“But, John,” said the widow, in a tone of expostulation, whilst a smile lurked in the eyes and round the mouth, “what am I to do if I say No? they press me so hard!” The Newbury apprentice, at his mistress’ feet, taught the answer she should give. On the following Monday, Master John Winehcomb was united in marriage with Mistress Avery—the wedding celebrated by the grandest entertainment ever beheld in the county of Berkshire, the fame whereof spread even as far as the court of bluff Harry. If lacking splendor in any particular, the omission was owing to the short time for preparation, as no expense was spared. The unfortunate suitors, of course, understood the affair from common report, and thought it unnecessary to seek their fate at the widow’s domicil, when they could learn it from every man, woman and child in the town. They were invited to the wedding feast, but wisely declined, as the story of their strange wooing was already abroad. It was the custom, in those days, for the bridegroom to salute the bride on the cheek, in the church, after the ceremony was performed. “And you are ready to swear, Master John,” whispered the dame as the bridegroom approached, “that you never saw that damsel before Fair-day, whom you kissed at the Fair?” “No—nor since!” replied he, believing it a hint for his future conduct. Master Winehcomb lived happily—his wealth increased so quickly, with the increasing demand for the staple article of Newbury, that when the Earl of Surrey marched against James the Fourth of Scotland, who was then ravaging the borders, the rich clothier accompanied the expedition with a retinue of one hundred servants and artisans, clothed and armed at his own expense. The memory of John Winehcomb and his rich and handsome spouse was long preserved in their native town. * * * * * SONNETS. BY MISS ELIZABETH B. BARRETT. I. I tell you, hopeless grief is passionless; That only men incredulous of despair, Half taught in anguish, through the midnight air Beat upward to God’s throne in loud access Of shrieking and reproach. Full desertness In hearts, as countries, lieth silent, bare Under the blenching, vertical eye-glare Of the free chartered heavens. Be still! express Grief for thy dead in silence like to Death! Most like a monumental statue set In everlasting watch and moveless wo, Till itself crumble to the dust beneath. Touch it, spectator! Are its eyelids wet? If it could weep it could arise and go! II.