whether he was wanted for anything more, Sam left the room. ‘Half-past nine--just the time--off at once;’ said the gentleman, whom we need hardly introduce as Mr. Jingle. ‘Time--for what?’ said the spinster aunt coquettishly. ‘Licence, dearest of angels--give notice at the church--call you mine, to-morrow’--said Mr. Jingle, and he squeezed the spinster aunt’s hand. ‘The licence!’ said Rachael, blushing. ‘The licence,’ repeated Mr. Jingle-- ‘In hurry, post-haste for a licence, In hurry, ding dong I come back.’ ‘How you run on,’ said Rachael. ‘Run on--nothing to the hours, days, weeks, months, years, when we’re united--run on--they’ll fly on--bolt--mizzle--steam-engine--thousand- horse power--nothing to it.’ ‘Can’t--can’t we be married before to-morrow morning?’ inquired Rachael. ‘Impossible--can’t be--notice at the church--leave the licence to-day-- ceremony come off to-morrow.’ I am so terrified, lest my brother should discover us!’ said Rachael. ‘Discover--nonsense--too much shaken by the break-down--besides--extreme caution--gave up the post-chaise--walked on--took a hackney-coach--came to the Borough--last place in the world that he’d look in--ha! ha!-- capital notion that--very.’ ‘Don’t be long,’ said the spinster affectionately, as Mr. Jingle stuck the pinched-up hat on his head. ‘Long away from you?--Cruel charmer,’ and Mr. Jingle skipped playfully up to the spinster aunt, imprinted a chaste kiss upon her lips, and danced out of the room. ‘Dear man!’ said the spinster, as the door closed after him. ‘Rum old girl,’ said Mr. Jingle, as he walked down the passage. It is painful to reflect upon the perfidy of our species; and we will not, therefore, pursue the thread of Mr. Jingle’s meditations, as he wended his way to Doctors’ Commons. It will be sufficient for our purpose to relate, that escaping the snares of the dragons in white aprons, who guard the entrance to that enchanted region, he reached the vicar-general’s office in safety and having procured a highly flattering address on parchment, from the Archbishop of Canterbury, to his ‘trusty and well-beloved Alfred Jingle and Rachael Wardle, greeting,’ he carefully deposited the mystic document in his pocket, and retraced his steps in triumph to the Borough. He was yet on his way to the White Hart, when two plump gentleman and one thin one entered the yard, and looked round in search of some authorised person of whom they could make a few inquiries. Mr. Samuel Weller happened to be at that moment engaged in burnishing a pair of painted tops, the personal property of a farmer who was refreshing himself with a slight lunch of two or three pounds of cold beef and a pot or two of porter, after the fatigues of the Borough market; and to him the thin gentleman straightway advanced. ‘My friend,’ said the thin gentleman. ‘You’re one o’ the adwice gratis order,’ thought Sam, ‘or you wouldn’t be so wery fond o’ me all at once.’ But he only said--‘Well, Sir.’