n her character is undecided--unformed--when that which is mere
caprice, frequently assumes the hue of passion, and wears all its
fervour and intensity. Or if it should continue unabated--as I must
confess [observing him turn himself with an air before a pier glass,]
I see no reason why it should not--you will find the unsophistication
of the young lady as quickly tending to domestic disquiet, as might
have been her inconstancy--She will be unreasonable in her exactions
on your confidence, and you will be compelled to take refuge in fits
of sullenness--perhaps rudeness;--and then what becomes of that
blissful state, where like you, every body expects, and so very--very
few _find_ happiness?--to secure which the most perfect union of taste
and feeling--the utmost kindliness of manner, and a politeness as
habitual as motion itself, are absolute requisites?--Have you no
further arguments to offer in favour of this measure of yours?--"

"Oh, yes," said he, very dryly, "I have one more."

"What may that be?"

"That I WILL marry her."

"Oh!..." said I.

And without exchanging another word, I put on my great coat, and we
sallied forth together to the rendezvous of the lovers. The fair
fugitive was true to her appointment, and at the first sound of the
expected footfall, glided from her concealment into the happy
scoundrel's arms. The action which followed I could not see (though it
was a bright moonlight,) for a breeze lifted the large veil which hung
over the lady's shoulder, in such a manner as to envelope the
countenances of both. What the action _ought_ to have been, perhaps
you, madam, or you, mademoiselle, may inform me?--I only know that
when the modest zephyr passed, and the veil fell back again, the fair
cheek that it revealed glowed with

"A pudency so rosy, the sweet view on't,
Might well have warm'd old Saturn."

Harry gave me his hand (heartily) as he stood on the carriage step,
and the bride wafted me a farewell with the prettiest action of her
fan from the window, and murmured,--"Give me a good wish for the
tobacconist."

"Yes," said I; "may you never have occasion to say of the love that
now leads you to him, that

"'Its beacon light is quench'd in _smoke_.'"

[For although naturally grave, and silently given, I often catch
myself endeavouring to sport a bad pun, when I have got the ear of a
fair damsel] The only effect which the witticism produced in the
present instance, however, was an