r, and given rather a
new turn to the parochial feelings. This event is of such moment, that I
ought, perhaps, to have told you of it at first--but I should have
spoiled my romance, my novel--and what is any writing without a tale in
it worth now-a-days? The Curate, then, is actually married--even since
the termination of the Horae Catullianae.

Miss Lydia, ("alas, false man!" sighed some one,) of the family at
Ashford, is the happy bride. The Curate had unexpectedly come into a
very decent independence; and is, and will be for ever after, according
to the usual receipt, happy.

Since this event, the bouquets have ceased to be laid in the vestry and
the desk. Lydia Prateapace has been heard to say she should not wonder
if all was true after all, and affects to be glad, for propriety's sake,
that they _are_ married. Gadabout runs every where repeating what
Prateapace said; and Brazenstare looks audacious indifference, and once
stared in the Curate's face and asked him how many Misses Lydia there
might be of his acquaintance. My dear Eusebius,

"So goes the world, and such the Play of Life.
This loves to make, and t'other mends a strife;
Old fools write rhymes--the Curate takes a wife."

Yours ever, AQUILIUS.

PROSPER MERIMEE.

Rarely, in these days of profuse and unscrupulous scribbling, do we find
an author giving the essence, not a dilution, of his wit, learning, and
imagination, dispensing his mental stores with frugal caution, instead
of lavishing them with reckless prodigality. Such a one, when met with,
should be made much of, as a model for sinners in a contrary sense, and
as a bird of precious plumage. Of that feather is Monsieur Prosper
Merimee. He plays with literature, rather than professes it; it is his
recreation, not his trade; at long intervals and for a brief space, he
turns from more serious pursuits to coquet with the Muse, not frankly to
embrace her. Willing though she be, he will not take her for a lawful
spouse and constant companion, but courts her _par amours_. The
offspring of these moments of dalliance are buxom and _debonair_, of
various but comely aspect. In two-and-twenty years he has written less
than the average annual produce of many of his literary countrymen. In
several paths of literature, he has essayed his steps and made good a
footing; in not one has he continuously persevered, but, although
cheered by applause, has quickly struck i