genteel fortune, tied herself for life to Mr Norris of Formby, a gentleman exactly six times her age. In 1769, Miss Ann Nugent of Mountaston, a forward damsel of fifteen, wedded Robert Judge, Esq. of Cortesborough, Kilbeggan, a patriarchal soldier who had received a bullet in his nose fighting for or against William the Silent. A Worcestershire girl, aged fifteen, took a blacksmith ninety years old for better or worse; and even a miserly old hunks, like the Rev. Luke Ember, with fourscore years on his shoulders, found a maiden of fifteen to share his miserable lot. A Berkshire gentleman, finding himself for the third time wifeless, at the age of seventy-six, married a young lady to whom he had stood godfather eighteen years before, making her step-mother to men and women thrice her own age. Among the marriages recorded in the Gentleman's Magazine for 1733 we find, 'Sir John Leigh, Bart. of Addington, Surrey, of three thousand pounds a year, aged near seventy, to Miss Wade, about eighteen, daughter of Mr Wade, apothecary at Bromley, in Kent, who lately cured Sir John of a mortification in his toe;' and, Married, last week, Mr Thomas Gowler, an eminent tailor, grocer, and chandler at Warboys, Hunts, near a hundred years old, to a brisk young widow of the same place, aged thirty. He was so infirm, that it was with great difficulty he got the license out of his pocket, and he several times dropped the ring before he could get it on the lady's finger; but since his marriage, has so greatly recovered as to quit the assistance of his cane.' According to the old saying, for every Jack there is a Jill, and some very ugly Jacks contrive to obtain very pretty Jills. Even Crutchy Jack of Leeds, a man of thirty-six inches, found a spouse; for when he died at the age of sixty-two, he left behind him a widow and four children, the youngest a boy of five. In 1749, a noted Scotch blue-gown, named William Hamilton, after defying female blandishments for eighty years, succumbed to the charms of pretty Jane Lindsay, just out of her teens. He certainly got the best of the bargain, for he is described as having both legs drawn up to his ears, his arms twisted backwards, and almost every part of him out of joint: at any rate, this queer specimen of humanity had to be carried to the 'marriage-house' upon the shoulders of a friendly porter. There is something repulsive in the union of crabbed age and youth, and such matches can hardly be reckoned among heaven-made ones. Of course, there are exceptional cases, like that of the accomplished lady who, of her own free choice, gave her hand, with her heart in it, to a nobleman many years her senior; and when some dissatisfied friend urged that the gentleman was old enough to be her father, answered: 'Oh, if that's all, I'm sure any one would like to marry papa!'

Patience is a very good thing, but, like other good things, folks may have too much of it, as was the case with Robert Philips, brother of the 'Cider' poet, and his lady-love, Anne Bowdier. This faithful pair formed, when young, an attachment quite strong enough to marry upon; but with unexampled deference to the objections of disapproving relatives, were content to carry on their courtship for sixty years, only bringing it to its proper end when death removed the objectors. Then they plucked up courage, and went to church, when each owned to eighty. We can find no parallel to this example of long-enduring love; but we can

cite a few instances of the perpetration of matrimony at an equally advanced stage of life. A wedding once came off in Berkshire between a bride of eighty-three and a bridegroom of eightyfive; the bridemaids were none of them under seventy, and all of them spinsters. Four of the lady's grandsons sang an epithalamium, composed for the occasion by the parish clerk; and half a dozen of the gentleman's grand-daughters strewed flowers before the happy pair of octogenarians. In 1754, Mr Ephraim Thair, aged eighty-five, was married, at Weymouth, to Mrs Mary Kingman, aged seventy-eight. The bridegroom had been a widower just fifteen months, and was then-through his first wife, with whom he had lived sixty years father, grandfather, and great-grandfather to a hundred and fifty-two individuals. Only a year ago, the guardians of a metropolitan parish were astonished by their chairman of the board asking if there was any just cause why two persons receiving outdoor relief should not be joined in holy matrimony. A widower, seventy-five years old, in receipt of a weekly allowance from the parish, had been captivated by a lady one year younger in the same predicament. They were very anxious to wed, but, like a prudent pair, wished, before tying the knot, to be assured against being deprived of the dole they had hitherto enjoyed. One cold-hearted guardian suggested that the couple should be ordered into the House as soon as the ceremony was over; but his colleagues, remembering that they had once been young themselves, had more consideration for the lovers, and agreed that their marriage should make no difference to them as far as the parish was concerned. The last couple had certainly arrived at years of discretion, but they were chickens comparatively to Mr Patrick Stephens and Mrs Barry, who were married at Dublin in 1772, for the former recorded himself a hundred and nine years old, while the bride owned to a hundred and two! The marriage of another centenarian is thus entered in the parochial register of Greenwich: '1685, Nov. 18. John Cooper of this parish, almsman in Queen Elizabeth's College, aged a hundred and eight years, and Margaret Thomas, of Charlton, in Kent, aged eighty years, married by license of the Lord Bishop of Rochester, and leave of the Governors of the Drapers.' entry had soon afterwards a melancholy addendum —‘Õuld Cooper, buried October 31, 1686.'

This

We have not quite done with the old folks yet. In 1769, Mr Boys of Lincolnshire, then upwards of eighty, married a Mrs Air, she being his third wife, and he her third husband. The same year saw a lover of the sex, hailing from Essex, take a girl of eighteen to wife; he being seventy-three when making this his third appearance in the character of bridegroom-his third appearance in twelve months! Sir John Price could not bring himself to part with his wives even after death, and having embalmed two, still shared his bed with them; an arrangement he was obliged, much to his chagrin, to alter when he went wooing again, since the lady he honoured with his well-worn affections refused to become Lady Price until he put her predecessors under ground. Unlike the Irishman who excused his polygamous propensity by saying he was only 'trying to get a good one,' Sir Gervase Clifton was fortunate in his many matrimonial speculations. This many-wived man owned to

having been blessed' seven times in his life, and divided his helpmates into three honourable' maidens, three worshipful' widows, and one 'wellbeloved wife'-the last of his ventures, who had been born under his roof, and waited upon him as a servant ere he made her 'my lady.' Altogether, Sir Gervase's experience of the sex was an uncommon one; each of his wives was nursed in her last illness by her successor expectant, and had signified approval of the match depending upon her departure. The seventh wife outlived her lord. In 1774, an old gentleman of Sudbury was sitting at breakfast with his bride that was to be, before proceeding to church, when he was seized with a fit, and died immediately, just missing becoming a Benedict for the seventh time. In 1770, died Mr Salmon of Hollingbury, Essex, at the age of eighty-four; he had buried nine wives, and left a widow to mourn his loss; and two years afterwards the death was chronicled of a Mr Guy, who had been married fourteen times, yet never been a father.

A soldier who had won and lost five wives, when he departed this life in 1785, left a widow to lament her fourth bereavement. Experienced as she was in wearing the weeds, she was surpassed that way by Dame Scrimshaw

Who lived in the reign of Queen Anne,
And was debonair, buxom, and thrifty;

but when the latter made matters even, by converting Miss Bowles into Mrs Stamford, an extremely odd complication of relationship resulted; as Usher remarks, the women could say: 'These are our fathers, our sons, and our husbands!' Each doctor became father-in-law and son-in-law to the other; while each lady became her step-daughter's stepdaughter, and her step-mother's step-mother, besides standing in the position of mother-in-law to her own father, and being her own grandmother-inlaw! A widower named Harwood had two daughters. One of these married a Mr Chosick, a widower with one daughter; this young lady was persuaded to become Mrs Harwood, and, in course of time, presented her husband with a son, thereby enabling Mrs Chosick to say: 'My father is my son, and I am my mother's mother; my sister is my daughter, and I am grandmother to my brother.' Citizen Finot, President of the Provisional Administration of his department, had the misfortune to lose his wife. She left him two girls to take care of-one her daughter by him, the other her daughter by her first husband. In 1797, the President married his step-child, thus becoming the son-in-law of his dead wife; while he was step-father to his second wife, and brother-in-law to his own daughter; Madame Finot the second on her part becoming her sister's mother; and when some little Finots appeared on the scene, their father was their grand

rhymes-

And died at one hundred and fifty.

Unlike modern lasses, she scorned to wear glasses,
And without them used needle and thread;
As you may all see, without favour or fee,
Although she so long has been dead.

too old."

This wonderful old woman danced before the court a few days before her death, and upon Her Majesty condescending to inquire if she intended to marry again, answered: I think not; I am getting Dame Scrimshaw's allowance of husbands has been exceeded by women who fell far short of attaining her length of days. In 1772, a woman of eighty-five was married at St Clement Danes to her sixth husband. In 1768, there died at Florence one Elizabeth Masi, who had outlived no less than seven spouses, although she had reached her seventieth year when she claimed the priest's good offices for the last time. On her deathbed, this modern rival of the Wife of Bath was puzzled to decide which of her seven partners most deserved to be her companion in death, and after much cogitation and balancing of merits and demerits, solved the delicate question by desiring that she might be laid by the side of her fifth husband. Martha Blewitt, after following eight husbands to the grave, was buried by her ninth in 1681, the disconsolate widower doubtless deriving much consolation from the sermon preached upon the occasion, from the text, 'Last of all, the woman died also!' If St Jerome is to be believed, as of course he is, there once lived a woman who would have laughed at the moderation of those of her sex who stopped at seven or eight husbands; for she buried twenty-one, and then found a man brave enough to become her twenty-second; but he was almost her equal in experience, having enjoyed connubial bliss with twenty fair' ones in

a mother and daughter, making the mother's hus band his brother's father-in-law, and the four made between them a mother and daughter, two brothers, a father-in-law, a mother-in-law, two sisters-in-law, and two brothers-in-law. If the elder lady was blessed with a son, he would have been halfbrother to his aunt; and if the daughter followed suit, her child would have been one uncle's grandson, another uncle's cousin, and nephew to his grandmother. In cross-marrying of this kind lies the key to enigmatical lines inscribed beneath an old family painting preserved in an ancient mansion near Taunton :

Madam-I
pray this one thing me shew,
What you three be, if you them know;
Coming from the castle in such degree,
What's their descent and nativitie?
Sir-The one by my father's side is my brother,
And so is the next in right of my mother;
Third is my own son, lawfully begat,
And all sons of my husband in my lap.

Without hurt of lineage in any degree,
Shew me in reason how this may be?

We must leave our readers to unriddle the mystery for themselves. If ever our lawmakers agree that no affinity, save of blood-relationship, shall be a bar to matrimony, we shall see more bewildering complications still.

turn.

manner of a husband she had married. A stranger story of the same nature is told in the Gentleman's Magazine for 1766. A discovery of a very extraordinary kind was made at Poplar, where two women had lived together for thirty-six years as man and wife, and kept a public-house, without ever being suspected. But the wife happening to fall ill and die, a few days before she expired revealed the secret to her relatives, made her will, and left legacies to the amount of half what she thought they were worth. On appealing to the pretended husband, she at first endeavoured to support her assumed character; but being closely pressed, she at length owned the fact, accommodated all matters amicably, put off the male, and put on the female character, in which she appeared to be a sensible, well-bred woman, though in her male character she had always affected the plain, plodding alehouse-keeper. It is said they had acquired in business three thousand pounds. Both had been crossed in love when young, and had chosen this method to avoid further importunities.' The female widower afterwards prosecuted a man for extorting money from her before the disclosure, by threatening to proclaim her real sex; and proving her case, had the satisfaction of hearing the offender sentenced to four years' imprisonment, and exposure in the pillory. In 1777, a woman was pilloried in Cheapside, and afterwards sent to jail for six months, for dressing herself in male attire, and marrying three women, with whose clothes and money she had decamped at the first opportunity. In 1773, another deceiver courted and wedded an old woman, in hopes of gaining possession of a hundred pounds; but instead of fingering the money, the woman-husband was introduced to the lord-mayor by her cheated spouse, and paid the penalty of detection.

The Rev. David Mackenzie relates an instance of a man getting married unintentionally. Some thirty years ago, a decent couple appeared in church to be married, after due proclamation of the banns. They asked the clergyman to wait a bit; he waited for an hour, and then, at their request, proceeded with the ceremony. He had thought the delay arose from the absence of some expected friend, but the truth was, it was the bridegroom who had failed to put in an appearance; and his brother, who brought the bride to church, unwilling, as he afterwards said, 'to go home, after coming so far, without doing some business, so as to make sure of the young woman,' had, in all innocence, wedded her himself, as proxy for his brother. How the lady and the brothers arranged matters, the reverend gentleman forgets to tell us. Another odd match is noticed by Pepys in one of his letters -a match that, for a time, served to give the folks of London something to talk about more enlivening than the unwelcome war-news of the day. Two rich citizens had died, one leaving his wealth to a Blue-coat boy, the other making a Blue-coat girl his heiress. What could be more proper than that the lucky Blues should unite their fortunes! Neither of them was out of their nonage, but that was not allowed to interfere with the plan. Accordingly, one September day in 1695, the boy, dressed in blue satin, led by two girls; and the girl, arranged in a blue sarsenet gown, green apron, and yellow petticoat, led by two Blue-coat boys, marched from Christ's Hospital, through Cheap side, to Guildhall, where they found the Dean of

St Paul's waiting for them in the chapel. The lord-mayor gave away the bride; Bow bells pealed their best; and everybody concerned adjourned to the school-hall, to take part in an entertainment there in honour of the happy event. Death-bed marriages have now and again been solemnised; but we only know of one instance of a marriage between the living and the dead. We need hardly say it came off in America; such a thing would have been impossible in any other civilised country. In 1856, a young man died, who was engaged to be married. Both he and his intended bride were firm believers in spiritualism; and the lady resolved that, as she could not wed her lover in the flesh, she would marry his disembodied spirit. The ceremony was gone through. How the dead man did his part, we are not informed, but the live woman neither fainted nor faltered. If her example is imitated by the young devotees of spiritualism, there may some day be a difficulty with other spiritual wives than those which excite Yankee ire in Utah.

A CONFIRMED BACHELOR.

CHAPTER III.

SIMKINSON was now only seen in Mole's Buildings during business hours. He took a house in Doughty Street, and furnished it for his young wife in a thoroughly comfortable and substantial style. Mrs Simkinson avoided the city, and never ventured to set foot upon the premises of the firm. She did not even express any curiosity as to the place of business of her husband and his partner. It was understood that she was completely imbued with Simkinson's deep respect for Strangways and his prejudices.

So that, except for the absence of the junior partner at night, things went on much in their old way in Mole's Buildings. Of course, the Salutation had a guest the less to make ready for and welcome to its comforts. As a husband, Simkinson had now home cares and duties to attend to. Besides, he had come rather to dread the Salutation; he was conscious that its staple converse and familiar jokes were no longer for his ears, especially as there was every probability of his being constituted its leading butt and topic. And then his tea and slippers were awaiting him in Doughty Street, not to mention the cordial greetings and caresses of his youthful spouse, on his return from the business of the day.

But altogether, Simkinson's absence was much felt by his city friends and gossips. My uncle said little; but there can be no doubt that the head of the firm greatly missed his junior. He had not valued him, and he did not now profess to set any great store upon him; still, he began to perceive that Simkinson's companionship had been of more service and support to him than he could well afford to dispense with. His remarks lost something of their effect from the dumbness of that familiar echo and assent which Simkinson had been wont so faithfully to supply. Mr Strangways was as a man who had lost a considerable portion of his shadow. He found it rather depressing coming away alone of nights from the tavern to his solitary life in the Buildings. Perhaps, too, he was oppressed by an uneasy suspicion that, after all, Simkinson had not done such a very foolish thing.

Still, my uncle had been so far true to himself and to his word. He was not present at the wedding; he had not visited the bride; he had abstained from paying any of the compliments, or from regarding any of the forms and etiquettes usual under the circumstances. He had given his teapot; and there, as he determined, was an end of the matter. He would go no farther. Certainly, he would keep aloof from Doughty Street, and from all participation in the joys or miseries-as the case might be-of Simkinson's married life. So he was understood to have expressed himself.

It should be stated, however, that my uncle had not been invited to Doughty Street. Oftentimes, Simkinson had considered the subject-had bestowed upon it, indeed, much and painful reflection. Most heartily would he have welcomed to his house the head of the firm-would have felt deeply grateful for a visit from him. But he feared to give offence; he shrunk from the rebuff that seemed to him the inevitable result of any bold proffer of hospitality on his part. At the same time, he accused himself of cowardice, and of some show of disregard for his partner in this respect. He was a kind man and a generous. The happiness he now enjoyed-and there could be no doubt that he was supremely happy-he would gladly have shared, so far as he might, with his old comrade. He longed to admit him to the joys of Doughty Street. He looked forward anxiously-as to an event so felicitous that it was almost presumption to hope for its ever really occurring-to some day seeing old Joseph Strangways' legs under the Simkinson mahogany. Perhaps for man is not perfect-there was just a grain of the mildest malice in this solicitude. It might be that he desired to make manifest his happiness, and the refutation it afforded of Strangways' sinister opinions concerning a married life. Simkinson was content to forget the support he had once given to these acrid sentiments.

He took heart at last.

'Strangways,' he said one morning, coughing timidly as he spoke, and with an embarrassed expression upon his face, it is my birthday on Wednesday. We always used to have a little celebration of it. Don't let us give up the old custom. Come and dine with us in Doughty Street.'

'What does your wife say?' my uncle inquired rather grimly.

'She joins me in asking you. She'll be delighted to see you.'

My uncle took a huge pinch of snuff with extreme deliberation, eyeing his partner the while severely.

'Getting tired of her society, and want to fall back upon mine, eh ?'

Simkinson waived reply to this question. It will give us both very great pleasure if you will honour us with your company?

This is the first time you've invited me, Simkinson,' said my uncle, and you've been married now some months.'

he had not paid this compliment. At the same time, he felt persuaded that if he had, my uncle, in all probability, would have resented it, and regarded it unpleasantly.

There'll only be ourselves,' he said after a pause.

Ashamed to introduce me to your West-end friends?' My uncle considered the neighbourhood of Doughty Street as pretentiously fashionable and aristocratic.

'Don't say such things as that, Strangways; please, don't,' said the junior partner in a hurt tone. 'What will you give me for dinner?' 'Anything you like.'

No soup or fish nonsense, then. A plain boiled leg of mutton and turnips?' 'Certainly.'

'And a rolly-poly pudding?'
'By all means.'
'And a glass of hot
'Most decidedly.'

grog afterwards?'

'I think I'll come, then,' said my uncle, after some moments of grave reflection. He felt, perhaps, that he was sacrificing his character for consistency. He could not do this without effort. Presently he added: 'You really mean it? You were not counting upon my refusal ?' 'Of course not, Strangways.'

'Well, if you were, I'll disappoint you; for I'll come.'

'And we'll have a pleasant evening. At any rate, we'll do all we can to make you comfortable. 'Mind,' resumed my uncle, 'I'll have no greengrocer in Berlin gloves hanging on to the back of my chair, and breathing hard into the nape of my neck. No genteel tomfoolery of that kind, Simkinson.'

'Of course not. We've a neat handy parlourmaid, who does all that's necessary in the way of waiting.'

'I hope her cap ribbons ain't too streaming, or made up into too many bows?'

'I think she's moderate as to cap ribbons.' "Is she pretty?'

'Well, really. Yes. Perhaps she might be called pretty.'

Then, mark my words, Simkinson : your wife will soon give her warning. And you mind what you're about with that parlour-maid, or you'll catch it. It's plain to me that you're no better than a Lothario, for all your gray hair.'

This was spoken fiercely, and fortified by an oath; but it was meant jocosely. Simkinson so understood it, and in high good-humour laughed heartily. My uncle's eyes twinkled curiously, and he chuckled audibly as he retreated to his private room. There he took snuff, prodigiously waving about his brilliant-hued handkerchief, as though it had been a flag of victory. He had no triumph to boast of in the matter, however, save over himself.

On his way to Doughty Street, he purchased a bouquet of large dimensions and choice composition, and presented it, with many old-fashioned bows and genuflexions, to the young wife of his old friend.

Still, these concessions notwithstanding, my uncle had determined that he would not be won over too easily to countenancing the proceedings of the Simkinsons, or refrain from the assertion of his own independence. He would be polite, but he would still be himself. So he rapped out a round oath or two in the course of dinner. Mrs Simkinson blinked a little at first-as though a flash of lightning had crossed her path-but speedily recovered her self-possession. No doubt she had been duly tutored by her husband as to the peculiarities of his partner's vocabulary.

The

The repast was successful. Some slight failure had attended the mashing of the turnips, which greatly afflicted Mrs Simkinson; but the mutton was all that could be wished. Mr Strangways freely confessed that he had never eaten better, and made altogether an excellent dinner. rolly-poly pudding was quite to his taste; and by the time he had enjoyed a glass of port wine as an harmonious accompaniment to his cheese, he was a thoroughly satisfied man, and had put from him all inclination to criticise or find fault.

Indeed, the Simkinsons conducted themselves most irreproachably. Their manner was completely cordial, simple, and natural. They did not flaunt ostentatiously before their guest their connubial happiness; neither did they oppress him with too urgent and laborious a hospitality. The husband was cheerful and good-humoured without boisterousness. The wife, a little timid at first, ably and gracefully seconded her spouse's efforts. She was soberly dressed in a dark-coloured silk dress, which permitted no exceptional revelation of her shoulders. Her nose was not more upturned than nature had ordained. She owned a clear complexion, a pretty smile, a soft voice, and tender gray eyes, and she certainly looked very young beside her mate. But then, as though to bridge over this discrepancy, she wore a neat matronly cap, not of too antique or severe a form, nor yet of too obviously coquettish a description, but a becoming head-dress, such as a young married woman might assume without incurring accusation of any kind. The parlour-maid, it may be added, acquitted herself deftly, and her cap ribbons did not invite adverse remark.

Mr Strangways was punctually supplied with the hot grog for which he had stipulated, and was afterwards solaced with a cup of tea from his own teapot,' as Mrs Simkinson described the vessel he had presented upon her marriage. Could he help being gratified at the unaffected pride she took in her massive silver teapot ? Simkinson did not produce his flute, but a measure of music nevertheless distinguished the entertainment; for the young wife, urged by her guest, sang with excellent taste and expression the old-world ditty of Wapping Old Stairs. Mr Strangways expressed himself as much pleased by this performance, and, indeed, appeared affected almost to tears by its simple grace and pathos. It had possibly been a favourite song of his in times long past, and tender memories and associations had gathered round it. He beat time to the tune, and altogether developed a tolerance, to say the least of it, for music, that much

amazed his partner, who had lively recollections of the offence given by his own efforts of that kind. He left early in a cab, parting upon very cordial terms indeed with his entertainers. He even kissed Mrs Simkinson, but in a staid and ceremonious manner. My dear, I'm old enough to be your grandfather,' he said as he gently pressed his old lips upon her soft, round, blushing cheek. He did not by this remark design to convey any reference to Simkinson's years, which, however advanced, fell considerably short of his own sum.

'I'll come again, if you'll ask me,' said my uncle graciously in reply to some kindly expressions on the part of the Simkinsons, and he went away in great good-humour. But he was terribly stern and abrupt with the cabman who drove him back to Mole's Buildings.

It was natural, perhaps, that Mrs Simkinson should sigh a sigh of relief at his departure—it had been a trying evening to her.

'I hope you think all went off well, James?' she said to her husband. 'Capitally.'

'I was dreadfully frightened at first, but I got better afterwards. It was foolish of me; for, after all, there wasn't so very much to be afraid of. I shall know better another time. And really, altogether, do you know, I think I like Mr Strangways. odd; but there's a great deal of good about him.'

He's

Simkinson kissed his wife; but he so often did that, that the fact is hardly worth chronicling.

CHAPTER IV.

It began to be noticed at the Salutation Tavern, about this time, that a change had come over Mr Strangways. He was not less regular in his attendance than formerly; he was nightly to be found occupying his accustomed seat by the chimney-corner; he consumed with his old appetite his usual allowance of punch, and his fair share of the hot suppers provided by the house. Still, he was more silent than he had been wont to be, and wore now habitually something of a subdued air. His utterances were less objurgatory; his sentiments were less forcibly delivered. An inclination arose to rally him; to view him as the sick lion, and to treat him with inferior reverence compared to that he had once enjoyed. Hitherto, the jesting at the Salutation had been abundant enough, but it had rarely been provided at my uncle's expense. There had been a sufficiency of laughter, but it had not been pointed much in his direction.

One Royster, of the corn-market, a great frequenter of the tavern, noted as a choice spirit, and something of a wag, whose waggishness, however, was of rather a rude type, now often ventured to banter my uncle. Of old, Simkinson had been an established target for Royster's jokes, but as these were not very pointed, and Simkinson offered a large but robust surface of resistance, no severe measure of execution resulted from the marksman's labours.

'We shall have you getting a wife next, Strangways,' Royster said one evening; and imitating old Simmy. By 'old Simmy,' he of course meant, in his uncouth way, reference to Mr Simkinson. 'I've heard say that matrimony runs through a house like measles. There's no getting inoculated against it. One's taken after another, before you've time to turn round. Age won't save you. The old uns catch it for all the world like the young