore I will not keep you. Let me see," he added, opening a drawer, which, as he drew it forth, made a rattling sound of coin, "I have to pay you ten pounds. Well, then,

here are nine guineas, half a guinea, and sixpence, making the amount. Just sign my memorandum-book, and then, you know, you need not wait longer. You must be anxious to get back to your family.".

Mr. Westerwood took the money, and signed the acquittance, when, mustering up a little courage, he thus fulfilled the purpose of which he had apprised his wife.

"Will you permit me, Doctor Bruiner, to say a few words before I go?"

"Of course,-certainly. What are they?"

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Why, sir," rejoined the curate, "it gives me much pain to say that I find my income inadequate to my wants. My half-yearly payments are always anticipated by debt, from the contraction of which I cannot disenthral myself. I know you will forgive me for thinking, that if I should mention this to you, you would make some little addition to my means, rather than see me thus perplexed."

Doctor Bruiner's countenance suddenly became grave-a symptom which threw his poor curate quite aback.

"Debt!" exclaimed he, with a strong emphasis-" debt!-nothing can be worse than running in debt. You should avoid it in future. Much mischief accrues from it-much unseemly humiliation-especially to men of our cloth."

"But I cannot avoid it," returned Mr. Westerwood, sorrowfully. "My wife and children," added he, with a strong effort to maintain the steadiness of his voice, and prevent it from becoming hysterical— my wife and children would starve."

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"You should eke out your income, Mr. Westerwood, by keeping a school," pithily observed the pluralist.

"I have thought of that, sir," returned our curate; "but you know my house is too small and too mean to receive pupils, and I have no funds to get a better and furnish it adequately." "That is a pity," remarked Doctor Bruiner.

in debt?"

"About nine pounds."

"How much are you

"Indeed! almost all you are now receiving. How, then, do you mean to get on?"

By satisfying the claims against me," returned the curate, “and thus obtaining fresh credit."

"Very bad indeed!" exclaimed Doctor Bruiner, looking (so Mr. Westerwood thought) with an aspect of commiseration at him. "Why, you are only lengthening the links of your chain. You speak, my good sir, of your wife and children. How many children have you? It is not mere curiosity that prompts my inquiry."

This was striking a tender chord, and it was stricken with an appearance of tenderness. The curate's heart heaved and palpitated and swelled under the idea that his hard case was recognised, and that relief would soon be announced. Long-endured sorrow and coming joy were too much for him; his manhood gave way, and tears rolled down his cheeks as he replied,

"I have three daughters, sir-three helpless girls."

"Well," returned the rector, "we cannot call that a large family. I myself have one more child than you."

This was a discouraging remark. Mr. Westerwood did not exactly see its pertinence; he could not perceive what affinity existed

between the rector and his four children, waited on by obsequious servants, living in a handsome house surrounded by gardens, and amused every now and then by change of scene and pleasant diversions, and himself, wife, and three ill-clad girls, cooped up in a dwelling little better than a hovel, and condemned to toil and nevervarying gloom, and the pain of straitened means. Nevertheless, he did not lose all hope. So he stood patiently waiting for what was to come. "Then, Mr. Westerwood, it appears," resumed the rector," that, after your debts are paid, you will have only one pound in ready money for the next half-year, except what you may earn by preaching elsewhere than in my parish."

"No more, sir," replied our curate, again receiving the doctor's words as a favourable omen.

"But," said Doctor Bruiner, "I understand your sermons are very popular. You must therefore be industrious, and get money."

"Industrious!" echoed Mr. Westerwood, as a pardonable consciousness of his own exertions arose within him, "all the town where I officiate knows me for a hard-working man. I hardly ever preach the same sermon twice, and I believe that the sick or the troubled in mind do not call in vain on me for ghostly consolation. Forgive me for talking thus. I spoke unawares. To boast does not become a Christian minister; let me say rather that I strive to fulfil the duties of my calling."

"No doubt, no doubt,” replied the doctor; " and I trust you will be rewarded, if not here, at least in heaven."

"I seek not reward in the common acceptation of the word. My faith teaches me differently," replied Mr. Westerwood. "I want, nevertheless, the common means of life, which, alas, at present I scarcely possess!"

"I am precisely of your opinion," rejoined the pluralist. "But it is as necessary for me to preserve the means of life, as for you to procure them. I humbly thank Heaven that it has given me a heart capable of sympathizing deeply with all my fellow-creatures. I wish to do good to you and to every one; but I must take care of myself. You have children dependent on you; so have I. I repeat that I must take care of myself. Far be it from me, Mr. Westerwood, to put you to the least inconvenience; but, now I think of it, let me tell you that a gentleman has offered to fill the cure you now serve for fifteen pounds a year-one fourth less than I pay you.' "He would starve!" exclaimed the curate. "No," pursued Doctor Bruiner.

"He is a single man, and has a school which he would transfer to the town." "And do you intend to take him?" gasped our curate, bewildered at the unexpected turn the conversation had taken.

"Why, not just at present. I mean to act kindly by you, Mr. Westerwood; therefore you will not be displaced for the next half year. But even when you shall no longer be my curate, you may rely on my doing anything in my power to serve you. Be assured, that to Doctor Bruiner" (he liked sometimes to magnify himself by speaking in the third person) "it will always be a source of gratification to hear of your welfare."

So saying, Doctor Bruiner rose and rang the bell. The poor, almost heart-broken curate took this hint, and, without uttering a syllable,

bowed and left the apartment wherein he had neither taken refreshment nor even sat down. The sleek and pampered footman conducted him along a corridor, through the hall, and across the well-kept and fragrant garden, when he again found himself in the burning road. How should he break such gloomy news to his wife? As he thought of what had passed between him and Doctor Bruiner-of the callous selfishness of which he had been the victim-the wanton raising of his hopes, only that they might be more signally crushed-the cruel and gratuitons inquisition into his affairs-the cold-blooded affectation of sympathy, united with real tyranny gloating on distress-(a cat-like pretence of dalliance ending in laceration)-when he thought of all this, the spirit of Adam was strong within him. But as he reflected on the meekness of Him who bore all wrongs, even the cross, without repining, our curate's resentment was stilled, and he was calm.

What ensued, on his return to his wife and children shall be told in the next chapter.

ANOTHER LEAF FROM MY THEATRICAL RECOLLECTIONS.

BY DRINKWATER MEADOWS.

THEATRICAL salaries are usually paid on Saturday mornings; but we, Stratford-upon-Avon actors, were informed, on the arrival of our first pay-day, that "the ghost would not walk"* until the evening; and, during the performance, Mrs. Manager desired me to call upon her for my salary, the following morning, "after church," as she should pay me herself then, presuming, as she said, it could make no difference to me, and that I should be able to " carry on the war" until that time.

I did not fail to fulfil my engagement; and at the time specified I hastened to the residence of my governess, which was within a few doors of the house where "Sweet Willy Shakspeare" was born. As I approached the residence of my treasuress, I saw her looking out of the parlour window, and, on my reaching it, she held forth her hand, and placed in mine-not twenty-one shillings, but three-only three! I ventured to say, "This is not my salary, ma'am."

"There needs no ghost come from the grave to tell us that, young gentleman," she replied. "I am well aware of it, for your letter of engagement, or rather a copy of it, is now before me, for I am very methodical in my affairs; but Mr. the prompter, stands indebted to me the sum of two shillings and sixpence; as thus, sir-I gave him a sovereign this morning, his salary is seventeen and sixpence per week, he could not give me change, therefore is my debtor. You must wait upon him for the balance due to me; keep it-you will then have received from me five shillings and sixpence; return hither after your dinner, and more money shall be yours. Adieu."

I lost no time, but was prompt in calling upon the prompter for the said two and sixpence, preferring "eating my mutton cold," to losing "the means whereby I (was to) live." He paid me the enormous sum, quoting the words of Charles Surface-" somebody else may call who has a better right to it."

* A very old theatrical term for the paying of salaries.

My dinner over, I repeated my visit to my instalment salary-payer, and received from her five shillings more, with a further command to call upon her in the evening at eight o'clock, when the balance due should be paid in full.

All this appeared very odd to me, especially as the lady could not be receiving money on a Sunday, and I was greatly puzzled to find a reason for my being paid thus by driblets; however, as the town clock struck eight I knocked at her door-" the third time of asking," and was desired by the servant to wait. After a short delay she returned, and handed me four shillings, with "Missess's compliments, and she'll give you the rest of your money to-morrow, at the The-a-ter;" and, sure enough, I did then and there receive it.

I inquired of one of the actors, how it was I had thus received my salary?

"I cannot tell," said he; "she is a very strange lady, as you will find; but be thankful you have received it anyhow. Be happy, and study hard whilst you have money in your purse; for when that shall become empty, you will find it as difficult, my young gentleman, to get words into your head as food into your stomach. We shall have good business, I dare say; but our sovereign lady left so many bills unpaid here last season, which must be paid now, or we can't go on, that I fear we shall not often receive full salaries. But don't despair; eat lightly, drink water, and sit in an old coat in the house, my constant custom in the afternoon.' I have an old acquaintance here with whom I dine nearly every day; on my first coming, he requested I would do so, as he was satisfied a single man could never dine comfortably in a lodging, therefore there would always be a knife and fork for me, and he hoped I would use it as often as I possibly could. And so I do-four days out of the seven, at least. Why, how you stare! I do it upon principle: if he really meant it, of course he must be delighted to see me; and, if he did not, it is a just punishment for his hypocrisy."

"That is capital," I ventured to say.

"Capital, indeed. If you ever have such a chance, don't throw it away."

During our stay in Stratford, an actor in want of an engagement "crossed the company," as travelling from one company to another in search of a situation is called; his name, I think, was Dendale, and as our company was thin, (short of numbers,) he was instantly engaged, to make himself "generally useful"—that is, to do anything and everything. He had very recently left a "sharing scheme, sharing scheme," a sort of bubble, where "share and share alike" was the order of the day-the manager receiving one share for his management, one for his acting, and one for his scenery, books, and wardrobe; one also for his wife, if she were an actress.

In the "palmy days of the drama" sharing schemes flourished, so much at times, as to give eighteen, nineteen, twenty, and occasionally, twenty-five shillings per week to each individual; but the joint-stock company from which our new comrade came had not, he told us, yielded more than four, five, or six shillings per week, although the company was very thin, (not numerous.)

'I heard," said he, "that you were very shy here as to numbers, so I thought I would walk my body over to you, although the rumour