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 hands on, launched out on the happiness of domestic love, and affected to caress little children in her presence—I never ate any dinner when she was at table, but, with an air of desperation, gulped down as much wine as I possibly could, without incurring my father’s observation—now, I thought, I should like to be a king, and place her on a throne; then, a successful warrior, that her country might offer her homage—love and a cottage had its charms, and sometimes I thought how delicious it would be to suffer for her sake. These thoughts became feelings, and what was begun as a matter of course, terminated in real tenderness, no less ridiculous. I was a diffident lad, exceeding modest: judge then of my sincerity by its effect. Finding myself alone with her in a beautiful bower by moonlight, I fell upon my knees, seized her fair hand, and made a vehement declaration of my passion; I besought her to have compassion upon my youth, and not by coldness to destroy its hopes—I vowed eternal truth, and swore desperately I could not live without her—I drew a glowing picture of the delights of married life, and expatiated warmly on the tyranny of parents and friends—I promised to make the best of husbands, the tenderest of fathers, and shuddered at the prospect of separation, shed real tears at the bare imagination of her indifference; and finally, rising with my subject, assured her that I had ten pounds untouched, and besought her to commit herself to my protection, and elope with me that night. I was too much agitated in the first instance to observe the effect of my pleadings, but I was soon most fearfully enlightened. Imagine my boundless horror, my stupefaction of feeling at hearing her burst into a loud laugh, and seeing her spring from her seat, and dart rapidly out of the bower—I was agonized beyond all description; I rubbed my eyes and my nose, and tried to persuade myself that all that had passed was a dream. Presently my brother came into the arbour, he had an unspeakable grin upon his odious face, but he said nothing, affected to look for some unmissed article, and went out again; next, my father walked slowly past, whistling, as if perfectly indifferent to my movements, but I noticed a quick, queer, shrewd, merry-looking glance that was not to be misunderstood.—The story soon travelled; my acquaintance tried hard not to laugh in my face, and the more they stifled their mirth, the more frightful seemed its occasional ebullitions; and she, the cruel cause of all this misery to me, she married in about a week after this event, a man of thirty, who, as Blackwood says, “shaved twice a-day,” and no doubt entertained him mightily with the pathos of the smooth-chinned boy, who had the presumption to try to supplant him.

This adventure cured me completely of sentiment—I ceased, for a time, all attempts to captivate fair ladies, and turned an eye of admiration on myself. At seventeen, I was a puppy, a dandy; my dress and appearance the only subjects worthy my contemplation; I detested poetry, the moon, and little children, and generally gave these last a sly pinch or kick, when they had the presumption to expect I should play with them. This state continued a few years; and then, last stage of all, came whiskers, mustachios, love, real love, marriage, business, bustle, and twenty-nine—Here I pause—it would be egotism to say farther—my friends alone must decide whether the boy be like the man—I think not—so, with the burthen of nearly thirty years on my shoulders, all the usual cares of life, and some, perhaps, that are not usual, I take my leave, to fight out the remainder as I may.—Reader—Vale.