been to England visiting his sister, at that
sister's kind invitation, and is come back to Anstruther. Charles has
proposed to her, and been accepted, and has obtained a special licence for
their marriage. He comes back to Anstruther to claim his bride.

If you, my reader, were at this moment greedily perusing a modern novel,
you would here be gratified by a very romantic and touching account, three
or four pages long at least, of the meeting of the two ardent lovers after
a long separation; smiles and tears, sighs and sobs, broken accents,
protestations of eternal love and fidelity, and all that sort of thing.
Here you will find nothing of the kind. I very much doubt myself as to
whether anything of the kind took place in this instance at all; I rather
imagine the meeting was a calm and quietly happy one, without anything
strikingly romantic or stage-like about it. But even suppose there had
been, and that I had been present to see, (which, by the by, would have
been an awkward enough situation for me, or any other third party, to have
found himself in) ought we to have disclosed it? Certainly not; such a
scene, every one knows, ought to be strictly private and confidential
Suffice it then to say, that doubtless both, parties found themselves
extremely comfortable and happy.

Let me now convey you, in thought, backwards one hundred and fourteen
years, and place you in the street of Pittenweem, opposite the Scottish
Episcopal Chapel. We see a crowd; let us inquire what is the occasion of
it.

"What is this crowd collecting for, so early this morning?"

"There's going to be a wedding, ma'am."

"Do you know whose wedding it is?"

"No ma'am, I don't; I'm only here to keep order--nothing else to do with
it."

It is some time since we have seen a wedding, suppose we go into church.
Here we are. We shall have a nice view of them from that front pew in the
gallery. How tastefully the chapel is decorated with foliage and flowers!
Make haste! I hear the carriages coming, that will do. Wait! here they
come, only fancy, it's Christina Cunningham, and--Who? Charles Gordon, I
declare. How nicely he looks in his naval uniform. Then the reports were
all true. Poor Christina! she's very much agitated. I suppose being married
must be rather nervous work. The clergyman who is marrying them is a
relation of the bridegroom's--he's rector of a large parish near
Deptford--how beautifully he reads. And there is our dear old clergyman,