people immolate love on the shrine of mutual affection—but it is the reckless sacrifice I have witnessed this morning, that has induced my thoughts to take the more tangible shape of words. One goes out visiting for pleasure; a fallacy belonging to that melancholy mania for change which has recourse to stage-coaches, and steam-boats, as if change of scene were change of self. For the last week I have been made, if not exactly miserable, very uncomfortable; and the only difference between them is, that the last wants dignity,—"wearied with sameness of perpetual talk" about the marriage of a Miss Merton. She could not be more glad when the wedding day came than I was—once over, the ifs and buts, the whys and wherefores, of this eternal marriage, would subside into silence. But the worst was yet to come—I love lying in bed, am an invalid, and like the world to be thoroughly aired before I venture into it; yet up was I dragged at seven o'clock, and a rainy morning, merely because my friends were quite sure I should like to see Miss Merton married. What right have people to be sure of any thing in this life? Of course we had no breakfast; nobody seemed to think of it but myself. Off we set through the rain, and arrived in church just by eight o'clock—the bride, though, was before us. There she sat, smiling in ignorant happiness; but what woman could put on a new white bonnet, with orange flowers, a gros des Indes brodè en colonnes, and a blonde veil, and not feel—
"Let what will come, I have been blest."
I found the time very long, and myself very chilly: even as I had wished for the arrival of the wedding day, did I now wish for the arrival of the bridegroom. Nine o’clock struck, every body counted it in silence, then a little talk recommenced—some persons have such spirits! I read the inscription on a marble monument (marble enough in it for three chimney pieces—very extravagant,) erected to the memory of a major killed in the American war; it informed us, that a grateful country would long preserve his name—I cannot say that the information was correct: then I walked up and down the aisle, endeavouring to remember all the happy couples I could; at last I recollected one, and they were very happy indeed; she lived at Amsterdam, and he in Demerara; they used to write each other such affectionate letters! Ten o'clock struck; every body counted it again. Dead silence was succeeded by a thunder-storm of words: one mentioned an interesting fact, how a bridegroom had overslept himself one morning, and shot himself the next; another recollected, that a friend of his had been thrown from his gig, and had broken his neck; while a third stated, that his gardener had been detained too long shaving, and, when the damsel rejected him in consequence, made a vow he would never shave again, and "has now a beard worthy a Jew or a Turk, excepting that it is red." The misfortunes of others beguiled the time, as they always do. Eleven o'clock struck; the matter now became serious—the very youngest of the bride’s-maids ceased to laugh—the bride herself began to cry. At length, a piece of advice I had been offering for the last two hours was taken—a messenger was sent to the inn where the bridegroom was staying. I augured ill, from the rapidity with which he returned:—good news stops to take breath on the road; bad news never requires it. The recreant lover had taken fright and post horses, and had set off at six that morning "over the hills, and far away." We shall now go home to breakfast, thought I: but there was still a deal to be done; all sur-
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