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than. "What scope for description!" cried the first. “What scope for improvement!" returned the second.
As we returned we passed the cottage of the peasant whom we had seen at his plough in the morning. The family were busily engaged in their several domestic occupations. One little chubby-faced rogue was conducting Dobbin to his stable, another was helping his sister to coop up the poultry, and a third was incarcerating the swine, who made a vigorous resistance against their youthful antagonist. "Tender!" cried Rhyme; he was listening to the nightingale. "Very tender!" replied Reason; he was looking at the pigs.
As we drew near home, we met an old gentleman walking with his daughter, between whom and Charles a reciprocal attachment was said to exist. The lateness of the evening prevented much conversation, but the few words which were spoken again brought into contrast the opposite tempers of my friends. “A fine evening, madam," said the man of sense, and bowed. "I shall see you to-morrow, Mary!” said the lover, and pressed her hand. We looked back upon her as she left us. After a pause-" She is an angel!" sighed Charles. "She is an heiress," observed Jonathan. “She has ten thousand perfections!” cried Rhyme. “She has ten thousand pounds," said Reason.
We left them the next morning, and spent some days in speculations on the causes which enabled such union of affections to exist with such diversities of taste. For ourselves, we must confess that, while Reason has secured our esteem, Rhyme has run away with our hearts; we have sometimes thought with Jonathan, but we have always felt with Charles. "Essays."
Ar Cheltenham, where one drinks one's fill
I danced, last year, my first quadrille
Her eyes were blue as autumn's sky,
And well my heart might deem her one
I spoke of novels: "Vivian Gray"
And "Frankenstein" alarming;
Thought well of "Herbert Lacy,"
I vowed the last new thing of Hook's
And Laura said, "I dote on books,
I talked of music's gorgeous fane,
Hoped Ronzo would come back again,
I wished the chorus singers dumb,
Or Desdemona's sorrow? "Alas!" my beauteous listener sighed, "We must have storms to-morrow!"
I told her tales of other lands;
Of poisonous lakes, and barren sands,
I painted bright Italian skies,
I lauded Persian roses,
Coined similes for Spanish eyes,
And jests for Indian noses;
I broached whate'er had gone its rounds, The week before, of scandal;
What made Sir Luke lay down his hounds
How Lord de B. and Mrs. L.
Had crossed the sea together; My shuddering partner cried, "Oh, Lord! How could they, in such weather?"
Was she a blue? I put my trust
A boudoir pedant? I discussed
A Cockney muse? I mouthed a deal
A saint? I praised the pious zeal
To quote the morning paper.
Flat flattery was my only chance,
Found magic in her every glance,
Prayer, passion, folly, feeling;
I envied gloves upon her arm,
And when my worship was most warm,
She never found it colder."
I don't object to wealth or land;
Paints screens, subscribes to Sunday-schools,
But to be linked for life to her!
The desperate man who tried it,
Might marry a barometer,
And hang himself beside it!
His talk was like a stream which runs
It passed from Mohammed to Moses;
The planets in their radiant courses, And ending with some precept deep
For dressing eels or shoeing horses.
He was a shrewd and sound divine,
He 'stablished truth, or started error,