No sooner had the whist group taken their seats than an exclamation from Mr. Munchausen roused every body’s attention.

“D——n it,” said he, “I’m neatly dished:” searching his pocket nearly as low as his knees, “changed my small clothes before I came out, and egad the d——l a sous have I got. Who’ll be so kind to lend me half a guinea, or five shillings? I’ll give it them again to-morrow. Mr. Tweazy, Sir, may I beg the favour of you?”

“Sir,” said my uncle, very deliberately, “I have no more in my pocket than the exigencies of my own game may demand, neither has my nephew, for we were obliged to have recourse to the housekeeper’s purse for all the silver we could collect.”

This was a glorious hint to me, which, from my uncle’s manner, I plainly perceived had some peculiar inuendo inexplicable at the moment, or I had most readily complied with Mr. Munchausen’s request.

He next applied to Major Pea-Chick, who declared he had only a solitary seven shilling piece and a five pounder in his pocket.

Well, that wouldn’t do, and Munchausen bit his nails.

“Coniac, my dear fellow, can you assist me?” continued he; but Coniac too was poor, and must take care of himself, so what was to be done.

“Why give your draft,” said the Major, “it will be honour, at the pump.”

“What by washing away his debts of honour, I suppose you mean,” cried Mr. Coniac.

“True,” replied Munchausen, nothing daunted, “I can give my note.”

“Ah, you’re a noted dog we all know,” said Mr. Henpeck. “Here I’ll lend you five shillings.”

Mrs. Henpeck looked unutterable things, but for once she did not reprove, and in the sequel of the game Mr. Munchausen left off half a crown winner; and, gentleman-like, politely returned Mr. Henpeck’s loan.

Sandwiches and fruit succeeded; and at twelve we took our respective leaves: Miss Wau-Wau and her mama were escorted home by Major Pea-Chick: Mrs. Coniac sailed out of the house like a full furled man of war, and her husband leering under his deep slouched beaver, sneaked after, while Lady Flam, to mortify Mrs. Coniac, offered my uncle and self seats in her chariot, the acceptance of which she would take no denial to; which, though extremely averse to the principles of my uncle, politeness compelled him to comply with, and we actually drove off before Mrs. Coniac could make the clogs fit at all, while a carriage stood at the door, to her a convenience at all times most desirable; and of which she still anticipated the possession when her old rich aunt resigned it for one of Jarvis’s patent accommodations.

Thus ended our medley visit, and much rejoiced was I to press my pillow, and dream of meeting Rosa at the sacred fane of piety next morning.

My uncle’s hour of breakfast on the Sabbath was nine precisely, that he might have time to dress for church without hurrying himself, for no man alive was more punctual to religious duties; and as the church tinkled its triple chime, off we set, followed by Geoffry with the books, who escorted Mrs. Esther Rebecca Susanna Rangewell, the house-keeper, on his arm, dressed in rich brocade lutestring, and her stiff starched book-muslin apron and handkerchief, bedecked with her master’s old point ruffles—oh, what a swell she cut as she waggled out of the gate, full dressed, to see old Geoffry’s village angel, alias Miss Fitzclarence, on whose beauty and accomplishments Geoffry had rung such a peal in Mrs. Esther Rebecca Susanna’s ears, that the antiquated dame was absolutely half jealous to think he could prefer any body to herself, after living together, as they had done, in love and harmony for thirty years. But Geoffry was a man of taste, superior to a French cook—and though his knowledge did not extend much beyond the best peach, or the finest rose in the garden, he had perspicuity to discern, that neither excelled the cheek of Miss Fitzclarence.

Arrived at the pew-door, we reverently took our seats, amidst the assembly of the whole village, for curiosity, like a summer sun, had drawn every snail from its shell, and even Messrs. Fungus and Deposit, had supported the fatigue of a fag, in the broiling heat, above a mile, to see this divine creature.

My uncle nudged my elbow, and by the direction of his intelligent eye, directed mine to the opposite pew, where sat the amiable Mrs. Markwell and her lovely protegee—a reciprocal bow passed between us—but such a radiance of sublimity as illuminated the countenance of Rosa, I never beheld—her devotion was fervent, her eye never wandered; Eloise in her confessional was not more recluse from the incitement of public gaze, unconscious that every eye benignant, or malicious, levelled its scrutiny on her most minute action.

There was no organ—an uncouth rustic sounded the pitch pipe, and Rosa’s seraph voice caught every ear—’twas melody extatic—’twas harmony divine—I could have leaped the pew and pressed her to my heart.

Five different times had Mrs. Deposit changed her seat from one corner to the other, but still a protruding pillar precluded a full view, and a sidelong glance was the most she could possibly obtain.

The service ended, the congregation (peasantry excepted) drew up in the church porch to make their reverent obeisances to the Rector, and enjoy a full stare at Rosa, who stood by his side, whilst my uncle and I remained silent spectators in the back-ground, to avoid the malevolence of satirical observers; and thanks to heaven, the worthy rector, aware of the impertinent curiosity her reported beauty had excited, led her from the rude gaze of her surrounding complimenters.

The throng dispersing, we followed, unnoticed, to the Rectory, where the smiles of benignity welcomed us in every countenance.

I took my seat beside Rosa—I gazed in rapture, and my uncle’s eyes glistened in tears, as he thanked the good Rector for his excellent sermon, observing, he had never favoured his congregation with it before.

“Don’t thank me, my dear Sir,” replied Dr. Markwell, “it is Miss Fitzclarence who selected it from her library, as the composition of the celebrated Blair-’tis therefore to her taste and judgment your thanks are due.”

“I then fervently acknowledge the favour and satisfaction I have received from hearing so excellent a discourse,” replied my uncle, “though I much fear,” continued he, “it made very little impression on Mrs. Fungus, or Mrs. Deposit, their curiosity seemed to me to be more prevalent than their devotion.”

“We received a visit from them very unexpected—and, I must say, unwished,” answered the Rector, “my sweet Rosa contributed every thing in her power to entertain them, but their flippant mock consequence was so evident and disgusting, that necessity compelled me to ask them if they eat nettles, as I had been told there was a species of them that envenomed the tongue, but that Miss Fitzclarence had favoured my family with an antidote superior to my recipe in the Pharmacopia: and should such an effect ever attack them, she would administer it with pleasure; they burst into an effected laugh—and when they did us the favour to take their departure, I believe Rosa did not regret it.”

Rosa nodded assent; but as calumny had never parched her coral lip, she would not contaminate it now.

“My dear Sir,” said she, “strangers are not prepossessing; and though I had the happiness to captivate you at first sight (when your extended arm clasped me to your bosom, and your benignant voice hailed me as your child); those ladies might consider me in a very different point of view—young and unpractised as I am in the school of modern life, I am, I hope, the harmless child of nature.”

“And they are the vile pupils of art,” exclaimed the Rector, interrupting her, “the corruption of the village—and glad shall I be when the voluptuous scenes of London recalls their hateful company from our valley of peace and contentment; and I don’t doubt but Mrs. Deposit’s Loo club will, in the course of next winter be established every Sunday evening, where their adoration will be paid at the shrine of Pam.”

“Sir, sir, you make me tremble,” exclaimed Rosa; “is it possible such conduct can be countenanced or suffered in a christian country.”

“Alas! my child, too possible—’tis even in some instances become habitual, though I grieve to acknowledge it even in my closet, that the infection may never produce the direful contagion in any circle of my connexion.”

“My father, alas! was too much addicted to its baneful influence, I have heard say,” sighed the beauteous Rosa, “and caused my beloved and excellent mother much grief on the occasion, but all her prudential remonstrances were vain, he played deep, but in general very successful. Yet, with all his excess of folly he never profaned the sabbath with that dreadful innovation of its laws, though many other vices were attached to the unhappy principles he possessed.”

The soft tear of sensibility fell from the eye of Rosa—it flowed from the spring of nature, and in its fall rested on the string of coral suspended round her alabaster bosom.

“My sweet Rosa,” observed Dr. Markwell, who had so unknowingly touched the chord of sympathy in her susceptible heart. “If I have roused a dormant and unpleasing recollection in your bosom, banish it at the shrine of my contrition, resume your charming wonted gaiety of heart, and by way of diverting the subject, will you shew Mr. St. Alban my prize carnation bed.”

Rosa instantly caught up her parasol, and I followed her, like a second Adam; for, blessed with her society, that little spot of ground was paradise, and never shall I forget the combination and excess of feeling I at that moment experienced, as taking her soft hand, I pressed it to my lip, and drew it with familiar fond and timid perturbation through my proffered arm.

Rosa led me to the blooming parterre, and here I soon discovered she was mistress of botany, while I in return would have given worlds to convince her I was an equal adept in the science of love. Her expatiation, which would have charmed a naturalist, was to me logic, whilst my head and heart were replete with a subject so different.

I admired the carnations—but I admired the fair narratress of their beauties much more.

“Those flowers are beautiful,” said I, pointing (I confess with a roguish intent) to a bed of heart’s-ease, one of which my innocent, my unsuspecting, companion stooped to gather and present me with.

“Examine minutely the brilliant velvet of that purple leaf, Mr. St. Alban,” said she, “it’s a simple little flower, but it ranks high in my estimation.”

“What, then, must it do in mine, charming Rosa, as a present from you?” replied I.

“Oh, if you really admire them,” resumed the innocent Rosa, unconscious of my fallacious metaphor, “I’ll have a plot dug up, and send them you to-morrow morning, with pleasure.”

At this portentous moment, a vagrant rose bush caught the robe of Rosa, and made her its momentary prisoner.

“You are caught, Miss Fitzclarence,” said I, laughingly, “give me leave to extricate you, and I’ll punish the offender by divesting it of part of its beauty;” saying which, I cropped a beautiful rose, and placed it in her bosom.

This badinage d’amour had, perchance, explained all I wished, if the appearance of my uncle, and the Rector, had not interfered.

“Come, come, are you taking lessons on botany from your fair tutoress?” said my uncle, “if so, you may resume your studies at tea-time, as we shall pass our evening here by Dr. Markwell’s kind invitation—at present we’ll walk home.”

“Adieu, Miss Fitzclarence,” said I, “we shall meet again e’er sun-set, and renew our pleasing and instructive theme.”

“Come early,” said the soft voice of Rosa, as she closed the gate after us: nor was her look less inviting than her words, “come early, that we may renew our botanical researches e’er the shades of evening closes the flowers, if my worthy monitor does not deem it an improper amusement: for sure in contemplating the sublimity of nature, we must at the same moment adore the Creator of it.”

“What sentiments that lovely girl possesses,” exclaimed my uncle, “she not only steals my heart, but my very soul—I love her already as a darling child, and I begin to feel every hour languid that is not passed in her company.”

“Hold, Sir,” cried I, “don’t make me more enthusiastic than I am. If you behold her with admiration, what must I do?”

“Why, love her most sincerely, no doubt,” said my uncle, “what more would you do?”

“And what less can any mortal do who beholds her?” replied I, “but what will Dr. Markwell say?”

“What will your father say, more likely,” answered my uncle.

“Ah, my God,” cried I, “in consulting my own choice, I never thought of his dissent.”

“But you don’t know he will dissent,” continued my uncle.

“Alas! I fear it—and then again my prescribed fortune, subjoined to his caprice, makes me shudder at the reflection of my temerity—Rosa, too, an heiress, rich, beautiful, accomplished: may not her ideas soar to equal, or superior, possessions? she who might command a coronet—she, whom eastern idolators might worship, will she prefer and accept the humble St. Alban! No, no, there’s folly in the thought; I have no pretension—I feel I have none—nor dare I reveal them to my father, who would instantly crush my presumptive hopes.”

“He shan’t crush them, by G—d,” said my uncle, vehemently, striking his stick against a cottage paling with such force, that a little yelping dog flew furiously to the gate, followed by a pretty little girl, who endeavoured to pacify the animal.

“Fury! Fury!” cried she, “how dare you bark at his honour,” and she dropped a low curtsey.

“What’s that you, Cicely?” said my uncle, “how is your mother, and the twins?”

“Brave and charming, please your honour.”

“And have you been to church?”

“Yes, your honour.”

“And where was the text?”

Cicely repeated it fluently.

“Good girl,” said I, giving her a shilling; the child’s bright eyes glistened, and she dropped me half a dozen curtseys. My uncle gave her something for her mother, with which Cicely and Fury re-entered the cottage.

“Mark the effects of fidelity, civility, and truth, how each attain their own reward. The fidelity of the dog in retaliating the noise I made, thereby to preserve the property of which he knew himself guardian, caused the civil interference of Cicely, who by demonstrating the truth, in repeating the text, was rewarded by you, and thus,” continued my uncle, “out of evil cometh good, sure enough.”

We soon after reached home, where Alice opened the hall-door to us, Geoffry being in the garden gathering our desert.

“Lack-a-daisey! stars alive!” cried she, “Sir, what a heavenly-looking young lady Miss Fitzthingembob is, surely: I knows no more about the sermont then if I’d been at Jericho, for I could attend to nothing, God forgive me—I never was so onpious in my life; but Geoffry says I have committed no sin, for looking at, and admiring, a godly person is like unto being in an angel’s company, and that’s no harm.”

“Alice,” cried my uncle, “you’re a woman of discernment: and I can tell you Miss Fitzclarence is as good as she is handsome; but don’t let the contemplation of her virtues make you forget your own—therefore, go and inspect my dinner concerns.”

Alice withdrew.

“The whole village is infected with the mania of admiration: men, women, and children,” said my uncle, “and as to you and I, I believe we are incurables.”

“It’s a complaint that will bring few grist to Dr. Tonic’s mill, though,” replied I.

“I shall banter him, however, upon it, you may depend,” said my uncle.

Dinner was now served up; during which, it was a constant rule of my uncle’s never to enlarge on family topics, politics, or any private conversation, before servants, whom he always styled “telegraphs of mischief;” our topics, therefore, were confined to common occurrences, such as the wind and weather.