“At non domus accipiet te laeta, neque uxor
  Optima, nec dulces occurrent oscula nati
  Praeripere, et tacita pectus dulcedine tangent.”—­Lucret.

But leaving the “gentle bachelor” to settle the matter with himself as he may, I will not be hurried beyond bounds—­not bounds of the subject, or what is due to it, but of your patience, Eusebius, who know and feel, more sensibly than I can express, woman’s worth.  You want to know her wrongs—­and you say that I am a sketcher from life.  Well, that being the case, though it is painful to dwell upon any case, accept the following sketch from nature; it is a recent event—­you may not question the truth—­the names I conceal.  A sour, sulky, cantankerous fellow, of some fortune, lean, wizened, and little, with one of those parchment complexions that indicate a cold antipathy to aught but self, married a fine generous creature, fair and large in person; neither bride nor bridegroom were in the flower of youth—­a flower which, it is hard to say why, is supposed to shed “a purple light of love.”  After the wedding, the “happy couple” departed to spend the honeymoon among their relations.  In such company, the ill-tempered husband is obliged to behave his best—­he coldly puts on the polite hypocrite in the presence of others—­but, every moment of tete-a-tete, vents maliciously his ill-temper upon his spouse.  It happened, that after one day of more remarkably well-acted sweetness, he retired in more than common disgust at the fatigue he had been obliged to endure, to make himself appear properly agreeable.  He gets into bed, and instantly tucks up his legs with his knees nigh to his chin, and—­detestable little wretch!—­throws out a kick with his utmost power against his fair, fat, substantial partner.  What is the result?  He did not calculate the “vis inertiae,” that a little body kicking against the greater is wont to come off second best—­so he kicks himself out of bed, and here ends the comedy of the affair; the rest is tragic enough.  Some how or other, in his fall, he broke his neck upon the spot.  This was a very awkward affair.  The bell is rung, up come the friends; the story is told, nor is it other than they had suspected.  It does not end here, for, of course, there must be an inquest.  It is an Irish jury.  All said it served him right—­and so what is the verdict?—­Justifiable felo-de-se.”  Here, Eusebius, you have something remarkable;—­one happier at the termination than the commencement of the honeymoon—­a widow happier than a bride.  She might go forth to the world again, with the sweet reputation of having smothered him with kisses, and killed him with kindness—­if the verdict can be concealed; if not, while the husband is buried with the ignominy of “felonious intent,” the widow will be but little disconsolate, and universally applauded.  To those of any experience, it will not be a cause of wonder how such parties should come together.  It is but an instance of the too common “bitter jokes” of Love, or rather Hymen.  I only wish, that if ever man try that experiment again, he may meet with precisely the same success; and that if any man marries, determined to fall out with his bride, he may fall out in that very way, and at the very first opportunity.