Bessy and Fanny Laggers at half-past nine o'clock precisely, as arranged, and I'll meet you there. I shall have to run all the way there and all the way back (I can't afford a cab, I'm afraid), and run all the way into the City afterwards, and leave my poor little wife,-she'll be my wife then, you know," he exclaimed in a moved voice; "and leave my poor little wife" (he lingered fondly over the phrase) "at the church-door with you and Fanny Laggers. Yes, that's what I must do. I should have liked to have worn my new waistcoat on the occasion, I must say; but perhaps I'd better not, I should only have Bopps down on me. And I should have liked to have been married without the chain of Hunker's bank round my waist, like a galley-slave, and without Hunker's bills in my pocket. But that can't be; the bills must be left in the City for acceptance afterwards. Yes; the church at half-past nine to-morrow morning. Be punctual, there's a dear fellow." And he shook my hand fervently, as we parted a little before eleven. Of course we were all punctual. If any thing could have drawn suspicion upon us, it was Fanny Laggers' air of mystery, which was certainly a trifle overdone. Soon we were a trembling little group before the altar. The important ceremony was performed. If I dared, I should like to say,-only in these days so very little seems to make the marriage-tie dissoluble, and perhaps it might be dangerous,—I should like to say that Tom and Bessy were married a good deal more by the parish-clerk than the curate. Certainly I never saw any body so sleepy as was that clergyman that morning. He kept his eyes closed all through, and indulged every now and then in prolonged gapings, such as I have seen nowhere but at the Zoological Gardens in the case of the elephant, when that animal is in expectation of a bun being thrown into his mouth, but which is a long while forthcoming; and was there not also a bedgown-air about that crumpled surplice, rather enhancing the sleepiness of his aspect? Certainly the clerk did it all: found the places in the prayer-book, and then drew us into our places, and then pushed the curate into his place. The latter reminded me rather of an ecclesiastical apparatus, on a barrel-organ principle, entirely under the control of the clerk, who wound up the machine, and touched the Solemnization-of-Holy-Matrimony stop, and straightway the curate struck up that service, just as he would have done the Burial or the Christening had those stops been operated upon by the clerk. Then he hustled us into the vestry, and we signed our names, and he took the curate out of his surplice; and Miss Bessy Jeffs was now Mrs. Thomas Latherstone. And her husband-he had been hot and breathless with running and excitement all through the ceremony-ran off at the top of his speed to the City to leave Hunker's bills for acceptance. Tom had faithfully promised that he would call upon me in the evening. To my surprise, he entered with his wife on his arm, and a paper-bag in his hand. He looked very smart, too, in a glossy hat and a brilliant new canary-coloured waistcoat,-much smarter than he looked in the morning during the performance of the ceremony. He seemed quite radiant with happiness, and Bessy (of course I was still to call her Bessy, she said-how absurd of me!) was blushing beautifully. She had left off her mourning dress for that day. How pretty she was !—the prettiest little woman I think I ever saw-except Matilda. Oh, yes, of course, except Matilda. "I'm a ruined man," said Tom, smiling cheerfully, removing his glossy hat, and patting his glossy hair,-"I'm a ruined man. Allow me to introduce you to my wife, Mrs. T. Latherstone. Oh, you've had the pleasure of meeting her before,-don't laugh, Bessy,-have you indeed?— yes, I'm ruined. I got the sack from Munker at twelve o'clock. Bessy and I have since been down to Greenwich Park. We've brought a bag of shrimps, beautifully fresh, back with us, and we've come to tea." I was rather amazed at the news he brought. "Don't be frightened," he said calmly, "there's no mistake-I'm ruined. I've been in dread of it for some time-now it's come, I don't so much mind it. You see it's pleasant taking the form of Bessy, and I like it rather than not.” "How did Munker find it out?" "Why, in this way. I got back to the City in an awful perspiration. 'Where are yesterday's accepted bills?' he asks, meeting me at the door. 'What a time you've been! Here, read over the amounts from the billbook,-that column. Give me your bills.' I was rather excited and flurried, and very hot. '2482,' says I. 'No!' he says, '2842.' '397,' says I. 'No! 937,' Munker cries out; 'why, you're drunk, sir.' '461,' says I. No!' he yells out, '146.' The fact was, that the figures had commenced to dance round me, and jump up at me, and I couldn't make out their shapes a bit. Then he cries out,' Halloa! what's this? What do you think he had got hold of? In my excitement I'd put it in my bank pocket-book, and forgotten all about it. Why, my marriage certificate! So I was sacked where I stood. You can't think how happy it made me feel; I went and fetched Bessy, first putting on my new waistcoat, and we've been to spend a delightful afternoon at Greenwich ; and here we are for a cup of tea with you, and then we take possession of our suite of apartments at Pimlico." "And how shall you get your living in the future?" "Honestly. I don't know, and I don't care. I'm too happy to bother myself about it. We've got five pounds between us, and we shall live on that until it's all gone, and then-" but he broke off to kiss Bessy; her appearance was so provokingly attractive that I think he was quite justified, and he never resumed the sentence. It must be admitted, it was a frightfully frugal marriage. "This comes of not having a mathematical head," said a stout Fellow of Trinity College, Cambridge, walking up and down very small lodgings at Pimlico before a rather frightened young married couple. "I don't know whether it proceeds most from pluck or from want of brains. Don't cry, my dear; I'm not angry;" and the Rev. Thomas Tobias Bosson kissed Mrs. Thomas Latherstone, and seemed to derive benefit from the proceeding; "but you two can't go on living here upon love, you know, in this absurd way. There, my dear, dry your eyes, there's a good child -girl-woman, I mean. You must come down to Binchcomb-Bishop, and help keep house for me at the wheelwright's, till we can find something to suit Tom. Give me another kiss, to show you've forgiven me." And he muttered afterwards, "Confound him, he's not such a fool as I thought him." It was a strong observation, perhaps, for a rector, but then what could you expect-he was also a Fellow of Trinity College, Cambridge, and of course a bachelor? He was one of the governors, too, of the Knogley branch of the Mottleham Bank. I suppose it was through his interest that Tom obtained, soon afterwards, a situation in that establishment; of which I may say that he is now the manager, a very successful fellow indeed, a happy husband, and father of as beautiful children as are to be found in the country. His uncle has undertaken to provide for all of them, no matter how many there may be,—the more the merrier, he says; and I must say his nephew and niece appear to be taking him at his word. Other Worlds. Other worlds. Those planets evermore On their golden orbits swiftly glide on- Are they like this earth? The glory shed By a race of mortals ? Are there merry maidens, wicked-eyed, Have they silent shady forest-realms, Odorous violets that in grassy nooks hide, Aged oaks and great ancestral elms Growing by the brookside? Does a mighty ocean roar and break On dark rocks and sandy shores fantastic ? Have they landscapes that would set a flat alight Dr. Temple's heresy ? Does their weather change? November fog Weeping April-March with many a raw gust? And do thunder and demented dog Come to them in August? Nineteenth-century science should unravel All these queries, but has somehow missed 'em. When will it be possible to travel Through the Solar System? MORTIMER COLLINS. TEMPLE BAR. SEPTEMBER 1861. WH The Seven Sons of Mammon. A STORY. BY GEORGE AUGUSTUS SALA. CHAPTER XXIII. A MAN WEARING HIS HEART UPON HIS SLEEVE. HO but the genial Frenchman? Who but he? Who but jovial, careless, candid, confiding, simple-minded, good-hearted Simon Lefranc ? He wore his heart upon his sleeve. It was not a handsome sleeve. Indeed, it was somewhat white at the seams, greasy at the elbows, and frayed as to the cuffs and button-holes. Nor was the sleeve beneath it distinguished for whiteness of hue or fineness of texture. But upon this sleeve Simon Lefranc wore his heart; and I should like to know whether that fact did not at once convert a well-worn, and, to tell truth, somewhat shabby, sleeve into one of purple velvet, embroidered with gold and seed-pearls. He had no secrets from any body. He was as open as the day or the Liverpool Free Library. He abhorred disguises. He execrated concealment. He told his simple life-story to all who chose to listen, and expected, although he did not exact, an equal amount of confidence in return. แ Racontez moi votre histoire"-" Narrate to me the events of your life," he would say to chance companions in railways, in steamboats, on the knife-boards of omnibuses, even. Simon was not precisely a fascinating man, yet there was something irresistibly winning in his speech and manner. His persuasive volubility was marvellous. He would have made a fortune as a quack-doctor, a cheap-jack, a popular preacher, a secretary to a charity, or a travelling lecturer on life-assurance. People did tell him their histories. Old gentlemen, almost entirely strangers to him, had revealed to him the investments in which their wealth was placed. VOL. III. L |