While the bridegroom stood threatening an action
            at law
'Gainst the parson who'd made such an awful faux
            pas.

XIV.

His heart 'gainst his ribs beating nickety-knock,
He flew into church, and he looked at the clock,
And he found that the race he had just shaved to
            win it;
For its hands of the hour wanted barely a minute!
He threw on his surplice, and rushed to the altar,
And "Dearly beloved" just managed to falter
Before, as he fancied, the clock had struck twelve,
Which, for that day at least, the proceedings would
           shelve.

XV.

The fatal hour thus closely nicked, our priest
    Went on more calmly to discharge his function;
And, thankful from his fix to be released,
    Performed the service with unwonted unction;
Between the happy pair, before he ceased,
    Acting a kind of "copulative conjunction,"
He riveted, "for better or for worse,"
Those bonds for life a blessing, or a curse!

XVI.

The ceremony ended, they withdrew
    Into the vestry next, to sign the register,
And harmless jests round bride and bridegroom flew,
    As jointly thus they ratify their pledge—a stir
Kept up by bridegroom's men, a jolly crew,
    Whose wits, that wedding morn, with sharpened
            edges stir;
E'en the "late vicar" with their jokes they press
           well,
As all but, à priori, rivalling Cresswell!

XVII.

"Well, let them laugh that win," rejoined the vicar,
     "And in this present race I've not been loser;
George Rodham's self could scarce have done it
           quicker,
     Though mounted upon Mr. Rarey's Cruiser!
Upon the road I didn't stop to 'liquor,'
     But o'er my fences like a bird I flew, sir,
And thanks, at last, to my good mare's assistance,
Contrived by half a head to 'save my distance!'"

XVIII.

"It's varra weel to crack aboot yor mere"
   (Chuckled the clerk, when gone were all the party),
"But if Josh Robinson had not been here,
   A bonny mess there wad hae been, maw sarty!"
"What do you mean, Josh, by that roguish leer?"
   "What div aw mean?" quoth Josh, with grin so
         hearty;
"'Twas close on twelve, sur, when aw started Jock;
So just to gie ye time—aw stopped the clock!"

OLD STORIES RE-TOLD.

THE WRECK OF THE ROTHSAY CASTLE STEAM-
PACKET.

AT ten o'clock on the morning of the 17th of
August, 1831, the Rothsay Castle steamer,
running between Liverpool and Beaumaris and
Bangor, was getting up steam in the Mersey.
The sea had been very rough the night before,
so much so that an American ship towed into
the offing at daybreak had prudently returned
to her former anchorage. But the wind went
down as the day advanced, and though there
was a heavy ground-swell, there was nothing
else to alarm or delay the reckless captain of
the steamer, who had one hundred and fifty
sailors, engineers, and passengers in his care.

Ten o'clock was the proper time of starting,
but the passengers were tardy, and at eleven a
Mr. Foster arrived with his wife, servant, and
carriage. This gentleman had resolved not to
go by the packet, but, finding the steamer not
yet started when he reached the shore, he
changed his mind, and at once embarked. At
nearly half-past eleven the steamer was still
hanging about for dilatory passengers, but a
Mr. Leigh, of Liverpool, then threatening to
report the captain for his unpunctuality, he at
last sullenly yielded. He moved his hand, the
engines heaved and rocked, and the band,
mechanically gay, began playing "Cheer up, cheer
up."

The shore bell rang in petulant haste. There
was much kissing and pressing of hands, and the
plank was drawn in. Soon the shores receded,
and the fluttering handkerchiefs and waving
hands grew too small to be distinguished. As
the forts were passed, the sailors began to get
the steamer ship-shape, coiled away ropes, got
out the sail, arranged the benches, and lowered
the trunks and boxes into the hold.

The passengers were of all classes—Welsh
clergymen, many ladies, London solicitors and
men of business, Liverpool merchants, persons
from Bury, Cheadle, and Rochdale; some
Manchester tradesmen, a Birmingham Quaker,
an American traveller, a Portuguese who had
been secretary to Canning when he was
English ambassador at Lisbon, and a land-agent of
the Earl of Derby. The overworked business
men were eager for the pleasure of the fresh,
vigorous, and highly vitalised sea air, and the
glimpses of Welsh headlands, Welsh sands,
Welsh bays, and Welsh mountains.

On rounding the Black Rock, five miles from
Liverpool, the tide began to flow, and the head
wind settled into a strong and swelling gale.
In the broader water, the steamer seemed to
labour heavily, and to quiver like a frightened
horse, every time a sea struck her full.
Gradually, as the passengers grew sick and
staggered to their cabins, a gloom fell over the
vessel, and many began to listen with a sort of
awe to the louder pulse of the engines, and the
more angry wash of the waves, as the steamer
reeled and struggled on, in a scared, confused
sort of way, past the Floating Light, fifteen miles
from the great Lancashire city. Dinner was
served up in the cabin at three o'clock. The
captain lingered long at dinner, and drank more
than a good officer with a dangerous and
uncertain night before him should have done,
Frightened women began to ask anxiously,
"When shall we reach Beaumaris?" Pale
fathers and husbands only shook their heads
and looked anxiously to windward.

Mr. Tarrey, a land-agent, called down the
cabin stairs:

"Captain, there seems to be a great deal of
danger. I wish you would turn back."

Atkinson, shouted back, "There's a deal of