The words were said which never may be unsaid; the twain were one--joy to share together--sorrow to bear together--smooth or rough the path, life’s journey to travel together. A few words from holy lips--a short transit of the dial’s fingers--a blush--perchance a tear--a low response--and heaven or hell, even in this world, was to be their portion. The bridal party turn from the altar. Through the stained windows--under the grand arches--past the fluted pillars, the dim light slants lovingly upon the soft ripples of the young bride’s hair--upon the fleecy folds of her gossamer vail--upon the sheen of her bridal robe; the little satin shoe peeps in and out from under the lustrous folds, whose every rustle is music to Percy’s ear. Hark! Fanny’s lip loses its rose--as she clings, tremblingly, to Percy’s arm. A scuffle--curses--shouting--the report of a pistol--then a heavy fall--then a low groan! “Is he _quite_ dead? Does his pulse beat?” “Not a flutter,” said the policeman, laying the man’s head back upon the church steps. “How did it happen?” “Well, you see, he was intoxicated like, and ’sisted upon coming in here, to see the wedding, though I told him it was a private ’un. Then he muttered something about jail-birds and the like ’o that--intending to insinivate something ag’in me, I s’pose. Well, I took him by the shoulder to carry him to the station-house, and in the scuffle, a loaded pistol he had about him went off; and that’s the end of him. His name is in his hat, there. ‘John Scraggs.’ A ruffianly-looking dog he is, too; the world is none the worse, I fancy, for _his_ being out of it.” * * * * * As at the birth, so at the bridal, Life and Death passed each other on the threshold; new-born love to its full fruition; the still corpse to its long home. There are homes in which Love folds his wings contented _forever_ to stay. Such a home had Fanny and Percy. “The love born of sorrow, like sorrow is true.” MORAL MOLASSES; OR, TOO SWEET BY HALF. The most thorough emetic I know of, is in the shape of “Guide to Young Wives,” and kindred books; as if one rule could, by any possibility, apply to all persons; as if every man living did not require different management (bless me, I did not intend to use that torpedo word, but it is out now); as if, when things go wrong, a wife had only to fly up stairs, read a chapter in the “Young Wife’s Guide,” supposed to be suited to her complaint, and then go down stairs and apply the worthless plaster to the matrimonial sore. Pshaw! as well might a doctor send a peck of pills into a hospital, to be distributed by the hands of the nurse, to any and every male patient brought there, without regard to complaints or constitutional tendencies. I have no patience with such matrimonial nostrums.