"To feel that we adore
With such refined excess,
That though the heart would burst with more,
We could not live with less."
Moore.
Fair rose the morn of the day which was to unite the destinies of Miles Arundel and of Eveline Dunning, as if to make some amends for the clouds which had attended the progress of their affection.
With a tear in her eye, and smiles in the dimples of her plump cheeks, Dame Spikeman looked on the adorning of the lady for the marriage ceremony, by the cunning fingers of Prudence Rix. She thought, as she gazed on the fair, young face, of her own maiden beauty, of the timid happiness that palpitated in her bosom on her wedding-day, of the dress that heightened her charms, and (shall I so soon acknowledge it?) of what would be becoming for herself on a like occasion, wherein she was to bear a principal part, and the too-fascinating Master Prout another. Let not the solemn pretender to decorum, who, in proportion to his demureness, is apt to be worse than others, with owlish visage quote, "frailty, thy name is woman," or, "e'er those shoes were old," or whatever musty apothegms besides, as stale and senseless. The name of Frailty is no more woman than man, and old shoes have no business at weddings. Stand aside O censorious reader, (I desire not thy acquaintance,) while I whisper to both maid and widow, what, probably, they have often pondered—that life is short, and that in Heaven they neither marry nor are given in marriage.
"Bless thy sweet face!" said the dame. ("Pull down the stomacher a little, Prudence; an' it had been a thought longer it were better.) Ne'er saw I so lovely a bride."
"It is the latest London fashion," muttered Prudence, "that hath come to these outlandish parts, where, thank the Lord, our stay will not be much longer than the stomacher."
"What is the girl chattering about?" said the dame. "Why, Prudence Pert, thou wilt tear the beautiful satin with thine impatience."