It was a scene to interest the coldest heart--not for the state and
splendor of the accoutrements, nor the high rank of the parties
principally concerned, nor for the many renowned characters of church,
state, and chivalry there assembled; it was the extreme youth and
touching expression, impressed on the features, of both bride and
bridegroom.
Neither Arthur, Prince of Wales, nor Catherine, Infanta of Arragon,
had yet numbered eighteen years, the first fresh season of joyous
life; but on neither countenance could be traced the hilarity and
thoughtlessness, natural to their age. The fair, transparent brow of
the young Prince, under which the blue veins could be clearly seen,
till lost beneath the rich chesnut curls, that parted on his brow,
fell loosely on either shoulder; the large and deep blue eye, which
was ever half concealed beneath the long, dark lash, as if some untold
languor caused the eyelid to droop so heavily; the delicate pink of
his downless cheek, the brilliant hue on his lips, even his peculiar
smile, all seemed to whisper the coming ill, that one so dear to
Englishmen would not linger with them to fulfil the sweet promise of
his youth.
Beauty is, perhaps, too strong a word to apply to the youthful bride.
It was the pensive sadness of her mild and pleasing features that so
attracted--natural enough to her position in a strange land, and the
thoughts of early severance from a mother she idolized, but recalled
some twenty years afterwards as the dim shadow of the sorrowing
future, glooming through the gay promise of the present.
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