you'll never see your husband again, except a corpse.' With that I saw my poor boy laid in his bed, our bed, where we spent many a blessed night. His face was as pale as marble, Peggy, when the moon is shining out in the churchyard. His hair was like the boughs of the willow, wet and drooping with the heavy dews of night; and his lips were cold and silent as the grave. Oh, God! I shall never forget what I felt, when I looked at him in that moment. I threw my arms round him-my hot tears drenched his frozen face-I called him by every tender name-but he answered me not, he heeded me not. The memory of all our lovethe happy hours of our courtship-and the more happy ones when I first stood on his floor as a bride, came back to me; and I thought I had never really truly loved him before, as I now did. And there he lay, with that beauty on his pale and lifeless face, that Death gives when he has struck the blow, just as if he wished to make us more sorrowful for what we have lost. I thried all I could to remember how often my poor boy had vexed me, in the hopes of its stopping my grief; but would you believe it, Peggy? I could call to mind nothing but all the fond words and the loving actions of him, until my

very heart seemed breaking, and I prayed to God either to restore him to life, or to take me with him. 'Remember, woman,' said a voice, that sounded like the wind when it comes sighing through a wood, when first the leaves begin to fall, remember that I tould you, if oncest I granted your prayer for his death, you should never see him again but as a corpse. I'm thinking 'tis yerself that's sorry enough for your wickedness in wishing for his death; but it's too late now. You couldn't bear to lose him for an hour or two at the Dun Cow, but now you must lose him for ever and a day. You'll see his plaisant smile no more, nor hear his loving voice. Andy, Andy, cuishla machree, don't lave me! don't lave me!' cried I, like one that had lost all raison, and the big tears running down my cheeks!' Faith, and I won't, my darlint,' said a voice, the sound of which I never expected to hear again in this world. Sure, here I am, my colleen dhas;'

6

and he hugged me against his warm heart, for it was no other than Andy himself that had come home from the Dun Cow, and all the throuble I was in about his death was a dhream. From that night I have never scoulded him, nor said a cross word about his going to the

Dun Cow; for whenever an angry thought was coming into my head, I remembered my dhream, and thanked God he wasn't dead."

"Oh, Peggy, dear! Such warnings as that are blessed things, and teach us to bare and forbare. Praise be to His holy name who sends 'em!"

65

THE HONEYMOON.

"Some persons pay for a month of honey with a life of vinegar."

NOVELS and comedies end generally with a marriage, because, after that event it is supposed that nothing remains to be told.

This supposition is erroneous, as the history of many a wedded pair might exemplify; for how many hearts have fallen away from their allegiance, after hands have been joined by the saffron-robed god, which had remained true, while suffering all the pangs that from time immemorial have attended the progress of the archer-boy?

Passion-possession-what a history is comprised in these two words! But how often might its moral be conveyed in a third-indifference?

Marriage, we are told, is the portal, where

Love resigns his votaries to the dominion of sober Reason; but, alas! many have so little predilection for his empire, that they rather endeavour to retain the illusions of the past, gone for ever, than to be content with the reality in their power.

During the days of courtship, the objects beloved are viewed through a magic mirror which gives only perfections to the sight; but after marriage, a magnifying glass stands to supply its place, which draws objects so unpleasingly near, that even the most trivial defects are made prominent.

Courtship is a dream-marriage the time of awaking;-fortunate are they who can lay aside their visions for the more common-place happiness of life, without disappointment or repining.

The hero and heroine of our sketch were not of these; they had loved passionatelywildly. Their parents had, from motives of prudence, opposed their union, considering them as too young to enter a state which requires more widsom to render it one of happiness, than most of its votaries are disposed to admit.

This opposition produced its natural result,