fixed on the large psyche mirror, rearranging the
classic folds of his toga, and mentally debating
whether his wig had the right Roman severity
of outline. Perhaps the true gust and enjoyment
of the thing came afterwards, when the
fortunate visitor would carelessly allude to "the
other evening when I was behind the scenes at
the Thespian, you know. Ever been behind the
scenes? Not easy to get in there, but it's
awfully good fun."

Mabel, entering the green-room with the
unexpected encounter with Mrs. Hutchins
fresh in her mind, was accosted by a gentleman
whom she already knew slightly; a well-known
musical critic. Behind him stood a young man
in full evening costume, who made Mabel a
profound bow. There was another man in the room
who stood leaning on the mantelpiece, with his
face turned away.

"Allow me to present my friend, Captain
Skidley," said the musical critic—a fussy,
pompous personage—introducing the young
man who had bowed. Then, turning and touching
the other man on the shoulder, he went on:
"I think you two have met before. Miss
Bell, Mr. Alfred Trescott."

SOLDIERS' WEDDINGS

I AM the curate of a large parish. Round
my pretty church the country sweeps away
until it is bounded by a range of many-
coloured hills. The church itself is embosomed
in a grove of beech-trees. On either side of
the porch are ranged some fragments of a more
ancient building: an Anglo-Saxon font of huge
dimensions, a portion of a broken cross, the
remains of a sculptured tomb retaining only an
earnest adjuration that passing strangers should
pray for the dead who once lay beneath. Under
weeping larches is a cluster of costly monuments
"erected by brother-officers to their departed
comrades." How young they have all
died! Some, survived the toils and dangers
of the Indian mutiny to fade away at home.
Others, were cut off suddenly in the pride
of youth and strength. There is a camp
within the boundaries of our parish, and they
escort their dead officers with military pomp
and circumstance to this quiet graveyard.
Too often have we seen the long procession
moving slowly down the hills—the gun-carriage
and its burden; the charger which seems conscious
of its master's death; the firing-party
who, when all the rest is over, startle the air
to the sound of the réveillé, so like the wail of
a spirit struggling to depart. What a world
of idle hopes lies buried here! Regiment after
regiment come and disappear. They leave
the dead and their memorials behind them to
our care. Sometimes, after the lapse of many
years, a soldier comes to view the resting-place
of "the officer of his company." He
has seen much service since he followed his
commander to the grave. He tells me the
story of his life, and much about the captain
who sleeps below. I observe he is pleased
that the moss which will grow round the base
of tombs is trimmed and neatly kept in order,
and that the rose or box tree, which he and his
colour-sergeant planted at the foot, have grown
so well. Seated among these tombs, you would
imagine you were far away from any haunt
of men, all is so still and silent. Yet the roar
of the cannon and the rattling volleys of
musketry awake you from your reverie, and
tell you that behind the hills an army is
manœuvring in mimic warfare.

But it is not of soldiers' graves, but of soldiers'
marriages that I wish to speak. We celebrate
many such marriages in our village church.
It is strange how private soldiers contrive to
gain pretty winsome girls. The brides are not
from our neighbourhood or county. They have
followed their lovers from Manchester, Leeds,
Bristol, and other towns where the regiment
has been quartered. They lodge for a fortnight
or three weeks within the boundaries of the
parish, and then "put up the banns." Marriage
by banns is comparatively inexpensive—it costs
ten shillings at the utmost. Yet sometimes "the
parties "find it hard to make up this sum.
The girl will gladly take service for a month or
two, and save every penny of her wages for the
fee, "to get her soldier," as a blushing creature,
not seventeen years of age, told the rector's
wife last week. Not seldom an angry father or
anxious brother comes to "forbid the banns."
I am powerless to accept their prohibition
unless the girl is under age. I must "put up
the banns," and celebrate the marriage, under
heavy penalties, if the parties are of full years,
and no legal impediment be proved. Should
the girl be under age, she can yet baffle father,
mother, and all her kith and kin, by a very
simple method. She has but to appear before
the registrar with a friend, and state her age,
residence, &c. The registrar transmits the list
of candidates for matrimony to the Poor Law
Guardians. These are landed gentlemen who
seldom know anything of the parties, and who
cannot be expected to attend carefully, while
their clerk reads out a list of from fifty to a
hundred names, all of the lower order. Then
after an interval of a week the registrar performs
the prayerless ceremony in five minutes,
and if there should be perjury in the case, who
is to prosecute, or what is the utility of a prosecution?
The girl has left her home, and her
parents try to make the best of it.

Sometimes the bride and bridegroom are
anything but interesting. I once married a coarse
woman, who wore a man's trousers under her
apology for a gown, and a tremendous pair of
"ammunition boots." Soldiers, especially old
soldiers, sometimes choose a wife, not for show,
but use. A good stout washerwoman, who
is well able to do a turn of hard work and hold
her own, a widow with a few pounds or the
furniture of a room, such charmers seem to
possess strong claims upon the veteran's heart.

Occasionally we have a scene of romance.
Not long ago, a showy damsel, adorned with
chains and trinkets, and rustling in silks and
crinoline, offered my wife fifty pounds if she