not generosity enough to abstain from using them to the utmost. She was a Catherine; had he been a Petruchio, the suitors would never have intruded, and the sister of a poor earl, notwithstanding her coronet, might have condescended to be happy to receive comfort and independence at the hand of a plebeian.

"I have myself seen aristocrats, of both sexes, whose high heads, have stoopt to the vale,' where pecuniary advantages, or even a dinner, have been in question. They have reminded me of the illustrious Hidalgo, Captain Chinchilla, in Gil Blas, d'une taille gigantesque' (which I suppose Le Sage puts for pride), ‘et d'une maigreur extraordinare,' which I suppose he puts for poverty. This great personage, you know, though literally half starved, and forced to shut himself up, that nobody might witness his dinner of pumpkins and onions, forced the good-natured Santillana to entreaties, at first, before he would partake of his dinner; but in the end, he came round very comfortably. 'Il voulut d'abord faire des façons; mais enfin il se rendit à mes instances. Après quoi devenant insensiblement plus hardi, il m'aida de lui-même à rendre mon plat net, et à vuider ma bouteille.'

"Thus, as the captain felt his condescensions well repaid by accepting a dinner from the petit sécretaire, so many a high dame has kindly and graciously submitted to the disgrace of a shower of gold, poured into her lap by some rich and strong-minded merchant or manufacturer (who knew how to assert the privileges which nature and the law gave him), without a thought of rebelling. It is only where the

submission is not gracious on the one side, or the mind not strong on the other, that the leaven appears; for, after all, leaven there always is, and it will sometimes shew itself, though it may be kept from dangerous fermentation, by a decided superiority of mind in the husband. Where that is uncontested, the equili brium is restored; but for one instance of this happy balance, there are thousands of perpetual and unceasing struggles, till poor love is frightened out of doors, never to return."

I was strongly impressed with this, but asked whether the balance might not be struck, even without supposing the inequality of mind. "I mean," said I," where the actual condition of the parties is concerned, in respect to other points, besides rank or fortune,-for example, as to age."

"That is a nice point," replied he, "nor perhaps has my experience yet settled it. But, though where the seniority is of the man to the woman, the question has been determined different ways, there can be no doubt, where it is on the side of the woman to the man. I think it is Rousseau who says, that the love of a wife to her husband has always the best chance of happiness when it partakes in some degree of that of a daughter to a father. Here, therefore, a disparity of age does not necessarily infer the mischiefs of a mésalliance; but no instance has ever occurred to my observation, in which the union of a young husband with an old wife has not made both parties ridiculous. Prudence, however, is a great leveller." I asked what that meant.

"You have it," said he, "in the late union, by which the fair Medowes consoled herself for your friend Hastings' loss, when she espoused the old and worn-out owner of Belvidere. He is fifty years older than she; so far they are mis-allied. But the inequality is made up to her by being mistress of Belvidere, which she wanted, but could not have without giving up her person; and her want of love is made up to him by the possession of that person, which is all he wanted on his part. Thus the balance is struck, and each is satisfied."

"Such alliances," I remarked, "are not worth a thought; both parties deserved to be miserable; but I am glad, where the parties are both made for better things, to think I perceive that even in your mind it is possible that a mésalliance as to rank may not be unhappy."

"Possible," returned he, "but not probable; for even where the lady (for we are here talking only of the lady being the superior) is devoted to her husband, it is generally at the expense of her enjoyment of her family; and though conjugal love, as well as duty and disposition, may suppress all outward complaints, there is yet the secret grief and inward melancholy, the silent tear and wasted mind, more difficult for a generous husband to bear than dogged sullenness, or downright revolt."

"Do you know instances of this?" asked I.

"One, certainly," said he; "for you know mine is a practical, not a theoretical, philosophy. I had once

a friend, indeed a Sedbergh schoolfellow. He was not so well born as you, nor a pound more rich; but with his hard Cumberland brain, patience, and labour, he amassed a fortune at Liverpool, and with a fine person, and open handsome countenance, he mastered the affections of a very gentle and very high-born girl."

I grew agitated at this, and drew in my breath in expectation; which he perceived, but told me not to flatter myself, for what he had to say would do any thing but soothe my hopes.

"Their union," continued he, "was bitterly opposed by all her family, who renounced her on its taking place. Her spirit and love conjoined at first kept her up; and she found in her husband what she thought would for ever support her against such unreasonable neglect. It was not so. The tender and delicate attentions of her husband never relaxed; he never changed, but she did. The slights of her family drove her from their neighbourhood; in which, much to his inconvenience, she was indulged by her husband. They had no children, and she was often left alone. In solitude she brooded, she pined, and when her husband returned, after necessary absences, though always welcomed, it was always in tears. With tears in his own eyes, (manly tears!) he has often lamented this to me. 'I shall lose her,' said he; she loves me still, and she struggles against her feelings for my sake; but they still prevail, and will break her heart; she wastes and is perishing before

my eyes.' He was too good a prophet. After a slow and lengthened fever, with no decrease, but increase of affection, she died in his arms."

Affected as I was by this account, I could not help asking whether this melancholy catastrophe might not have been the consequence of any family opposition, on other grounds than that of inequality of condition.

"It certainly might," said Fothergill, "but such was the ground here, and I give it you as it happened. It is therefore one more support of my position on the mischiefs of inequality."

"And yet," I continued (resolved to sift the subject to the bottom), "do we not daily see what you perhaps call mésalliances, without any such consequences? Merchants and sons of merchants, with no blood, matching with the daughters of nobles and statesmen; nobles and statesmen matching with citizens, yet no difference of demeanor on any occasion from what there would have been with the most perfect equality."

"I doubt the no difference in all cases," returned Fothergill, "though, for the most part, the reasons that induce consent to such a connection, in the higher party, carry along with them the necessity for civil conduct at least, as a natural consequence. But in the few cases of this sort which we see, the inequality in one respect is balanced by some redeeming advantage in another. Thus a millionaire, who marries a duke's daughter if you will,-though grace, even if he wanted part of the million him

his