It is high
summertide. With joy does the awaking publican look forth upon the
blue-misty heavens, and address his adorations to the Sun-god,
inspirer of thirst. Throw wide the doors of the temple of Alcohol!
Behold, we come in our thousands, jingling the coins that shall
purchase us this one day of tragical mirth. Before us is the dark
and dreary autumn; it is a far cry to the foggy joys of Christmas.
Io Saturnalia!
For certain friends of ours this morning brought an event of
importance. At a church in Clerkenwell were joined together in holy
matrimony Robert Hewett and Penelope (otherwise Pennyloaf) Candy,
the former aged nineteen, the latter less than that by nearly three
years. John Hewett would have nothing to do with an alliance so
disreputable; Mrs. Hewett had in vain besought her stepson not to
marry so unworthily. Even as a young man of good birth has been
known to enjoy a subtle self-flattery in the thought that he
graciously bestows his name upon a maiden who, to all intents and
purposes, may be said never to have been born at all, so did Bob
Hewett feel when he put a ring upon the scrubby finger of Pennyloaf.
Proudly conscious was Bob that he a 'married beneath him'--
conscious also that Clem Peckover was gnawing her lips in rage.
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