I DETEST runaway matches. "Marriage is honourable," says a great authority. Indeed it is one of the most important transactions in life, and as such it should be celebrated with all the "pride, pomp, and circumstance which the condition and circumstances of the parties will admit, and their position in society may render appropriate. This being my doctrine, I cannot entirely approve of the conduct of my friend Harry Harwood, the artist, in running off with old Titus Hazle's daughter in the way he did, and marrying her in Providence, far away from all her friends, and contrary to the form of the good old puritanical statute in such case made and provided. It was a very "romantic attachment," as the phrase is, and it fell out on this wise." Young Harwood had finished his studies at Cambridge, and got his diploma-this, by the way, I can safely aver; for I saw it delivered into his hands by the stoutest and most amiable of college presidents, and I afterwards saw it in Harry's studio, the parchment being "richly illuminated" with coloured pen-sketches of all the professors and tutors who had flourished during the previous lustrum, drawn to the life and caricatured to the death. He had got his diploma, and, what was better, he had got the consent of his father to reside a year at Cambridge and read, paint, or sketch, as his inclination might dictate.

Harry has often told me it was the happiest year of his life-not because he was allowed to VOL. XXVIL-17

follow the bent of his own genius so freely; but because he happened one day while sketching the farm-house of old Hazle, in West Cambridge, to catch a glimpse of his daughter, the beautiful Fanny, and to fall desperately in love with her. After that eventful morning, it was perfectly wonderful how hard he took to sketching, and it was equally marvellous that all his sketching excursions, begin where they would, were sure to terminate somewhere in the neighbourhood of that same old weather-beaten farm-house.

I was a sophomore then; but being rather an oldish looking youth, and fond of pictures, the artist honoured me with his confidence. So I was regularly informed of everything as it happened, Harry painting, smoking, and telling his troubles, and I lolling upon his sofa, listening and looking on. I gave him a world of sympathy and good advice, which he listened to with great apparent approbation, and went on in his own way. When he found himself seriously attached, I counselled him to go straight to old Hazle and ask for his daughter in due form. Here I think I was foiled by Fanny herself, who had heard her father speak contemptuously of the profession Harry had chosen, declaring roundly that " painters were poor devils, always out at the elbows, and never having wherewithal to go to market." As the farmer himself had acquired a great deal of money by industry and economy, he considered thrift the criterion of merit, and would not have given his

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daughter to Allston or Raffaelle, much less a poor student with his fame to acquire and his fortune to make. So Fanny, who was content to love, be loved, and hope, made Harry defer the declaration in form, and wait for a favourable turn in their affairs. The courtship ran on for a whole year without the old farmer's knowledge. But at last some gossip about the village told him, and he went into a towering rage about it, shut up his daughter, and threatened to cudgel Harry within an inch of his life, if he should ever be lucky enough to catch him.

Harry let him fume, and having succeeded in taking a secret and tender farewell of his mistress, he posted off to Italy; and subsequently he went to Paris and London. In five years he was a famous artist, and had money in bank. Then it was that he came home and demanded his bride in form; but the absurd old hunks refused his consent. It is true she was his only daughter and an heiress; but the match was in every respect unexceptionable. Out of all patience with such obstinacy, Harry succeeded in arranging and executing an elopement. Scandal says that Fanny actually jumped out of a chamber window; but this Harry denies. He declares that they ran away as quietly and respectably as possible; and were married in a few hours after the barouche and four had rapidly disappeared from the green lane at the foot of old Hazle's orchard.

The very next evening, at the earnest desire of

Fanny, they came back. Her husband had wished that some of the respectable friends, of whom he had many in Boston, should have time to go out and talk the old farmer "into reason." But Fanny, woman-like, chose to rely upon her father's affection. Who can fathom the depths of a father's love? Hers had certainly, according to his own view of things, good reason to be seriously offended, and, in the first burst of his fury, when he discovered her eseape, he said a great many hard things; and they say that he led the domestics and farm servants a terrible life for the rest of the day. But extremes are apt to follow one another, and when towards evening, as he was sitting by himself, and just beginning to feel the desolation of a solitary old man, deserted by his only child, she came in accompanied by her manly husband, in all her radiant beauty, cast herself, with many tears, at his feet, and begged his pardon, and promised to live with him, and to be the solace of his age, the old man's heart melted within him, and he freely forgave her.

To give old Hazle his due, he was a man who never did things by halves, and when he came to know my friend Harry, (one of the most noblespirited and most amiable men in the world,) he gave him his whole heart; and a happier family than that which is composed of the old farmer, young Harwood, Mrs. Harwood, and all the little Harwoods, is not at this present writing, to be found in all Middlesex county.

THE Parisian ladies go to market; this is praiseworthy, as it proves that they are occupied with their housekeeping and domestic duties. The wives of rich capitalists, merchants, bankers, annuitants, and artists are not ashamed to go every morning to the nearest market and buy provisions. Some go alone, with a large basket on their arm, and when it becomes too heavy they get a porter to carry it home for them.

Others are accompanied by a female servant, bearing the basket. But, in this case, they are exposed to the insolence of the market-women of whom they do not buy, who will sometimes call after the servant as she trots along by her mistress' side,

"Look at that great thing that they are taking to school;" or

"Can't you come to market by yourself, you great fool;" or

go to market, are so accustomed to this sort of language, that they take no notice of it. But the servant gives an encouraging look, as much as to say,

"That's right-strike hard-go on! and perhaps she will let me come by myself next time." People who are in the habit of going to market generally have their own market-people, of whom they always buy. Nevertheless as they pass along the others cry out,

"Come to me, my dear! buy something of mine, my jewel! You won't go by so proudly today! I will sell very cheap! Buy something and give me good luck! Ah! the wicked woman-she will not buy any thing of me! Won't you speak to me, my darling?"

People meet their acquaintances at market, and they stop and talk, seeking provisions meanwhile and bargaining.

"Here is Madame Benjamin! Good morning, madame-how do you do? I need not ask you that, you are as fresh as a rose. Oh! don't look at me! I beg of you. I am a perfect fright. This is an old frock that I only wear in the morning. I

have had it two years. But it looks very well; and I am sure, to come to market, you would not wish to dress better. But your dress is very pretty. Oh! mine is good enough, but if you knew what I gave for it-35 sous, and it is a very good colour."

"How very cheap, where did you get it, do tell me the place-at Aubertot's-Rue Poissoniere, near the Boulevart?-Let me see your salmon-is it fresh?"

"Just out of the water-smell it, and tell me what you think of it."

"Are you buying fish?" asks Madame Benjamin of the other lady-"it is dreadfully dearand as to poultry, it is beyond every thing."

"Every thing is very high now. I tell my husband every day that he will have to allow me more money for marketing or else there is no use in my going at all."

"But, husbands are such strange creatures. They never will listen. They answer calmly, 'manage it as you can; I don't eat more than I used to; I don't wish to spend more in marketing.'

"Yes, and if you did not give them a good dinner, what faces they would make and how they would grumble."

"Well! this salmon, how much for this piece?" "Six francs! because you want it, my dear." "Six francs, indeed. It would taste too strong of the silver."

"But look at it!-it is a piece fit for a king; and then you know salmon is very scarce, like good men. It is very different from mackerel, you may get any quantity of them."

Will you take three francs for this piece?" "Fie, whom do you take me for! I had rather

not sell it at all. Take it for 100 sous. That is the lowest I will sell it for."

"No, indeed. I am going with you, Madame Benjamin."

"Wait a minute. Let us see. Give us four francs, and be done."

"I have told you what I will give, I can't go any higher."

"How hard you are. Well, take it. It is only because it is yourself; and you must eat it your. self."

The lady places the piece of salmon in her basket, and goes away with Madame Benjamin, saying,

"If I did not know how to bargain, I should be robbed. That is the reason I always come myself. You can't trust servants. What do they care if things are dear? It is not their moneyand there are so few who enter into their employer's interests."

set.

"Don't speak of it, they are a troublesome Have you that same woman still?" "Yes, but I don't mean to keep her. She don't know how to do any thing. She lets the meat burn, and she can't sew. She spends the day in ironing caps for herself."

"Mine is faithful-very faithful; but at the same time very impertinent. Indeed, I very often do things myself, rather than ask her to do them." Good morning, ladies." says a long thin woman, in passing by, a woman whose face resembles that of a China dog.

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"Have you made your purchases? I am going to see if the market is good. My husband and I are very particular, we must have the best of every thing, we like good eating."

"So does everybody," says Madame Benjamin, smiling maliciously at Madame Legras.

The new comer opens Madame Legras' basket. "Oh! you have some fish. But what a little piece. It would not make two mouthfuls for my husband-and pigeons-oh! how thin they areI must have finer ones than those. Let me taste your butter-hum, by no means the best-my husband is so very particular about butter;-he and I both are very fond of good eating. We always have good things at our house."

"And do you mean to say we have only bad ones?"

"My dear friend! I never even thought such a thing. But, you know, all people are more or less particular. Adieu, I must go and buy. I am afraid all the best pieces will be gone.

"Poor thing," says Madame Legras, when the tall lady is out of hearing, "don't you pity her? She and her husband are both so fond of good living! Why, I went there one day and found them dining on a red herring and a miserable bit of turkey. She will go all through the market, and at last buy a radish. I understand her."

A little woman, who is no longer either young or handsome, and who comes to market in a dress with flounces, and a hat with flowers, accosts the two friends, exclaiming,

"Oh! Madame Benjamin and Madame Legras! Good morning! Have you bought all you want; as to myself, we have company to dinner to-day. Mr. Bichonneau is so very fond of having his friends to dine with him, and eat up his substance, and afterwards, as I always tell him, they never thank you for it. But it is his way. Nine people to-day with my Phonphonse, that makes twelve. It is very fortunate that he did not ask one more, it would have made thirteen! I declare I would not have come to the table. But, among these nine people, we have that great fat Flemish painter, who eats as much as four common men; and M. Lecarlin-how he drinks! What in the world can I give them all? Is fish dear?" "Tremendous."

"But, Madame Bichonneau is an old coquette, who spends every thing in her dress, and puts her husband upon potatoe diet, all the year round."

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"Poor dear man! He is a good fellow. If I were so unfortunate as to give my husband the same dish, two days in succession, he would not say any thing to me; but he would go into the city to dine all the rest of the week."

"All men are not Bichonneaus. Well, I am glad of it; for I don't think there is any thing so tiresome as stupid men."

"I agree with you exactly. I would rather have a wicked husband than a stupid one. I am going into my butter woman's."

"And I to my butcher. Good-bye, Madame Legras."

"Madame Benjamin, if you hear of a servantwoman that you think will suit me-an honest one, and above all, not pretty, send her to me, will you?"

"I will."