me on the forehead, uttered a few kind words, and asked me if I had slept well; but all this was cold and distant. My heart, ready to spring towards him, stopped in its flight; it seemed to me that he should have waited until I awoke, to take me in his arms, and speak of love and happiness, and then recommence the caresses of the night.
I could guess that I should have answered his transports, and that no fear of pain would have prevented me receiving him again! At length a doubt for my future flashed across me, this was not what I had dreamed! Charles went out, saying that he left me to dress, but I had no thought of toilette, and I busied myself in sad thoughts. A well-known loveable voice called me, and Bertha ran to embrace me.
I put my arms round her neck, held her tightly, and began to cry.
'Gracious me! What is the matter, dear child?' she said.
I should not have known how to answer her, as I had no complaint to make, I only felt that I was not loved as I had hoped to be, and that my ardent furnace would never be able to burn freely.
Bertha thought that I was simply hysterical, and calmed me by gentle joking.
My natural gaiety soon got the upper hand; I rose and took a bath that my maid had already prepared.
The day passed slowly, everybody was happy around me; my husband seemed enchanted, he was as tender and gallant as his nature would permit. I was pleased with him, and timidly responded to his distant caresses. Night came; he led me away at an early hour, and we went to bed. Less timid than the night before, he took me in his arms, said that he loved me, and kissed me tenderly. I made bold enough to tell him that I also loved him, and gave him a kiss that electrified him.
Already I felt on my naked thigh something hard that promised much.
As on the preceding evening he placed his lips to my ear, and said: 'Shall we do like last night?'
(Continued on page 171)
THE LONGING WOMAN
I very oft have thought why women
Vex'd with green sickness, or when teeming
Should long for plaister, coals, or chalk,
And pine if we their fancies baulk.
Yet these things are not amiss,
Nay, we should humour them in this.
But women, when they are with child,
Have sometimes longings far more wild,
As I shall shew you bye and bye,
If you'll with patience cast an eye
On what I write. A Yorkshire squire,
When years had left him little fire,
Did with a youthful wife engage,
To be the comfort of his age;
For he had threescore winters told;
But see th' almighty power of gold
He saw a neighbour's charming daughter,
And of her greedy parents sought her.
Her parents, by his riches blinded,
Their daughter's pleasure, little minded;
But Jenny view'd him with disdain,
And wept, but all her tears were vain.
They gravely told her it was folly
To whine and be thus melancholy;
They own'd, indeed, the Squire was old,
But he was bless'd with store of gold,
And they'd take care he should appoint her
A very comfortable jointure,
That would (when he lay in his tomb)
Soon bring a younger husband home.
At last poor Jenny gave consent
To do what she could not prevent,
So to the church they gravely went.
The parson ty'd them fast for life,
And Jenny was an old man's wife;
The squire had all the joy he wanted,
And all he ask'd his Jenny granted;
She answered all his bills at sight,
Whether at morning, noon, or night;
And very few demands he made,
And Jenny had but little trade;
But being young, and likewise fair,
She thought it folly to despair.
Fox-hunting was the squire's delight,
He seldom did return till night;
But while he thus his sport enjoy'd,
His wife was otherwise employ'd;
Tho' what she did I cannot tell,
At last the dame began to swell.
This to her spouse she did declare,
Who hoping strongly for an heir,
With tears of joy embrac'd the fair.
My dear, said he, my charming wife,
Thou joy, thou comfort of my life,
My heart is overwhelm'd with joy,
Pray heav'n the child may be a boy;
Be what it will, I here declare,
That it shall be my only heir;
At least, I'll have no other wife,
Tho' you should die, my dearest life,
Which heaven forbid; you're young, my dear,
And may live many and many a year.
Jenny, who was at first afraid,
She had so oft the squire betray'd,
Was highly pleas'd with what he said;
For she, who never thought amiss,
Knew well the child was none of his.
And now came on her longing fits;
She long'd at first for dainty bits;
The husband all things got with care,
In hopes to see the wish'd-for heir.
At last her longings grew so high,
