Well! here is a village story I must needs tell, for ’tis not a bad one. A village wench, as they were leading her to church on her wedding-day to the sound of tabor and flute, and with much rustic ceremony, chancing to catch sight of her girlhood’s lover, did shout out these words to him, “Farewell, Pierre, farewell! I’ve got.... You’ll never give it me any more. My mother’s married me now,”—blurting the word right out. Her simplicity was no less admirable than the soft regret she showed for past days. One more, as we are on village tales. A pretty young girl took a load of wood to sell at the market town. Asked how much, she kept continually raising her price at each offer made her by the dealers. “You shall have so much,” they cried, “and something else into the bargain.”—“’Tis well said,” she cried, “and thank you! you’re the very man.” Right simple-minded wenches these, and very different, they and their like, (for there be plenty such), from a whole host of others in this wicked world, which be far more double-dealing and knowing than these, never asking counsel of their husbands nor never showing them such presents as they may get. I heard an anecdote once in Spain of a young girl who the first night after her marriage, as her husband was struggling and sweating sore and hurting himself in his attempts, did set up a laugh and tell him, _Señor, bien es razon que seays martyr, pues que io soy virgen; mas pues que io tomo la paciencia, bien la podeys tomar_,—“Sir, ’tis but right you should be a martyr, since I am a virgin; but as I am so patient, you must be patient too.” Thus in revenge of his making fun of his wife, did she make fine fun of him. And in good sooth many a girl hath good cause to make mock at such a time, especially when they have learned afore what it all is, or have been informed of others, or have themselves dreamed and pictured out this mighty moment of delight, which they do suppose so great and lasting. Another Spanish bride, telling over next morning her husband’s merits, found several to praise, “only” she added, “_que no era buen contador aritmetico, porque no sabia multiplicar_,—that he was not a good arithmetician at all, for he couldn’t multiply.” Another young maid of good birth and family (one myself have known and talked with), on her wedding night, when all the company were listening outside the door according to custom, and the husband had just given her the first embrace, and as he did rest a while, though not yet asleep, asked her if she would like some more of the same, “An if it please you, Sir!” she said. Imagine the gallant bridegroom’s astonishment at such an answer, and how he must have rubbed his ears.