shores, and the well-disposed inhabitants dread their coming, as much as Robinson Crusoe did the fortnightly visits of the cannibals. That misguided youth "collided" with them. He "interviewed" them after their performances, and gave specimens of his skill. The next day, all over the club did this son of song renew his impressions of the former evening's entertainment; on the piano, on the harmonium (these instruments, the property of our Philharmonic Society, are always in the rooms), on the shrill whistle, with which a cruel Nature has gifted him, were his maddening melodies repeated. In vain was he remonstrated with, or cursed at, he never would be stopped. At last, I did for him. One Sunday, I was obliged to pass the morning at the club, owing to circumstances over which I had no control. At 1.30 p.m., when I left, I wrote the following in the Suggestion Book.
Programme of Music,
Executed on Sunday morning, November ——, at frequent intervals between the hours of 11 a.m. and 1·30 p.m.
Duet.—Waiter and Marker.— "Just before the Battle."—Christy's Minstrels.
Solo.—Waiter.—Anvil Chorus from "Il Trovatore," with heels of boots accompaniment.—Verdi.
Whistle.—Waiter.—Ditto with Variations.
Harmonium Solo.—Waiter,—Descriptive Piece.—Supposed to represent the weeping and gnashing of teeth of children of sin in Hades. Still going on 1.30 p.m.
When is this intolerable nuisance to be put a stop to? If the cultivation of his musical talents be part of the duties of a club waiter, let him be recommended to the Madrigal Club, or Wandering Minstrels.
That finished him. Sarcasm effected what remonstrances had failed to accomplish. He gave warning next day, and has announced a benefit at the Athenæum, when "The popular baritone, Mr. Tim, will sing several favourite melodies, and go through his surprising performances on the penny whistle." Poor Athenæum! Nevertheless, I will be there!
A PARSON'S NOTES ON MATRIMONY.
FEW subjects have been more frequently written on than marriage, its attendant rites, and the curious anecdotes connected therewith. Except to avowed old maids and determined bachelors, these points must always be interesting, inasmuch as all have either undergone, or hope to undergo, ere long, the initiation which makes them free of that El-Dorado of the affections, matrimony. Apart from all sentimental views, indeed, marriage (and here we lay claim to the eternal gratitude of the fair sex) is, as a matter of the coolest calculation, the best condition of life. Statistics prove that a man has a fair chance of living eleven years longer if he marries, than if he remains a bachelor. In spite of Mill and Malthus and the harsh conclusions of political economy, he will, me judice, largely increase his happiness by so doing; but then my tail has long been cut off, and, of course, my recommendations are always to be viewed with caution. Adages speak of "marrying in haste and repenting at leisure," and tell us that "the marriage day is the morrow of good times;" proverbial philosophy, however (except Mr. Tupper's), is notoriously hostile to marriage. Doubtless, envy drives wretched bachelors to give currency to these sayings; benedicts, from the serenity of their position, can well afford to look down upon such malignant utterances. Marriage is the crown of life, and if any fault is to be found with the education now offered by ladies' colleges, it is a fear lest their tendency be to make their pupils philosophers rather than good wives.
To resume, however; the following anecdotes on marriage the writer believes have not before been printed. Most of them have fallen under his own notice. The usual preliminary to, by far the larger proportion of, marriages is having the banns published. The orthography and infamous writing of many of the notes handed to clergymen on this subject are models of ingenuity. Thus we were once requested to publish the banns of "Lewekretia So and So," which it required some reflection to alter into Lucretia. On another occasion, a burly seafaring man repaired to a curate in the East of London, and delivered his name and that of the lady's, to be duly called over. On the clergyman telling him there was no fee for publishing banns, the man seemed quite disappointed at being married gratuitously, finally invited the clergyman to the nearest public; "and," added he, "I will stand you a glass of brandy to drink our healths." The manners of the inhabitants at that end of London are peculiar; the same clergyman informed us that he had known a parson called into a house to pray to a sick man, and while he was on his knees doing so, his pocket was picked! In Scotland, a swain, Tam by name, came late on Saturday night to the minister to beg him next day to call his banns with Janet. A week afterwards he returned to withdraw them, "as he had a scunner (i. e., a spite, quarrel), against Janet." Janet herself appeared on the third
