Did the poor mocked-at heart divine what might be then enacting?  Perhaps, dimly, as we say:  that is, without eyes.

At an altar stand two fair young creatures, ready with their oaths.  They are asked to fix all time to the moment, and they do so.  If there is hesitation at the immense undertaking, it is but maidenly.  She conceives as little mental doubt of the sanity of the act as he.  Over them hangs a cool young curate in his raiment of office.  Behind are two apparently lucid people, distinguished from each other by sex and age:  the foremost a bunch of simmering black satin; under her shadow a cock-robin in the dress of a gentleman, big joy swelling out his chest, and pert satisfaction cocking his head.  These be they who stand here in place of parents to the young couple.  All is well.  The service proceeds.

Firmly the bridegroom tells forth his words.  This hour of the complacent giant at least is his, and that he means to hold him bound through the eternities, men may hear.  Clearly, and with brave modesty, speaks she:  no less firmly, though her body trembles:  her voice just vibrating while the tone travels on, like a smitten vase.

Time hears sentence pronounced on him:  the frail hands bind his huge limbs and lock the chains.  He is used to it:  he lets them do as they will.

Then comes that period when they are to give their troth to each other.  The Man with his right hand takes the Woman by her right hand:  the Woman with her right hand takes the Man by his right hand.—­Devils dare not laugh at whom Angels crowd to contemplate.

Their hands are joined; their blood flows as one stream.  Adam and fair Eve front the generations.  Are they not lovely?  Purer fountains of life were never in two bosoms.

And then they loose their hands, and the cool curate doth bid the Man to put a ring on the Woman’s fourth finger, counting thumb.  And the Man thrusts his hand into one pocket, and into another, forward and back many times into all his pockets.  He remembers that he felt for it, and felt it in his waistcoat pocket, when in the Gardens.  And his hand comes forth empty.  And the Man is ghastly to look at!

Yet, though Angels smile, shall not Devils laugh!  The curate deliberates.  The black satin bunch ceases to simmer.  He in her shadow changes from a beaming cock-robin to an inquisitive sparrow.  Eyes multiply questions:  lips have no reply.  Time ominously shakes his chain, and in the pause a sound of mockery stings their ears.

Think ye a hero is one to be defeated in his first battle?  Look at the clock! there are but seven minutes to the stroke of the celibate hours:  the veteran is surely lifting his two hands to deliver fire, and his shot will sunder them in twain so nearly united.  All the jewellers of London speeding down with sacks full of the nuptial circlet cannot save them!