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Although this precious epistle was signed Amicus Patriae, the writer was far too proud of his production to entrench himself behind the inglorious shield of a fictitious signature, and as the mayor, professionally indignant at the epithet pettifogging, threatened both the editor of the Belford Courant and Mr. Joseph Hanson with an action for libel, it followed, as matter of course, that John Parsons not only thought the haberdasher the most able and honest man in the borough, but regarded him as the champion, if not the martyr, of his cause, and one who deserved everything that he had to bestow, even to the hand and portion of the pretty Harriet.

Affairs were in this posture, when one fine morning the chief magistrate of Belford entered the tinman’s shop.

“Mr. Parsons,” said the worthy dignitary, in a very conciliatory tone, “you may be as angry with me as you like, but I find from our good vicar that the fellow Hanson has applied to him for a licence, and I cannot let you throw away my little friend Harriet without giving you warning, that a long and bitter repentance will follow such a union. There are emergencies in which it becomes a duty to throw aside professional niceties, and to sacrifice etiquette to the interests of an old friendship; and I tell you, as a prudent man, that I know of my own knowledge that this intended son-in-law of your’s will be arrested before the wedding-day.”

“I’ll bail him,” said John Parsons, stoutly.

“He is not worth a farthing,” quoth the chief magistrate.

“I shall give him ten thousand pounds with my daughter,” answered the man of pots and kettles.

“I doubt if ten thousand pounds will pay his just debts,” rejoined the mayor.

“Then I’ll give him twenty,” responded the tinman.

“He has failed in five different places within the last five years,” persisted the pertinacious adviser; “has run away from his creditors, Heaven knows how often; has taken the benefit of the Act time after time! You would not give your own sweet Harriet, the best and prettiest girl in the county, to an adventurer, the history of whose life is to be found in the Gazette and the Insolvent Court, and who is a high churchman and a tory to boot. Surely you would not fling away your daughter and your honest earnings upon a man of notorious bad character, with whom you have not an opinion or a prejudice in common? Just think what the other party will say!”

“I’ll tell you what, Mr. Mallet or Mr. Mayor, if you prefer the sound of your new dignity,” broke out John Parsons, in a fury, “I shall do what I like with my money and my daughter, without consulting you, or caring what anybody may chance to say, whether whig or tory. For my part, I think there’s little to choose between them. One side’s as bad as the other. Tyrants in office and patriots out. If Hanson is a conservative and a churchman, his foreman is a radical and a dissenter; and they neither of them pretend to dictate to their betters, which is more than I can say of some who call themselves reformers. Once for all, I tell you that he shall marry my Harriet, and that your nephew sha’n’t: so now you may arrest him as soon as you like. I’m not to be managed here, however you and your tools may carry matters at the Town Hall. An Englishman’s house is his castle.”

“Well,” said Mr. Mallet, “I am going. God knows I came out of old friendship towards yourself, and sincere affection for the dear girl your daughter. As to my nephew, besides that I firmly believe the young people like each other, I know him to be as steady a lad as ever drew a conveyance; and with what his father has left him, and what I can give him, to say nothing of his professional prospects, he would be a fit match for Harriet as far as money goes. But if you are determined—-“