Clary was made a wife in the height of summer, with all the rites and
ceremonies of the Church, with all the damasks, and laces, and leadings
by the tips of the fingers, and lavishings of larkspurs, lupins, and
tiger-lilies proper for the occasion, which Dulcie had lost. Nay, the
supper came off at the very "Rod and Fly," with the tap open to the
roaring, jubilant public; a score of healths were drunk upstairs with
all the honours, the bride and bridegroom being king and queen of the
company: even Uncle Barnet owned that Sam Winnington was very
complaisant--rather exceed in his complaisance, he supplemented
scornfully; but surely Sam might mend that fault with others in the
bright days to come. It is only the modern English who act Hamlet
_minus_ the Prince of Denmark; sitting at the bridal feast without bride
or bridegroom. They say hearts are often caught on the rebound, and if
all ill-treated suitors spoke out warmly yet sternly like Sam
Winnington, and did not merely fence about and either sneer or whine,
more young fools might be saved, even when at touch-and-go with their
folly, after the merciful fate of Clary and to the benefit of themselves
and of society.

V.--DULCIE AND WILL, AT HOME IN ST. MARTIN'S LANE.

While Sam and Clarissa were fighting the battles of vanity and the
affections down in the southern shire in quite a rural district, among
mills and ash-trees, and houses with gardens and garden bowers, William
and Dulcie were combating real flesh-and-blood woes--woes that would not
so much set your teeth on edge, as soften and melt your tough, dry
heart--among the bricks and mortar of London. These several years were
not light sunshiny years to the young couple. It is of no use saying
that a man may prosper if he will, and that he has only to cultivate
potatoes and cabbages in place of jessamine and passion flowers; no use
making examples of Sir Joshua and Vandyke, and telling triumphantly that
they knew their business and did it simply--only pretending to get a
livelihood and satisfy the public to the best of their ability, but
ending in becoming great painters. One man's meat is another man's
poison; one man's duty is not his neighbour's. When shall we apprehend
or apply that little axiom? The Duchess of Portland killed three
thousand snails in order that she might complete the shell-work for
which she received so much credit; Dulcie would not have put her foot
voluntarily on a single snail for a pens