He married Mary Pinhorn, and they have emigrated to Melbourne; whence he sent me, three years ago, an affectionate letter, and a smart gold pin from the diggings. A month afterwards, a cab might have been seen driving from the Temple to Hanover Square: and a month and a day after that drive, an advertisement might have been read in the _Post_ and _Times_: “Married, on Thursday, 10th, at St. George’s, Hanover Square, by the Reverend the Master of St. Boniface College, Oxbridge, uncle of the bride, Frederick Lovel, Esquire, of Shrublands, Roehampton, to Elizabeth, eldest daughter of the late Captain Montagu Prior, K.S.F.” We may hear of LOVEL MARRIED some other day, but here is an end of LOVEL THE WIDOWER. _Valete et plaudite_, you good people, who have witnessed the little comedy. Down with the curtain; cover up the boxes; pop out the gas-lights. Ho! cab. Take us home, and let us have some tea, and go to bed. Good night, my little players. We have been merry together, and we part with soft hearts and somewhat rueful countenances, don’t we? The Maiden’s Lover. “Woo me not with sighs and tears, “Woo me not with vows,” she said, “Tell me not of doubts and fears; “Deeds, not glowing words, I wed. “Passion-pale I see thee stand; “Let Love speak, but not in sighs— “Passion but unnerves the hand, “Drains the heart to wet the eyes. “Who would win me must have won “Rule right royal o’er his heart; “Wholly true, from sun to sun, “So he’ll love me not in part. “Who would win me, must have found, “For his deep and manly love, “Other vent than empty sound— “Vows protest but do not prove. “Nobly as old legends tell, “Rode the knight from land to land, “Sin and wrong before him fell, “Conquer’d by his stalwart hand. “Glorious legends, were they true! “Make them true if me you’d win; “Win for me and thee a new “Triumph over death and sin. “If thou languish at my side, “I shall mock thee in my scorn; “Up, be doing—so thy bride “On I pass till Death’s dark morn. “If around thy spirit gather “Rust of sloth and lustful ease, “Though I love thee, I would rather “Thou wert dying on my knees.” Swift he turned—that flashing face Woke a new-born love to life; Then he knew her, all her grace: Won her nobly for his Wife. C. U. D. The Portent. II.—“THE OMEN COMING ON.”[4]