into her keeping. All these things are now settled, to my idea, on a false and baseless system. Marriage, in our age and country, is held up to a girl as the great aim and end of woman's existence; and so it doubtless is; but marriage, as it came from God's hand to our first parents-the fruition and fulness of pure, holy love; not the marriages of the world, in which everything is considered, except the question if the two, taking on them those awful and solemn vows, feel that the outward ceremony is only the echo of their own mutually pledged hearts; and that while they each accept the charge of the other's peace and happiness on earth, they are prepared mutually to forward each other on the way that leads to the destination of both, as immortal spirits the land where there is "neither marrying, nor giving in marriage."

Such a marriage as this is Heaven begun on earth-but they must necessarily be few, and

those between whom they might subsist are

often doubtless

by still conflicting powers,

Forbidden here to meet."

Why then hurry a young woman, before she has looked on life as the solemn earnest task it is a task requiring our free and unshackled powers, our best energies adequately to perform it-why hurry her into an union which perhaps is totally destitute of these, the necessary ingredients of married happiness, and fix her fate for life (perhaps for more), in order that she may have a house in London, or be called My Lady? That the system of modern education makes the young creatures but too willingly parties to this heartless traffic, is not to be denied, but does not make the fact the less to be lamented.

This is only a digression, and certainly all these reflections were far enough from my mind

at seventeen; but they have recurred to me frequently, and with ever-increasing force in my way through life, and I record them here, not because there is anything either new or striking in the truths they contain, but because all honest testimony to a great truth is of value, however feeble the source whence it proceeds; and public protestation against errors, whether in political, national, or domestic affairs, is the only effectual method of arriving at their reform.

To return to my story. It was arranged that the marriage of Eleanor and my own should take place at the same time, and our preparations were made in common; for dear Lady Coningsburgh insisted that my trousseau should in every respect resemble Eleanor's, and my guardian made no difference in his gifts to us, except that he bestowed on his daughter all the family jewels that were not heir-looms in the male line.

My state of mind at this time was a peculiar one. I felt I was walking onward in a narrow path, difficult indeed, and without much to cheer me on, but so hedged in on every side, that I could not deviate from it without encountering an insuperable obstacle; and while my own mind was in this harrassed and bewildered state, I was looked on by all, as a willing, if not a very joyful bride, and a most fortunate girlfor Mr Lyle, rich and generous in money matters, had made over to me absolutely, as a gift on our marriage, The Grange and the whole of my paternal estate; while his own large property in Scotland, and his position as a rising Member of Parliament on the then ministerial side, made him a brilliant match for a girl with far higher pretensions than mine.

We were married on a bright, showery gleaming day in April,-the day itself was not fairer than my lovely Eleanor, as with smiles on her lip, and tears in her soft eyes, she went from her

father's house to follow the chosen of her heart

through new and untried paths.

Strange to say, I remember far more of the proceedings of that day as they related to her, than as being myself so deeply interested in them. I had so fully made up my mind to the idea of becoming the wife of Vincent Lyle, that I felt, even before the ceremony which united us, as already detached from the circle which comprised all I knew of home; and could enter into, and fully sympathise with my dear friend in the strange complicated emotions which must assail the happiest bride, on leaving fond parents, and the home of her childhood; and I thought more of her grief, as she clung sobbing to her mother's neck, than of the somewhat joyless prospect before me, as the life-companion of a man I had vainly striven to

love.

Eleanor and Everard went at once, after their marriage, to Holcombe Manor, his home in