The Man of Feeling Part 9

May she be happy! her virtues deserve it; to me her marriage is otherwise indifferent: I had romantic dreams? they are fled?--it is perfectly indifferent."

Just at that moment he saw a servant with a knot of ribbons in his hat go into the house. His cheeks grew flushed at the sight! He kept his eye fixed for some time on the door by which he had entered, then starting to his feet, hastily followed him.

When he approached the door of the kitchen where he supposed the man had entered, his heart throbbed so violently, that when he would have called Peter, his voice failed in the attempt. He stood a moment listening in this breathless state of palpitation: Peter came out by chance. "Did your honour want any thing?"--"Where is the servant that came just now from Mr. Walton's?"

"From Mr. Walton's, sir! there is none of his servants here that I know of."--"Nor of Sir Harry Benson's?"--He did not wait for an answer; but having by this time observed the hat with its parti- coloured ornament hanging on a peg near the door, he pressed forwards into the kitchen, and addressing himself to a stranger whom he saw there, asked him, with no small tremor in his voice, "If he had any commands for him?" The man looked silly, and said, "That he had nothing to trouble his honour with."--"Are not you a servant of Sir Harry Benson's?"--"No, sir."--"You'll pardon me, young man; I judged by the favour in your hat."--"Sir, I'm his majesty's servant, G.o.d bless him! and these favours we always wear when we are recruiting."--"Recruiting!" his eyes glistened at the word: he seized the soldier's hand, and shaking it violently, ordered Peter to fetch a bottle of his aunt's best dram. The bottle was brought: "You shall drink the king's health," said Harley, "in a b.u.mper."-- "The king and your honour."--"Nay, you shall drink the king's health by itself; you may drink mine in another." Peter looked in his master's face, and filled with some little reluctance. "Now to your mistress," said Harley; "every soldier has a mistress." The man excused himself--"To your mistress! you cannot refuse it." 'Twas Mrs. Margery's best dram! Peter stood with the bottle a little inclined, but not so as to discharge a drop of its contents: "Fill it, Peter," said his master, "fill it to the brim." Peter filled it; and the soldier having named Suky Simpson, dispatched it in a twinkling. "Thou art an honest fellow," said Harley, "and I love thee;" and shaking his hand again, desired Peter to make him his guest at dinner, and walked up into his room with a pace much quicker and more springy than usual.

This agreeable disappointment, however, he was not long suffered to enjoy. The curate happened that day to dine with him: his visits, indeed, were more properly to the aunt than the nephew; and many of the intelligent ladies in the parish, who, like some very great philosophers, have the happy knack at accounting for everything, gave out that there was a particular attachment between them, which wanted only to be matured by some more years of courtship to end in the tenderest connection. In this conclusion, indeed, supposing the premises to have been true, they were somewhat justified by the known opinion of the lady, who frequently declared herself a friend to the ceremonial of former times, when a lover might have sighed seven years at his mistress's feet before he was allowed the liberty of kissing her hand. 'Tis true Mrs. Margery was now about her grand climacteric; no matter: that is just the age when we expect to grow younger. But I verily believe there was nothing in the report; the curate's connection was only that of a genealogist; for in that character he was no way inferior to Mrs. Margery herself. He dealt also in the present times; for he was a politician and a news- monger.

He had hardly said grace after dinner, when he told Mrs. Margery that she might soon expect a pair of white gloves, as Sir Harry Benson, he was very well informed, was just going to be married to Miss Walton. Harley spilt the wine he was carrying to his mouth: he had time, however, to recollect himself before the curate had finished the different particulars of his intelligence, and summing up all the heroism he was master of, filled a b.u.mper, and drank to Miss Walton. "With all my heart," said the curate, "the bride that is to be." Harley would have said bride too; but the word bride stuck in his throat. His confusion, indeed, was manifest; but the curate began to enter on some point of descent with Mrs. Margery, and Harley had very soon after an opportunity of leaving them, while they were deeply engaged in a question, whether the name of some great man in the time of Henry the Seventh was Richard or Humphrey.

He did not see his aunt again till supper; the time between he spent in walking, like some troubled ghost, round the place where his treasure lay. He went as far as a little gate, that led into a copse near Mr. Walton's house, to which that gentleman had been so obliging as to let him have a key. He had just begun to open it when he saw, on a terrace below, Miss Walton walking with a gentleman in a riding-dress, whom he immediately guessed to be Sir Harry Benson. He stopped of a sudden; his hand shook so much that he could hardly turn the key; he opened the gate, however, and advanced a few paces. The lady's lap-dog p.r.i.c.ked up its ears, and barked; he stopped again -

- "The little dogs and all, Tray, Blanch, and Sweetheart, see they bark at me!"

His resolution failed; he slunk back, and, locking the gate as softly as he could, stood on tiptoe looking over the wall till they were gone. At that instant a shepherd blew his horn: the romantic melancholy of the sound quite overcame him!--it was the very note that wanted to be touched--he sighed! he dropped a tear!--and returned.

At supper his aunt observed that he was graver than usual; but she did not suspect the cause: indeed, it may seem odd that she was the only person in the family who had no suspicion of his attachment to Miss Walton. It was frequently matter of discourse amongst the servants: perhaps her maiden coldness--but for those things we need not account.

In a day or two he was so much master of himself as to be able to rhyme upon the subject. The following pastoral he left, some time after, on the handle of a tea-kettle, at a neighbouring house where we were visiting; and as I filled the tea-pot after him, I happened to put it in my pocket by a similar act of forgetfulness. It is such as might be expected from a man who makes verses for amus.e.m.e.nt.

I am pleased with somewhat of good nature that runs through it, because I have commonly observed the writers of those complaints to bestow epithets on their lost mistresses rather too harsh for the mere liberty of choice, which led them to prefer another to the poet himself: I do not doubt the vehemence of their pa.s.sion; but, alas!

the sensations of love are something more than the returns of grat.i.tude.

LAVINIA.

A PASTORAL.

Why steals from my bosom the sigh?

Why fixed is my gaze on the ground?

Come, give me my pipe, and I'll try To banish my cares with the sound.

Erewhile were its notes of accord With the smile of the flow'r-footed Muse; Ah! why by its master implored Shou'd it now the gay carrol refuse?

'Twas taught by LAVINIA'S sweet smile, In the mirth-loving chorus to join: Ah, me! how unweeting the while!

LAVINIA--can never be mine!

Another, more happy, the maid By fortune is destin'd to bless - 'Tho' the hope has forsook that betray'd, Yet why should I love her the less?

Her beauties are bright as the morn, With rapture I counted them o'er; Such virtues these beauties adorn, I knew her, and prais'd them no more.

I term'd her no G.o.ddess of love, I call'd not her beauty divine: These far other pa.s.sions may prove, But they could not be figures of mine.

It ne'er was apparel'd with art, On words it could never rely; It reign'd in the throb of my heart, It gleam'd in the glance of my eye.

Oh fool! in the circle to shine That Fashion's gay daughters approve, You must speak as the fashions incline; Alas! are there fashions in love?

Yet sure they are simple who prize The tongue that is smooth to deceive; Yet sure she had sense to despise, The tinsel that folly may weave.

When I talk'd, I have seen her recline, With an aspect so pensively sweet, - Tho' I spoke what the shepherds opine, A fop were ashamed to repeat.

She is soft as the dew-drops that fall From the lip of the sweet-scented pea; Perhaps when she smil'd upon all, I have thought that she smil'd upon me.

But why of her charms should I tell?

Ah me! whom her charms have undone Yet I love the reflection too well, The painful reflection to shun.

Ye souls of more delicate kind, Who feast not on pleasure alone, Who wear the soft sense of the mind, To the sons of the world still unknown.

Ye know, tho' I cannot express, Why I foolishly doat on my pain; Nor will ye believe it the less, That I have not the skill to complain.

I lean on my hand with a sigh, My friends the soft sadness condemn; Yet, methinks, tho' I cannot tell why, I should hate to be merry like them.

When I walk'd in the pride of the dawn, Methought all the region look'd bright: Has sweetness forsaken the lawn?

For, methinks, I grow sad at the sight.

When I stood by the stream, I have thought There was mirth in the gurgling soft sound; But now 'tis a sorrowful note, And the banks are all gloomy around!

I have laugh'd at the jest of a friend; Now they laugh, and I know not the cause, Tho' I seem with my looks to attend, How silly! I ask what it was.

They sing the sweet song of the May, They sing it with mirth and with glee; Sure I once thought the sonnet was gay, But now 'tis all sadness to me.

Oh! give me the dubious light That gleams thro' the quivering shade; Oh! give me the horrors of night, By gloom and by silence array'd!

Let me walk where the soft-rising wave, Has pictur'd the moon on its breast; Let me walk where the new cover'd grave Allows the pale lover to rest!

When shall I in its peaceable womb, Be laid with my sorrows asleep?

Should LAVINIA but chance on my tomb - I could die if I thought she would weep.

Perhaps, if the souls of the just Revisit these mansions of care, It may be my favourite trust To watch o'er the fate of the fair.

Perhaps the soft thought of her breast, With rapture more favour'd to warm; Perhaps, if with sorrow oppress'd, Her sorrow with patience to arm.

Then, then, in the tenderest part May I whisper, "Poor COLIN was true,"

And mark if a heave of her heart The thought of her COLIN pursue.

THE PUPIL--A FRAGMENT

* * * "But as to the higher part of education, Mr. Harley, the culture of the mind--let the feelings be awakened, let the heart be brought forth to its object, placed in the light in which nature would have it stand, and its decisions will ever be just. The world

Will smile, and smile, and be a villain;

and the youth, who does not suspect its deceit, will be content to smile with it. Men will put on the most forbidding aspect in nature, and tell him of the beauty of virtue.