yielded elsewhere, and it fights here as usual. But our war no more proves our system a failure than the union of shepherds to regulate a companion who undertakes to feed wolves with the sheep proves that shepherds can not live together amicably. dle, that I thought a first-class spermaceti one, turns out "A friend (the Editor's Drawer) once told me that there were as many feet in my poems as a centipede had. I don't think that is fair. If you saw a rose, scented its per fault with it because there were three leaves more on one side of the stem than the other? If a poem is good sense, and reads even tolerably well, is it any the less poetry? Pegasus is not a stalled ox or a livery hack, and we know very well what fate befell those who tethered Apollo's steed to a stone wagon; how, then, can a poet travel like a car-horse in one eternal round of jingle and jangle to suit the tape-measuring soul of some pedant who stands up for spondees and dactyles, etc.? Tell me if rule and compass can make a poet as it does a cabinet-maker, or whether spirituality and ethereality of soul has any part in the former's composition? THE Easy Chair begs pardon for alluding to the brazen Bull from whose mouth the groans of the tortured victims in his bowels issued in music. For in the Cornhill Magazine the Editor, fairly over-fume, and found it pleasing to that sense, would you find come by the stress of manuscript and responsibility, actually sings his sorrows and falls overpowered in rhyme. It is a piteous ditty "To Correspondents." You come upon it without suspicion that it is other than well-ordered prose until the tinkle of the measure piques your curiosity. Thus: "And ah! what mischiefs him environ who claps the editorial tiar on! "Tis but a paper thing no doubt; but those who don it soon find out the weight of lead-ah me, how weary! one little foolscap sheet may carry." The burden of the song is one not unfamiliar to the ears of some of our friends-the innumerable company of the unappreciated. Our ally upon the "hill of Corn" puts the case so pleasantly that the Easy Chair will ask his friends to listen. We have heretofore recorded the hope with which every editor looks out for a coming man. The English editor describes his joy when he sees traces of such a prodigy, and continues: "For that's how geniuses are born to us upon the hill of Corn. Concealed from all the world they lie, in manuscript and modesty; we spy them out as Pharaoh's daughter spied little Moses near the water; and while we gaze, the glorious thing-poet, philosopher, and king, thinker of thoughts that father creeds-rises full-statured through the reeds. Our joy, our hope, our happiness, no common language can express. Ho, boy! bring hither wreaths of roses, one for us and one for Moses. He shall be crowned before we sleep! For now-ah, now we're all a-creep! Our very souls to goo-eflesh turn lest other editors should learn what we have learned, and snatch the prize almost before our hungry eyes. 'Tis but a moment, and we stand before our genius hat in hand: ours, for in chains of gold he's bound!-ours, for with wreaths of CORN he's crowned!There, modest spirit! that's the way we jumped at B and courted A: mere mortal men of art and sense, unspoiled by tinsel or pretense. If what they've done your pen can do, take courage and be courted too. The famous great we count our own; send us, kind Heaven, the great unknown!" And what he says for himself he says for all: "Our table groans, say: well, we own, that hearing it, we also groan. That's natural; but, we declare, we only groan-we never swear. Our great long-suffering is such that really we don't mind it much; and nothing can be more sincere, or serious, or blunt, than we are when we aver that since the wand of office came into our hand we've humbly served whoever sought to do us service: as we ought. But to those geniuses who will persist in torturing us still with odes to Memory; to My Aunt; Lines to X. Y. Z. Ampezant; the Sky-lark; Hints on Etiquette; Thoughts on the Policy of Pitt, the Currency, etc., we most respectfully demur, submitting, what they can not learn too early, that the worm will turn!" WHILE the Easy Chair is enjoying the rhymed humor and good sense of the editor upon the cornéd hill, he is aroused by this pathetic appeal: "DEAR MR. EASY CHAIR,-Won't you give me a little advice? I have read some of your kind remarks to young writers, and know the feeling which prompted them. Perhaps you will deign one glance at my humble appeal. I try to write poetry sometimes, when I feel the divine afflatus, but somehow or other I always get stuck. My can "SOME POETRY. "We hung upon the battle's hem all day To know how fared the fortunes of the day- And those who fled, and those who stood at bay. "Oh that some angel on the field would rise, And madly on the rebel vanguard fall! 'Twas thus we prayed; and, looking to the skies, Hoped that some saint would answer to our call. "No prophet with his flowing garments came, With staff and mien, as Whalley came of old, To bid the timid ones take heart again, And grant renewed courage to the bold.' "This would have been a very nice poem if the writer had not, unfortunately, been in the condition of the man in the Bible, who began to build but was not able to fin ish. E. P. W." This worthy poet, hanging upon the hem of battle and of poetry, has evidently forgotten that the gods help those who help themselves. If you stop the rebels or the Muses, and begin to sigh for a genupon the edge of any kind of battle, whether with eral, To him who hath you are already defeated. it shall be given. If you see that men want a leader, go and lead them. Don't raise your fine eyes to heaven, hoping to see a chariot of fire descending. It is only eyes lifted from the very heart of the strife that ever see such consoling spectacles. You will please to remember that if, on that summer day at Hadley, any stout Puritan had been hanging on the hem of the sharp fight, wondering whether some grand old leader would not come out of the clouds or the hills and help them, Whalley wouldn't have come. They were not looking for him; and he appeared in the midst of them. No leader, worthy to be such, cares to lead men who are so little in carnest that they have time to think of something else than the business in hand. For writing poetry, gentle E. P. W., Philip Sidney long ago gave the only recipe-" Look in thine own heart and write." If you have no heart, or can not look into it, God has not called you to be a poet. "My young friends," said a college President, in his baccalaureate to the proud seniors-"God calls very few of us to be artists, philosophers, poets, or distinguished people of any kind; but he calls every one of us to do our duty." NOBODY but the editor of a newspaper or maga- | zine knows how bold indecency is in thrusting itself upon the public eye. If all the advertisements which are offered should be published, the newspaper would be absolutely prohibited in every decent household. It is quite bad enough as it is, as any man may see upon opening any widely-circulated city newspaper and looking at the columns headed "personal" or "matrimonial." "The young woman in a dark green bonnet who, on Wednesday last, in the Bleecker Street omnibus, about the corner of Broome Street, tripped over the foot of the gentleman in nankeen trowsers, is earnestly requested to communicate her address to Eugene, Union Square P. O. N.B. Cartes de visite exchanged." Why is she to communicate her address? "A young man of untarnished reputation, handsome, who possesses a loving heart and a liberal salary in an A 1 mercantile house, would like to correspond with some virtuous young lady with a view to matrimony." That, of course, is one of the views to which distance lends all the enchantment. "If the gentleman who called on Thursday last at 98 Ninety-ninth Street, in search of a young girl named Amelia, will call on Friday next at 99 Ninety-eighth Street, he will see her there." "A young widow, without encumbrance, is desirous of opening a correspondence with an eligible gentleman under forty, with a view to matrimony." The mask in all these advertisements is so transparent that it is scarcely worth wearing. And where is the line of regard for public propriety which separates such advertisements from those of various resorts which might easily be mentioned? In other words, do editors and the responsible proprietors of newspapers owe nothing to public morality in the matter of advertisements? The plea is that a paper is a public convenience, and that the proprietor can not assume to be a moral censor. But the fact is, that it is a public convenience established for private advantage; and the question is whether, for his own private pecuniary advantage, a man has the right to become a-something which it is very disagreeable to mention. A newspaper is a public bulletin-board, and the proprietor is responsible for what is exposed upon it. Does he not feel his own honor and moral duty involved if obscene books are advertised upon it, or vice is made easier by the publicity it affords? Is it any answer to an outraged public conscience to say that he is not. a moral censor, and that he puts up a bulletin-board for the public convenience? Is it a convenience to the public to have vice made easier? Would it not be a convenience of the same kind if some one, for a proper consideration, should undertake to read to public audiences works which are at present very surreptitiously sold at the various ferry stations in the city? Stickers, who posts all the bills in town, should say that his business was to put up bills, not to determine their moral influence, and should proceed to post the most infamous libels upon the best men and the most prurient information for the worst-if William can read and is a self-respecting man, do you suppose he has no twinges, and although he may continue to post, saying that otherwise his family will have no dinner, do you think that he is not ashamed of himself, and do you say that he is as blameless as if he were hoeing corn? The plea generally urged by newspapers in this matter is simply that, when it is a question of making money, your moral sense may go into abeyance. For look at it. Lovelace, upon the chance of decoying a victim, brings you an advertisement: "A young gentleman of a serious turn, with dark (said to be melancholy) eyes and slightly aquiline nose, in the prime of life, in perfectly easy circumstances, a good musician, highly educated and accomplished, desires to meet a young and (of course) pleasing woman who will make him happy for life; wealth no object, as he has plenty for both; nothing required but youth, loveliness, purity, and devoted love. Address Solomon, at this office." You make the advertiser pay well, perhaps a dollar a line. Out comes the paper and the advertisement. Your daughter, young, romantic, foolish, if you choose, and ready for "a lark," merely for the joke of the thing, replies, guardedly and anonymously. Her reply is answered. She rejoins. It is a piquant game, and Lovelace is a dangerous player. Master of arts, he tries every wile. Interest, curiosity stir in the young woman's breast. So chivalric, so noble, so modest and respectful is Lovelace! It is a strain of old heroic poetry in these baser times. It is as good as Byron. The moment comes-he knows it well-when the carte de visite should come in play. Heavens! what eyes, what curls, what a sad, sweet expression, what a manly air! And so trustful, so courteous, so considerate! At length-ah me!—her own card goes to him. He is desperate player, little girl, and you flutter and coo so knowingly! They meet, of course, at last. They walk by stealth. Oh stolen hours of joy! The cold, cold world frowns upon them, she murmurs. But it is so pleasant to have a friend-a true friend. "A true friend," echoes Lovelace, with the melancholy eyes, in the low, sweet voice. Well, good Sir and proprietor of a newspaper in which you can not affect to be a moral censor, you gain, perhaps, twenty, yes, even thirty dollars for the amusing advertisement, and you lose your daughter. Do you mean to say, then, cries some indignant newspaper, that I am not to advertise Presbyterian meetings because I am an Episcopalian, and not to insert the cards of Allopathic physicians because I am a Homeopath? Must I exclude Bishop Colenso's books from my advertising columns or those of his opponents? Must I refuse money to announce steel collars to the world because I prefer to wear linen? Where is this sort of tomfoolery to stop? The truth is, that a man's moral responsibilities are in no other way changed by his becoming the proprietor of a periodical of any kind than that he has assumed other and weighty duties. Except upon the principle that all is fair in trade, which is Now, gentle newspaper, don't lose your common merely a pleasant exhortation to cheat all you can, sense in a gust of passion. Because it is not a good he will not allow himself as a proprietor, or his pa- thing to drink sulphuric acid, it does not follow that per, to further those things which, as a man and a it is a bad thing to drink ginger-pop. Because no citizen, he is steadily opposing. What right would generous man will direct a gambler to a "hell," it a man have to censure gambling who received mon- is still possible for him to direct a hungry man to a ey for directing the public to gaming-houses? And restaurant, even if the man declare his intention to what better right has a man to assume, in his edito- dine upon fat pork. Would you think yourself rial columns, to be the advocate and friend of public bound to decline to show a lady the way to a threadmorality who, in his advertising columns, helps pub-and-needle store because you had just refused to lic debauchery? Suppose the celebrated William conduct a drunkard to a grog-shop? Let us try to retain common sense in all emergencies, newspaper; and remember that although we may honorably undertake for our own profit to become public conveniences, we can not, for that reason, honorably be come public panders. THE Easy Chair does not know how many readers follow the fortunes of "Romola," as told in these pages by the author of “Adam Bede." He does not remember to have read a single word about it in praise or censure. And yet it is unquestionably a story of great power and skill, and as a historical novel it is quite unsurpassed. gether. He was of the Irish persuasion; and when the Committee had asked him all the questions they could think of, and none of which they could have answered themselves, the candidate entertained us with some recitations of songs of his own composing, and read to us some very fine pieces of poetry that he had written. The Committee were delighted with the smart young man, and were about to employ him, when one of their number upset their intentions by this short but portentous speech: This was enough. The rest hadn't thought of it; but they saw it now, and told the poet to travel. His fate may prove a sad warning to young men who go out West to keep school; they had better say nothing about poetry, lest some wiseacre on the Committee should think them love-cracked. "You're a leetle tu fast, now. There's a good many girls to our schule; and this 'ere fellow is love-cracked. I know he is, 'cause I've allers hearn The scene is laid in Florence at a most interesting tell that when a feller takes to writin' poetry he's period, and the characters are men and women, not love-cracked; and we don't want any love-cracked puppets or shadows. The most conspicuous histor-young fellers a-teachin' our gals." ical personage is Savonarola, but Machiavelli also glides characteristically in and out. Tito Melema, the hero, is a brilliant young Greek, accomplished, fascinating, dextrous, but simply selfish. His character is drawn with great subtlety and skill, and vividly contrasted with the queenly womanhood of Romola herself. The atmosphere of the work is entirely medieval and Italian. It is the result of much patient, sympathetic, and successful study; for only time and persistence could so thoroughly saturate a mind and imagination with the spirit of a life long vanished. And this is the more interesting, as we have before suggested, because it seemed from her previous works as if Miss Evans were so profoundly interested in the social life of to-day that she could not readily turn to a remoter time. But she has turned from the rude Methodist preacher and laborer of modern England to the stately and gorgeous Medicean society of four centuries ago, as the Egyptian magician shows you with equal fidelity, in the same enchanted drop of ink, now the face of your dead mother, and now of a living enemy. For Miss Evans dips her pen in the ink which genius enchants and glorifies. The story of Romola must be finished before long, and in its completed form our readers can then study and admire this noble reproduction of old Italian life. No more careful or complete work of art can be found in all contemporary fictitious literature. Editor's Drawer. A FRIEND in St. Paul, perhaps from the being tolic name to the place of his residence being more than usually given to anecdotes of the clergy, writes to the Drawer that when he was last in the city of Albany he heard a grave and reverend divine give notice of a service to be held in the church of the Rev. Dr. Rodgers, a "Reformed Dutchman," on Pearl Street. He says that one of his Wisconsin clergymen, in the course of a sermon, had occasion to cite an authority, and he referred by name to a gentleman who, he said, was "a citizen of New York, and formerly a Dutchman." Perceiving his blunder, he added, “And as to that matter, I suppose he is yet." THE SOLDIER'S WIFE. Still waits for one who does not come! Watches the kitten's noiseless play; O'erhung by ancient sycamore; She sings her little one to rest; Held warm and close against her breast. Beside her couch she weary kneels, In Camp, near Falmouth, Va. A. B. A CORRESPONDENT of the Drawer says that he was recently at a railroad station where a sergeant was drilling a company of raw recruits. While giving the word of command the train started, and just afterward a dandy-looking chap arrived in time to see the cars off, in which he wished to go. At Our here in Wisconsin, the same brilliant corre- this moment the sergeant was shouting to his men, spondent continues, I was traveling, and spent the "Left! left! left!" The fellow looked around in night at a tavern in the country. A School Com- high dudgeon, and cried out, "If I am left, I can mittee were in session to examine a candidate who whip the best man among you." The drill was a had applied to be the teacher of the school. He merry one for some time after this challenge. proved to be a man of fine education, and of general information far ahead of all the Committee put to A COLD-BLOODED murder was perpetrated in La fayette a few months ago. When the murderer was being tried it was very difficult to get a jury. Many persons were called forward and questioned, but not received. A verdant-looking young fellow was called, and the prosecuting-attorney asked the customary question: "Have you any conscientious scruples which would debar you from bringing in a verdict of guilty, when you knew the punishment to be death ?" "Conscientious scruples! What's them? I don't know what you mean," said the man, with a look of perplexity. The lawyer kindly explained the meaning. "Well, I don't think I'm troubled with consenting scruples, for I think the murderer ought to be hung, and I'm not afraid to say so." He was objected to by the other side, and did not serve as a juror. AN Army Surgeon puts us under obligation by cutting up the following for our service: When we were blockading off Wilmington, North Carolina, a number of contrabands came on board. One of them wore a masonic pin, and our Captain, who is a "G man," was much troubled by this fact, for a slave can not be a free-mason. So he called up the intelligent "contraband," and said, "You are not a mason." "Oh yes, massa, I is. I'se a bricklayer!" AT Fortress Monroe two very fine sun-dials are inserted in the muzzles of two good-sized Columbiads, and mark the time with cannonical accuracy. Some time since a private belonging to a Wisconsin regiment stationed there, wishing to know the time of night, took a lantern and went out to the sundial to try and see it! He couldn't see it. A FEW days ago one of our officers was strolling in the vicinity of Yorktown, and meeting a contraband, asked him where was the ground on which Cornwallis surrendered? "Cornwallis-Cornwallis ?" said the darkey. "Massa, was he de curnel of 139th New York?" "It was a very unfortunate selection of a hymn which our minister made last Sunday," writes a rural correspondent. "He had finished a very good sermon on the vanity of worldly things, when he gave notice: The parties to be joined in marriage will present themselves after we have sung the 225th hymn, beginning, "Mistaken souls, that dream of heaven.'" An old reader of the Drawer says that his conscience troubles him because he does not send a story to help fill up the reservoir of good things, and he begins with this: While I was pursuing a course of geology under a certain Professor, famous for his delight in hectoring and perplexing the students, I had for one of my classmates a fellow who was by no means well read in the dictionary. We had been discussing the peculiarities in the construction of one of the antediluvian animals whose fore-arms were fitted to his body with a ball and socket-joint, allowing them great ease of motion in every direction. "This animal had great freedom of motion in its anterior extremities, had it not ?" said the Professor. "Ya-as," hesitatingly replied Mr. B, who was being questioned. FROM the head-quarters of the Twelfth Michigan Infantry, in Middleburg, Tennessee, we have the following, which our artist ought to have drawn for the Drawer: I was Captain in the First Michigan Infantrythree months' service-and the day of the first battle of Bull's Run the regiment was in Heintzleman's corps, which was on the extreme right. From early morn till about 3 o'clock P.M. we made a forced march; and just after we had crossed Cub Run, and within sight of exploding shells, over the tree-tops, the regiment was halted for a brief period before entering the field. A member of my company, by name Champanois-a tall specimen of a Yankeestood leaning against a tree, perspiration rolling down his cheeks, when your special artist rode past. One of the men remarked, "There goes Harper's 'drawing man;' when Champanois spoke up and says, "I-wish-he'd-draw-my-b-r-e-a-t-h!" A CORRESPONDENT in Delaware writes to the Drawer: Below find a correct copy of a document just filed. Builders receive some very poor specimens of orthography, but not many with only two words spelled correctly. Mesers. haverday Grac, Ma. 28. ateen 63. Deer sur; Cann u enforme mee aboat thee schuner "Polix," thee partys thatt cans hur an how I cann direck tu em, ur du u no uf schuner fur sail thatt will carrey frum 7tey tu Stey tuns, lite draff watter, thatt wil sute 100 an 50tey tu tu 100 tuns an aboat 20thre and haf feat fur grane an lomber, ur une thatt will carrey frum une beem, thatt wil sute fur a lomber schuner tu traid thrugh thee kanawL respeckfuly urse, Captin A FRIEND of ours in New Haven says: Darius Pierson, a resident of our town, was never overburdened with wit, but managed to eke out a living, until one day a relative died, leaving him a few thousands, which, to his perception, was a moderate fortune. The consequence was that Darius took to traveling. Among other towns of note he visited Washington, and honored with his presence both Houses of Congress. On his arrival home many were the questions asked Darius about his travels and visit to Washington. "What did you think of the United States Senate?" said a listener one day. Darius drew himself up to full length, and, big with the importance of the occasion, thus delivered himself: "When I stood in the Senate of the United States and looked down upon the hoary heads there assembled, that beautiful passage of Scripture, we pluribus you none,' came to my mind, and I said, with Job, this is a great country!'" FROM Fort Pulaski, Georgia, we have this by an army correspondent: "Regular army" officers affect, and I believe entertain, a very poor opinion of volunteers, both offi cers and men, and when they come in contact are not always overpolite in their manners toward the citizen soldiery. During a tour made by an Inspecting officer and his staff (all West Pointers), a rather smart-looking Second Lieutenant stepped up to Captain, of theth, and, with a pert air, asked him, "If you had command of a company, marching in column of platoons, right in front, and wished to form line of battle, what order would you give?" The Captain, who knows his "biz" about as well as any one need, said, marking out a diagram in the sand with the point of his sword, "If I had command of a company, marching in column of platoons, right in front, and I wished to form line of battle, what order would I give?" LIEUT. "Yes." CAPT. "Column of platoons? right in front?" LIEUT. "Yes." CAPT. "And wished to form line of battle ?" LIEUT. "Yes." CAPT. "I don't know!" state of things in the country, that I finally asked him if he did not take a newspaper. He seemed a little reluctant to admit that he did not, and said, "Last year I took one, but the boys always quarreled to see who should have it first when it came, and so I stopped it!" "How tediously long you are over that sermon!" said the parson's lady to her husband on his not attending to the dinner-bell; "I could write one in half the time, if I only had the text." "Oh, if that is all you want," said the parson, "I will furnish that. Take this text from Solomon: It is better to dwell in a corner of the house-top than with a brawling woman in a wide house."" "Do you mean me, Sir?" inquired the lady, quick. "Oh, my dear," was the grave response, "you will not make a good sermonizer; you are too soon in your application." We have often heard the story of the wife of the bishop who applied for admission to the private Mr. Regular sheered off at this reply, so naïvely grounds near the Cathedral, and was refused by the volunteered. AND this also: Among our boys there is one Private, who pays little attention to the rights of meum and tuum; in fact, is a great thief. Some time since he was suffering from a severe illness, and, in the opinion of our regimental surgeon, could not long hold out. The materials for his coffin were prepared, as the state of the weather would necessitate a speedy interment. He, however, got wind of what was going on, and, crawling from his bed, while he sent the nurse out for a moment, actually stole the nails intended for making his own coffin! If this is not a sample of the ruling passion strong in death it is next door. A CURLY-HAIRED urchin of not four summers, on seeing Captain Steiner's army balloon during one of its recent ascents at Philadelphia, exclaimed, "Oh, mamma! come look at this big top spinning in the air! I guess it must be God's!" MASTER WILLIE N is a little bright boy of four or five years. Sometimes it becomes necessary for his mamma to administer a little wholesome discipline as a corrective. Last winter, when the diptheria was prevalent in town, Willie was a subject of the disease, just as he was recovering from the measles. He was very sick, and we all feared he must die. His mamma, in a moment of despair, while gazing on the seemingly unconscious form of her darling son, thinking of the cold grave and its tender prey, remarked to her husband, "If Willie only recovers, I'll never whip him again as long as he lives." Willie did recover, and in a short time it appeared that his will was superior to the discipline of a sick bed. He had disobeyed orders and provoked "a settlement." About the time the "smart" was to be inflicted he raised his little, keen, black eyes, and looking straight into the face of his mother, said, "You said if I got well you wouldn't whip me any more." THE last reason for stopping a newspaper is assigned in the following incident sent to the Drawer: I will not give you the name of the town in which I live, for I am ashamed to associate it with the fact I am about to give you. One of my neighbors in conversation discovered so much ignorance of the janitor. “But,” said she, "I am the bishop's lady; let me in." "And I couldn't do it if you were his wife," replied the faithful Cerberus. But that is not equal to the passage between the Rev. Dr. Pearce and the woman who had the care of the Temple Gardens when he was Master there. It is a rule to keep them close shut during divine service on Sundays; but the Doctor being indisposed, and having no grounds attached to his residence save the church-yard, wished to seize the quiet hour for taking a little air and exercise. He accordingly rung the garden bell, and Rachel made her appearance; but she flatly told him she should not let him in, as it was against the orders. "But I am the Master of the Temple," said Dr. P. "The more shame for you," said Rachel; "you ought to set a better example!" The Doctor retired dead beat. "SAY John Sharp is a rogue" is a common expression in England when one wishes to affirm his honesty. A good story and a true one is told as the origin of it. John Sharp, who was afterward Archbishop of York, when a student at Oxford had a chum. One night Sharp was awoke by this chum, who told him he had just dreamed that he (Sharp) would be Archbishop of York. After some time he again awoke him, and said he had dreamt the same, and was well assured he would arrive at that dignity, and asked him to promise, should he ever become. archbishop, to give him a good rectory, which he named. "Well, well," said Sharp, "you silly fellow, go to sleep; and if your dream, which is very unlikely, should come true, I promise you the living." "By that time," said his chum, "you will have forgot me and your promise." "No, no," says Sharp, "that I shall not; but if I do not remember you, and refuse you the living, then say, John Sharp is a rogue." After Dr. Sharp had been archbishop some time, his old friend applied to him (on the said rectory being vacant), and after much difficulty got admitted to his presence, having been informed by the servant that the archbishop was particularly engaged with a gentleman relative to the same rectory for which he was going to apply. The archbishop was told there was a clergyman who was extremely importunate to see him, and would take no denial. |