getting married. Probably the spectators are more conscious of the impressive meaning of it all than the brave young people themselves. I say brave, for I am always struck by the courage of the two who thus gaily leap into the gulf of the unknown together, thus join hands over the inevitable, and put their signatures to the irrevocable. Indeed, I always get something like a palpitation of the heart just before the priest utters those final fateful words, "I declare you man and—wife." Half a second before you were still free, half a second after you are bound for the term of your natural life. Half a second before you had only to dash the book from the priest's hands, and put your hand over his mouth, and though thus giddily swinging on the brink of the precipice, you are saved. Half a second after 

   Not all the king's horses and all the king's men Can make you a bachelor ever again. 

 

 It is the knife-edge moment 'twixt time and eternity. 

 And, curiously enough, while my thoughts were thus running on towards the rapids of that swirling moment, the very thing happened which I had often imagined might happen to myself. Suddenly, with a sob, the bridegroom covered his face with his hands, and crying, "I cannot! I cannot!" hurriedly left the church, tears streaming down his cheeks, to the complete dismay of the sad little group at the altar, and the consternation of all present. 

 "Poor young man! I thought he would never go through with it," said an old woman half to herself, who was sitting near me. I involuntarily looked my desire of explanation. 

 "Well, you see," she said, "he had been married before. His first wife died four years ago, and he loved her beyond all heaven and earth." 

 That evening, I afterwards heard, the young bridegroom's body was found by some boys as they went to bathe in the river. As I recalled once more that sad yearning face, and heard again that terrible "I cannot! I cannot!"  I thought of Heine's son of Asra, who loved the Sultan's daughter. 

 "What is thy name, slave?" asked the princess, "and what thy race and birthplace?" 

 "My name," the young slave answered, "is Mahomet. I come from Yemen. My race is that of Asra, and when we love, we die." 

 And likewise a voice kept saying in my heart, "If ever you find your Golden Bride, be sure 

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