Mrs. Peablossom insinuated to her husband, that in her _day_ the “_quality_,” or better sort of people in North Ca’lina, had a prejudice _agin_ being married by a magistrate; to which the old gentleman replied: “None of your nonsense, old lady, none of your Duplin county aristocracy about here, now. The better sort of people, I think you say! Now, you know North Ca’lina ain’t the best State in the Union, nohow, and Duplin’s the poorest county in the State. Better sort of people, is it? _Quality_, eh! Who the devil’s better than we are? An’t we honest? An’t we raised our children decent, and learned them how to read, write and cipher? An’t I _fou’t_ under Newnan and Floyd for the country? Why, darn it! we are the _very best_ sort of people. Stuff! nonsense! The wedding shall go on; Polly shall have a husband.” Mrs. P.’s eyes lit up—her cheek flashed, as she heard “the old North State” spoken of so disparagingly; but she was a woman of good sense, and reserved the castigation for a future curtain lecture. Things were soon arranged for the wedding; and as the old wooden clock on the mantel-piece struck one, the bridal party were duly arranged on the floor, and the crowd gathered round, eager to observe every twinkle of the bridegroom’s eye, and every blush of the blooming bride. The bridesmaids and their male attendants were arranged in couples, as in a cotillion, to form a hollow square, in the centre of which were the squire and betrothing parties. Each of the attendants bore a candle; Miss Tabitha held hers in a long brass candlestick, which had belonged to Polly’s grandmother, in shape and length somewhat resembling “Cleopatra’s needle;” Miss Luvisa bore a flat tin one; the third attendant bore such an article as is usually suspended on a nail against the wall, and the fourth had a curiously devised something cut out of wood with a pocket-knife. For want of a further supply of candlesticks, the male attendants held naked candles in their hands. Polly was dressed in white, and wore a bay flower with its green leaves in her hair, and the whisper went round: “Now _don’t_ she look pretty?” George Washington Hodgkins rejoiced in a white satin stock, and a vest and pantaloons of orange colour; the vest was straight-collared, like a continental officer’s in the revolution, and had eagle buttons on it. They were a fine-looking couple. When everything was ready, a pause ensued, and all eyes were turned on the Squire, who seemed to be undergoing a mental agony, such as Fourth of July orators feel when they forget their speeches, or a boy at an exhibition, when he has to be prompted from behind the scenes. The truth was, Squire Tompkins was a man of forms, but had always taken them from form-books, and never trusted his memory. On this occasion he had no “Georgia Justice,” or any other book from which to read the marriage-ceremony, and was at a loss how to proceed. He thought over everything he had ever learned “by heart,” even to