MARRIED FOR MONEY.

"Jack Cleveland!" exclaimed a fast young man in a drab driving coat with innumerable capes, (it was twenty years ago, reader, in the palmy days of Tom and Jerry and tandem teams,) as he encountered an equally fast young man in Cornhill; "what's the matter with you?"

"It's all over, Frank; I've gone and done it."

"Gone and done what, you spooney?"

"Proposed."

"Proposed what?—a match at billiards, a trot on the milldam, or a main of cocks?"

"Pooh!—something more serious," said Cleveland, gravely; "I've offered myself."

"Offered yourself? To whom?"

"Widow—Waffles—shy name—never mind—soon changed—one hundred and fifty thousand—cool, eh?—age forty—good looks—married for money—sheriff would have it—no friends—pockets to let—pays my debts—sets me up—house in Beacon Street—carriage—can't help it."

"You're a candidate for Bedlam," said Frank; "I've a great mind to order you a strait jacket."

"Be my bridesman—see me off—eh?" asked Cleveland.

"Yes, yes, of course—it will be great fun."

And so it was. Jack Cleveland was united to the widow Waffles in Trinity Church, and a smashing wedding it was. The party that followed it was, to use Cleveland's own expressions, "a crusher—all Boston invited—all Africa waiting—wax lights—champagne—music—ices—pretty girls—a bang-up execution."

During the honeymoon Jack Cleveland was all attention to his bride, (il faut soigner les anciennes,) but he promised to indemnify himself by taking full and complete liberty so soon as that interesting period of time had been brought to a close. Besides, his chains sat lightly at first; for the widow was one of those splendid Lady Blessington kind of women, who at forty have just arrived at the imperial maturity of their charms, and she was deeply enamoured of the young gentleman whom she had chosen for her second partner in the matrimonial speculation. Moreover, she paid the debts of the fast young man with an exemplary cheerfulness. The only drawback to this gush of felicity was that her property was "tied up;" not a cent could Cleveland handle except by permission of his lady. Then she kept him as close to her apron strings as she did her Blenheim spaniel; she required him to obey her call as promptly as her coachman. Galling to his pride though it was, he was even forced to go a shopping with her; and the elegant Cleveland, who once thought it degrading to carry an umbrella, might be seen loaded with bandboxes, or nonchalantly lilting bundles of cashmere shawls. The only difference between Mrs. Cleveland's husband and her footman was that he received wages; but then the footman could leave when he chose, and there the parallel ended. Jack's habits had to submit to a rigid and inexorable censorship. "Those odious cigars" were prohibited, and then "his list of friends" was challenged. Frank Aikin, the bridesman, was tolerated the longest of all, and then he was "bluffed off" by Mrs. Cleveland, who determined to make her husband a domestic man. It was the old story of Hercules and Omphale modernized to suit the times.

Jack began to think the happiest day of his life had made him the most miserable dog alive, and, like Sir Peter Teazle, "had lost all comfort in the world before his friends had done wishing him joy." But his debts were paid—that was a great consolation. Several streets in Boston, which were blocked up by creditors, as those of London were to the respected Mr. Richard Swiveller, were now opened by the magic wand of matrimony. He could exhibit his "Hyperion curls" in Washington Street, without any fear of a gentle "reminder" in the shape of a tap upon the shoulder.

One morning, however, a lady was ushered up into the splendid drawing room in Beacon Street, being announced as Madame St. Germain. She was a showy French woman, about the same age as Mrs. Cleveland, and the latter waited with some curiosity to learn the object of her visit.

"You are Mrs. Cleveland, I believe," said the French woman.

Mrs. Cleveland bowed in her stateliest manner.

"You have undertaken, I learn, to pay the debts of Monsieur Cleveland, contracted before your marriage."

Mrs. Cleveland bowed again.

"I hold a note of his drawn in my favor for a thousand dollars, payable at sight, with interest, dated two years back."

"What was it given for?" asked Mrs. Cleveland, with some asperity.

"Pardon me, madam—I cannot state that without the permission of your husband."

Mrs. Cleveland applied her hand vigorously to a bell-pull communicating with her husband's dressing room.

He made his presence in a splendid robe de chambre and a Turkish cap with a gold tassel.

"This woman," said his better half, "says you owe her a thousand dollars."

"Monsieur cannot deny it," said the French woman, fixing her keen black eyes on the thunder-struck Cleveland.

"It's all right—pay her up!" said Mr. Cleveland.

"Not till I know what the debt was incurred for."

"I can't tell you," said Mr. Cleveland.

"I insist," said Mrs. Cleveland, stamping her foot.

"Then I won't tell—if you die!" said the rebellious Cleveland.

"I shall trouble you, ma'am, to leave my house," said the irritated mistress of the mansion. "Not one farthing on that note do you get out of me."

"Then I shall be under the unpleasant necessity of taking legal measures to obtain the debt," said the French woman, rising. "Mr. Cleveland, I wish you very much happiness with your amiable lady."

There was a storm—a regular equinoctial gale—after the departure of Madame St. Germain. Mrs. Cleveland was very provoking, and Mr. Cleveland indulged in epithets unbecoming a scholar and a gentleman. That night the "happy couple" luxuriated in separate apartments. The next day came a lawyer's letter, then a civil process, and finally Mr. John Cleveland was marched off to Leverett Street jail, where, after giving due notice to his creditor and obtaining bail, he was allowed the benefit of the "limits," with the privilege of "swearing out," at the expiration of thirty days.

Jack engaged lodging at a little tavern, on the limits, where he found Frank Aikin, who had run through his "pile," and a few kindred spirits of the fast young men school enacting the part of "gentlemen in difficulties." Cigars, champagne, and cards were ordered, and Jack became a fast young man once more. Towards the small hours of the morning, he forgot having married a widow, and thinking himself a bachelor, he proposed the health of a certain Miss Julia Vining, which was drank with three times three. The next morning, he sat down to a capital breakfast, with more fast young men, and for a whole week he enjoyed himself en garçon, without once thinking of the forsaken Dido in Beacon Street.

One day, however, when he had exhausted his cash and credit, and a racking headache induced him to regret the speed of his late life, a carriage rattled up to the door of the tavern, his own door was shortly after thrown open, and a lady flung herself into his arms. Mrs. Cleveland looked really fascinating.

"Come home, my dear Jack," said she, bursting into tears; "I've been so lonely without you."

"Not so fast, Mrs. Cleveland," said the young gentleman, as he perceived his power. "I'm very happy where I am. I can't go back except on certain conditions."

"Name them, dearest."

"I'm to smoke as many cigars as I please."

"Granted."

"Not to carry any more bandboxes or tomcats."

"Granted."

"To give a dinner party to the 'boys' once in a while."

"Granted—granted. And I've paid your note, and opened a cash account for you at the bank."

"You are an angel," said Cleveland; "and now it's all over—that note was given Madame St. Germain for tuition of a young girl, Miss Julia Vining, whom I educated with the romantic notion of making her my wife, when she should arrive at a suitable age, at which period she ran off with a one-eyed French fiddler, and is now taking in sewing at 191st Street, New York."

The happy pair went home in their carriage, and we never heard of any differences between them. Mrs. Cleveland wears very well, and Mr. Cleveland is now an alderman, remarkable chiefly for the ponderosity of his person, and the heaviness of his municipal harangues. "Sich is life."