ough pleasing in the extreme, was not
such as is called in the language of poets, beautiful. And here I
cannot help observing, that the manner in which these poetical
gentlemen dictate to the world in general is certainly most unfair.
According to their ideas, it is only a perfect beauty who dare lay any
claim to happiness; while all the others, whose faces cannot be
compared to lilies and roses, are born only to be deceived, and but
for their wealth would never appear in a romance at all. Real life,
however, gives them the lie; for we see family happiness bloom even in
households where the ladies are not painted for annuals. And how many
a mild and unpretending being do we find gifted with that delicacy and
true poetry of mind, which give to features not created for a
painter's model an attraction and loveliness that it would be
impossible to describe, for we can scarcely say what it is we find so
agreeable; and although we might turn with cold indifference from a
mere sketch of the features, no sooner do we see them lighted up by a
smile, or hear an accent of sympathy cross the lips, than a sweet
fascination rises within us--the eyes, the lips, the whole
countenance, wins new attractions; the soul assumes its power over
the clay, and charms into beauty what in itself is not so.
Fortunately, nature seldom bestows on any one the consciousness of
being less handsome than her neighbour; for that woman could scarcely
be good-humoured, who, when she looked in the glass, could not
discover something which rendered her countenance agreeable, and which
others also will no doubt remark after some observation. These ideas
may, I fear, hurt the classic understanding, and the lovers of art
will be shocked to hear that the not beautiful can also be subjects of
poetry; but if mankind has so increased upon earth as to mottle the
Olympic regularity with many variations, who can help it? The negro
and the Laplander have their beauties; and some are even bold enough
to affirm that the mind of itself may render beautiful.

All these deviations must not weary you, gentle reader, for you know
it is now a question of matrimony, and therefore you must read
patiently and not in vain.

Day was just dawning; the sound of bells broke the silence of the
village, and, one by one, the green blinds opened as the sun shed his
first rays on the windows of Uncle Berkessy's house. Two windows alone
remained closed--those of the room in which the old g