were safe in their power. Hence, it was arranged, that the King of France should leave Fuentarabia, the Spanish frontier town, in a boat, the moment the young hostages did the same from the opposite French village of Hendaye. These places are situated upon the embouchure of the Bidassoa. Thus Francis and his sons met half way across the river, and bade each other farewell in an agony of grief. It was in vain the tender father assured them that in a short time they should meet again; the children clung to him with tenacious fondness and fear; the name of Charles was enough to terrify their young hearts; for the last year they had only heard it mentioned with curses and execrations from every lip, as the cruel tyrant who held their father in chains-the chains they were now about to wear.

What a picture, an able writer observes, would that affecting scene make! It was evening when it took place, the sun was sinking behind the hills of Spain, and gilding with tints of flame the portions of the ancient ramparts and houses of Fuentarabia, still visible to the straining eye, soon to be wrapped in the silent shadow of the lofty sea-ridge of Aizguibel, whereon the white hermitage of Nuestra Senora de Guadaloupe nestled in solitary brightness in the midst of a wild and sterile expanse.

Yes, surrounded by this hush of nature, this blessed calm, this rest of earth, the stormiest farewell ever breathed was uttered then by that tortured monarch to his distracted infants. Snatching them, at last, convulsively to his bosom, imprinting a passionate kiss on each upturned tearful face, he untwined their clasping arms, and gave them, without another look or word, to those who were to conduct them to Madrid; then, with one strong effort, as if all feeling was concentrated in the act, he closed his eyes, as if to WRING out the tears which were blinding them; then springing on shore, with a proud elastic step, he mounted a Turkish horse, waved his hand over his head, and, with a joyful voice, exclaimed, "I am yet a king," gallopped full speed to St. John de Luz, and from thence to Bayonne, just one year and twenty-two days after the fatal battle of Pavia.

Aug., 1846.-VOL. XLVI.—NO. CLXXXIV.

L

COURTSHIP AND MATRIMONY.

BY E. LYNN.

COURTSHIP. 1840.

"The Bay before the Fair.”

Old Song.

AND to-morrow is my wedding-day! How queer, yet how happy, I feel. To-morrow I shall call my dear Laura indeed my very own,-my bride-my life. Oh! how great a boon does a gentle, tender maid bestow, when she thus delivers up her happiness into the keeping of man. How sweet her confidence, half child-like ignorant of evil,-half angelic knowing nought of sorrow. And then her clinging tenderness; her submissive -not obedient, that is a harsh, tyrannical word, which no husband ought to use, and no wife ought to learn,-but her feminine yieldingness; her woman's trusting fondness, naming her stronger lord dearest, wisest, best; her forbearing indulgence, unselfish devotion, playful good-humour, and highest, crowning grace of all, her constant love and unwavering affection, making of home an Eden paradise! Woman, a thing scarce inferor to the seraphs of the sky art thou in the character of wife!

I cannot imagine a wretch more base and heartless than that man who could abuse this precious gift of a woman's love and trust; who could bring tears into the eyes destined only for joy, and wrinkle with lines of grief the sweet lips which only laughter and kisses should move. Besides, the cowardice of cruelty to a weaker being! No torture could be too exquisite for the brute who could strike his wife. Fancy my lifting my hand against Laura. Ha, ha, ha! The world would be in its true year of confusion if that were to happen. I cannot help laughing; the idea is so unutterably funny. I think I see those blue eyes looking at me with all their deep, innocent love, and those sweet, soft hands twined round my neck, as they twined themselves to-day on my departure, and I savagely, brutally, fiendishly striking her for answer. It is really very comical. No, my Laura, thou needst not fear thy Edward's conduct towards thee. The mother-bird tending her young, the caresses of nature, as she wraps the blossoms in her robe of mist and dew, the snow

wreath's protecting love, the leaf round the rose-bud, the child with its doll,-no, not this, for the doll is more often broken and cast aside than cherished for long years,-no, not the child with its doll, but all the other similes may serve as types of my love for thee, my Laura.

And I am to be married to-morrow! To-morrow I bid adieu to all my gay bachelor companions, my club, wine-parties, operastalls, flirtations, with the long list of et-ceteras which make up the life of that luckless dog-an unmarried man. Now I shall think of nothing but furnitures, and women's pretty finery, and respectable dinner-parties, where the ugliest damsel will be as acceptable a companion as the finest beauty of the season; and,yes,-of choosing those mysterious bits of lace, and muslins, and ribbon, which all married women have so much love for. This will constitute my social life; while my domestic will be a casket of all the delights of paradise. How exquisite will be the pleasure of watching over my young fairy-like bride! To anticipate her wants, to study her looks, until each glance of her violet eyes becomes an intelligible and eloquent speech; to stand before her, and shield her from all the ills of life; to strew her path with bright flowers, figuratively speaking; to build for her a crystal palace of pure joys; to find out new gems in the mines of love, flashing, brilliant gems, which I will hang round her neck, a carcanet of caresses, to make of her my idol and my star. Will not this be a bliss almost beyond the power of the full heart to bear? And this will be my married life.

How beautiful she looked this evening. That loose white muslin robe set off her natural loveliness far better than the most fashionable attire would have done. The graceful folds fell round her more graceful form, with that bewitching neg. ligence which half reveals the beauty they mean to hide. And that broad blue band circling her pliant waist and swan-like throat, with the one white rose so coquettishly placed among the rings of her flaxen hair. Gods! she would have put Aphrodite herself to shame, and transformed the three, the immortal, Charites, into the frumpish old maids of the celestial teadrinkings. She never looked so sweet. I still see that pure blush which mantled over her fair cheek when I whispered my parting words, reminding her that this was the last time I should have to bid her adieu; I still see her blue eyes droop to earthhide themselves beneath their "veiny lids," in all the maiden's captivating shame. The touch of her long white hands with their taper fingers, soft and caressing, is still upon my check, and the curl which she pulled in playful wrath yet hangs where she laid it. Dear Laura, my beloved, my angel! shall I indeed call you mine? Oh! what ecstasy, what bliss!

I always keep a journal. It is a very good plan. It reminds one of one's former self, when one's past feelings were, perhaps,

One

different to one's present, and one was one's own Proteus. changes; one marries, and one becomes no longer one's own, but another's. And yet this marriage ought but to make one, so to speak, a larger one-a Siamese unity in duality-a double selfhood. I expect, now, that instead of the disreputable adventures of a careless young man, I shall have to chronicle in this said journal nothing but touching incidents of mutual affection and mutual consideration; enviable anecdotes of sweet lovetutorship, with now and then an interesting account of a new specimen of the genus Bimana. It is true we shall have but little on which to feed, clothe, and educate these young cosmopolites; yet love conquers all, and kisses and water-cresses form a more delicious meal than gold-served fricandeaux with cold looks. We shall be poor, dear Laura and her fond Edward; but we shall be happy.

A note from Laura? The little loving creature! She could not retire without sending me her last adieus. She has written on blue paper-emblem of constancy-and her seal is a Cupid with a "forget-me-not" in his chubby fist. Forget thee, sweet love?-never! Sooner shall I forget myself-my own existence -earth-sky--and Regent-street, ere I cease to turn to thee with all love's fondest memories! What does her darling little note say?

"Dearest, best-beloved Neddy"-Sweet, playful charmer"I cannot compose myself to rest, until I send you, dearest, once more my tenderest good night!"-Now, who could help worshipping this girl?" Though you have been gone only ten minutes, already has cruel time tortured me for hours. Fleet as are his steps, when my Neddy's beloved voice charms my ear, so that it shall not listen to the echo of his flying feet"-How very well she writes! so poetical!" yet when he, my loved one, hath fled, then cruel, barbarous time lingers on his leadenheeled course, and nearly maddens me with his slow torments. To-morrow, blissful word! To-morrow calls me thine!"-She is so natural! She is none of your cold artificial prudes, who pretend to blush at nature, and would wish men to believe that they had subdued every warmth of feeling within them. No! Laura is no hypocrite "Oh! if you did but know how I long for that happy moment when I shall feel safe. When standing by my Neddy's side, his own little wife, I shall feel that no power on earth can then divide us! My heart's best treasure, farewell. Good night, dearest, darling Ned. I pant for the time when I may, with truth, say, that I am your own devoted LAURA."

Dear girl, how fond and how beautiful she is. Yes, tomorrow shines upon the happiest man in London, when it shines upon me, the husband of my Laura.

And this is the end of our long courtship.

MATRIMONY. 1846.

"The Day after the Fair."

Old Saw.

Can it really be only six years since I was married? Heigho! Time has lagged wearily. Why, it seems to me at least a century. And when I look round, and see myself the father of five small, squalling children, I can scarcely believe that such an awful accumulation of misery could have gathered over me in six short years. How changed, too, is the mother of these poverty-bringing intruders. What a slattern she has grown! How cross, and plain, and inconsiderate! She is nothing like the meek and gentle Laura that I married. The children are always crying; she is always scolding; the servants never stay longer than a month; the house is in a perpetual uproar; and I, from being the best-tempered man in the club, have become sad, and soured, and weary of life itself.

Oh! would that I were still one of the merry bachelors of London. Dear, dear! How very differently society treats a promising young man with good expectations, and a poor benedict, disowned by his rich old uncle. Formerly I was courted and caressed, and mammas petted me, and daughters sighed for me, and handsome cousins looked duels and daggers as they saw me bear away the belle or the heiress for whom they had sued in vain. But now the girls flout, and the mothers cut me, while I am forced to endure the half-pitying, half-insolent notice of the male relations and friends who have usurped my place. Laura, too, looks such a dowdy in society, I am positively ashamed to call her my wife. She acts the coquette even yet, and arranges her tallow-candle ringlets as if she thought each hair wove a net for love and admiration, instead of seeing that they only make spy-glasses, so to speak, for impertinent sneering and deserved ridicule. The mother of five children ought to look, and dress, and behave, more matron-like than my flirting wife. She decks herself in youthful colours, and has all her dresses made in girlish fashion she disdains a neat, modest cap, and bedizens her pale hair with dirty, crushed flowers, part of her long-past wedding gear; while, instead of behaving with that grave and staid decorum proper to a married woman, she coquettes with every coxcomb she comes near, and lisps her affectations with every mustachioed dandy in the room. She quite disgusts me. I only regret that the laws are so cruelly strict, and that I cannot restore her the full possession of that liberty which she so much regrets, while I hastened to lay myself and my hopes at the feet of pretty modest Jane Smith. She will be a treasure, indeed, to