A profane medicine-chest-looking mahogany case then made its appearance, which, being opened, proved to contain four cut-glass spirit-bottles, labelled respectively, “Rum,” “Brandy,” “Whiskey,” “Gin,” though they were not true inscriptions, for there were two whiskey’s and two brandy’s. A good old-fashioned black-bottomed kettle having next mounted a stand placed on the top bar, Miss intimated to Ben that if they had a few more coals, he need not “trouble to sit up;” and these being obtained, our friends made a brew, and then drew their chairs together to enjoy the feast of reason and the flow of soul; Miss slightly raising Alderman Boozey’s son’s bran-new wife’s bran-new emerald-green velvet dress to show her beautiful white-satin slippered foot, as it now rested on the polished steel fender. The awkwardness of resuming the interrupted addresses being at length overcome by sundry gulphs of the inspiring fluid, our friend Mr. Pringle was soon in full fervour again. He anathematised the lawyers and settlements, and delay, and was all for being married off-hand at the moment. Miss, on her part, was dignified and prudent. All she would say was that Mr. William Pringle was not indifferent to her,—“No,” sighed she, “he wasn’t”—but there were many, many considerations, and many, many points to be discussed, and many, many questions to be asked of each other, before they could even begin to _talk_ of such a thing as immediate—“hem”—(she wouldn’t say the word) turning away her pretty head.