You receive numerous congratulations; and your old friend Tom writes you—that he hears you are going to marry a splendid woman; and all the old ladies say—what a capital match! And your business partner, who is a married man, and something of a wag—“sympathizes sincerely.” Upon the whole, you feel a little proud of your arrangement. You write to an old friend in the country, that you are to marry presently Miss Charlotte of such a street, whose father was something very fine, in his way; and whose father before him was very distinguished; you add, in a postscript, that she is easily situated, and has “expectations.” Your friend, who has a wife that he loves, and that loves him, writes back kindly—“hoping you may be happy;” and hoping so yourself, you light your cigar—one of your last bachelor cigars—with the margin of his letter. The match goes off with a brilliant marriage; at which you receive a very elegant welcome from your wife’s spinster cousins—and drink a great deal of champagne with her bachelor uncles. And as you take the dainty hand of your bride—very magnificent under that bridal wreath, and with her face lit up by a brilliant glow—your eye, and your soul, for the first time, grow full. And as your arm circles that elegant figure, and you draw her toward you, feeling that she is yours—there is a bound at your heart, that makes you think your soul-life is now whole, and earnest. All your early dreams, and imaginations, come flowing on your thought, like bewildering music; and as you gaze upon her—the admiration of that crowd—it seems to you, that all that your heart prizes is made good by the accident of marriage. —Ah—thought I, brushing off the ashes again—bridal pictures are not home pictures; and the hour at the altar is but a poor type of the waste of years! Your household is elegantly ordered; Charlotte has secured the best of housekeepers, and she meets the compliments of your old friends who come to dine with you with a suavity that is never at fault. And they tell you—after the cloth is removed, and you sit quietly smoking in memory of the olden times—that she is a splendid woman. Even the old ladies who come for occasional charities, think madame a pattern of a lady; and so think her old admirers, whom she receives still with an easy grace, that half puzzles you. And as you stand by the ball-room door, at two of the morning, with your Charlotte’s shawl upon your arm, some little panting fellow will confirm the general opinion, by telling you that madame is a magnificent dancer; and Monsieur le Comte will praise extravagantly her French. You are grateful for all this; but you have an uncommonly serious way of expressing your gratitude.