I do compare you to so wicked, or myself to so unpitiful a person, although you make me feel some grief in a matter that toucheth you, and I wish I may preserve and keep you for her to whom alone you belong, if a body may claim to itself that which is won by love, right faithfully, yea entirely loving as I do, and will do all my life, despite pain, or hurt, or whatsoever may happen to me thereby. In recompense whereof, and of all the evil that you have been cause of to me, remember the place near hereby.

I desire not that you will keep promise with me tomorrow, but that we may be together, and that you give no credit to the suspicions that you shall have without being assured thereof. And I ask no more of God but that you might know all that I have in my heart, which is yours, and that He shall preserve you from all evil, at the least during my life, which shall not be dear unto me but as long as it and I shall please you. I go to bed and give you goodnight. Send me word tomorrow early in the morning how you have done, for I shall think long. And watch well if the bird shall fly out of his cage without his mate, as the turtle shall remain alone to lament and mourn for absence how short soever it be.

You do sufficiently know how my folly has been this occasion of your displeasure unto me, considering that I could have remedied it, and since I have perceived it I confess to you that I knew not how to govern myself. But neither in this matter, nor in any other, will I take upon me to do anything without knowledge of your will, which I beseech you to let me understand; for I will follow it all my

life more willingly than you shall declare it unto me. And if you do not send me word this night what you will that I shall do, I will myself hazard to cause it to be enterprised and taken in hand, which might be hurtful to that whereunto we both do tend. I beseech you let not any opinion of other persons be hurtful in your mind to my constancy. You may mistrust me, but when I put you out of doubt, and clear myself, refuse not to believe me, my dear love, and suffer me to make you some proof of my obedience, my faithfulness, constancy, and voluntary subjection, which I take for the pleasantest good that I might receive if you will accept it; and make no ceremony at it, for you could do me no greater outrage, nor give me more mortal grief.

WILLIAM IV AND CAROLINE

VON LINSINGEN

M

The romantic love, courtship, and secret marriage of

the third son of George III to Caroline von Linsingen has been quite ignored by his English biographers, who, however, have plenty to say concerning his attachment for Mrs. Jordan, the actress, with whom he lived for twenty years, and his subsequent marriage with Adelaide of SaxeMeiningen. There is not the slightest doubt, however, of the marriage of William IV, when Duke of Clarence, to the daughter of Lieutenant General von Linsingen, of Hanover, where the Prince first met her in 1790, when he had been practically rusticated with his brother, the Duke of York, heir-presumptive to the English throne. There is documentary evidence that such a marriage took place at Blansko in August, 1791; besides, the letters of Caroline to her brother Ernest and her son-in-law, Teubner, as well as the letters she exchanged with her husband, leave no remaining doubt.

Caroline's father, noticing the growing attachment between Prince William and his daughter, wrote to the wife of George III to break it off. The Queen, however, saw

nothing wrong in it, deeming her son's love for the German girl a sentimental attachment which would keep him. out of more serious intrigues. The Duke of York also encouraged the affair, for William, at that time, had no hope of succeeding him. The lovers were married by a Scottish minister, and for more than a year kept their secret. At length Caroline, perceiving that she was about to become a mother, confessed all to her father; he wrote to the Queen, who at once recalled her son to England. There he threw himself into politics and the dissipations of society, where his hearty geniality and coarse jokes at the expense of the King made him popular. Meanwhile, he quite forgot his German bride.

She, meantime, determined upon an heroic or sentimental sacrifice-according to one's point of view-and, strengthened in her resolution by her family and a miscarriage, determined nevermore to own herself to be the wife of Prince William. Apprised of her determination, the Prince visited her at Driburg, and renewed his vows of fidelity. All were to no purpose, and she succeeded in convincing her lover that their marriage could never be recognised at the court of King George. In England again, the Prince still declined renunciation, but left that act to her, which she performed with all the deliberation and finality of a noble, self-sacrificing woman, or a sentimental, hysterical female-once more, one has liberty of choice.

In Caroline's subsequent career there is much that will appeal to romantic sentimentalists. She apparently began to pine away with a broken heart. Death even seemed to have claimed her, and she was about to be buried. This

tragedy, however, was prevented by Doctor Meineke, who believed her to be in a trance. He was right. He was right. After a period of three weeks, she again showed signs of life, and in gratitude bestowed her hand upon the physician. It is not surprising that the marriage was unhappy, for it must have annoyed her husband to hear her melancholy broodings over the royal spouse she had renounced. It appears, moreover, that her sentimentalism-or devotionwas catching, for, after her death in her fortyfifth year, we find Doctor Meineke over

come with anguish and remorse that

he had SO ill understood

her "beautiful nature."

MM