As soon as our desert was placed on table, Dr. Tonic, the formidable, rang at the gate: and, as usual, stalked into the room.

“Fine day! hem—hem—how dy’e do?” and down he sat, wiping his bronze countenance.

“Its excessive hot,” continued he; “I called to look at your barometer—mine’s up to ninety-two—how stands yours, eh, squire, eh?”

“It hangs in the corner, I have not consulted it to-day, I have had better amusement,” replied my uncle; “what think you of our sermon this morning?”

“Oh, very fair! very fair!—long enough, in all conscience.”

“But not so long as your consience, Mr. Doctor,” said my uncle, “it was one of Miss Fitzclarence’s I understand.”

“Hey! what! hem, hem—one of Miss Fitzclarence’s making, did you say?” asked the Doctor, eagerly.

“No,” replied my uncle, in the key F sharp, “I did not say any such thing: I said it was one of her sermons—but it does not follow that she composed it; why, you’re mad: I only meant to observe, it was one of her choosing, and a finer or more sublime discourse, to the heart, I never heard: I won’t pretend to say how you might feel it.”

“Well, I hope he won’t tip us such a long one next Sunday: for I can assure you my beef was boiled to rags in consequence of it.”

“Then I hope as you fasted you prayed,” said my uncle.

“I did,” replied the doctor, “for the end of the sermon, but it did not avail.”

“I don’t wonder at that,” said my uncle, “you know the adage without explanation, I’m sure.”

“How demure our new visitor sat, and how loud she sung,” continued the doctor; “did you see Mrs. Deposit laughing behind her? for, egad, she’s kicked the skin off my wife’s shin, she was so diverted with the little girl’s piety.”

“Poor idiot!” exclaimed my uncle taking a pinch of snuff, “unhappy lunatic!”

“Idiot! lunatic!” repeated Dr. Tonic with astonishment, “who dy’e mean? what dy’e mean? how dy’e mean?”

“I mean,” answered my uncle fiercely, “that Mrs. Deposit is an idiot to ridicule the pious deportment of the exemplary Miss Fitzclarence; and a lunatic to expose her impious folly by laughing in a church: I’ll tell you what, Doctor, if you don’t blister her distemper, I shall turn physician extraordinary, without fee, and apply one myself the first time I see occasion.”

“Hah! hah! hah!” chuckled the Doctor, “will you accept of a pot of my Spanish flies?”

“No, thank you, I am already provided,” answered my uncle, looking very grave, “you may have occasion for all your stock to counteract the epidemic fever that reigns so contagious in the village.”

“Fever! fever! what fever? I’ve heard of none,” cried the Doctor.

“Poh!” cried my uncle, “how you attend to business: if you send your son Bob to feel Mrs. Deposit and Mrs. Fungus’s pulse, he’ll find them scorching alive with the fever of envy—they’ll be good customers for your saline mixtures. Then there’s Mrs. Coniac, and Mrs. Henpeck, they must have extra draughts: likewise Mrs. Windfall, Mrs. Wau-Wau, Lady Flam, Widow Quiz, and Mrs. Dashwell, must all go on the yellow sick list—aye, and even your daughters, Miss Wau-Wau, and Miss Macfriz, will be obliged to swallow pills in consequence of the infection; for, depend upon it, they’ve all caught the distemper—I give you joy, you’ll have a long job of it, for it’s a devilish incurable complaint.—Now, as to Lady Lustre, Mrs. Downright, Mrs. Prolix, Mrs. Markwell, the Rector, myself, Victor, Alice, Rangewell, Geoffry, and all the villagers, must have a different remedy, for the whole squad are affected with an extreme opposite attack, stiled a sort of love fever, no ways prejudicial to the female sex, but very curable in most males. Now, Doctor, if you can exert your skill by curing these yellow fever gentry, you’ll establish your celebrity for ever.”

The Doctor could only laugh, for he had no words to invalidate the argument.

“I’ll tell you what,” said my uncle, filling the Doctor a bumper of bucelis, “if Miss Fitzclarence could but innoculate us all with her virtues, as you vaccinate the parish, what a new and happy set of beings we should appear—come, drink her health, “Fitzclarence for ever!”

“Oh, Lord no,” said the Doctor, “Fitzclarence as long as she pleases, but not for ever—consider she’s a d—d fine girl, she must not die an old maid.”

“Not for the world,” replied my uncle, “though sometimes there’s little difference between a woman’s driving monkies, or leading apes.”

“You’re satirical, Sir—you’re too severe, upon my soul,” cried the Doctor.

“England’s motto for that, Doctor,” replied my uncle, “I said no harm—I aimed no arrow, fly as it might; you grow touchy in your old age, high mettled chicks have quick pulses, they tell me.”

“Yes,” said the Doctor, “and old game cocks have spurs, I’ll assure you, that can strike pretty home occasionally; talking of game cocks, by the bye, puts me in mind of that old game dorking mother Henpeck—you passed the day there, I heard, yesterday—you was well entertained, no doubt; mice don’t starve in that cupboard, hem! hem! I’m going up to the Rectory this afternoon, with my daughter Elizetta, just by way of introduction so as to establish an intimate footing between her and Miss Fitzclarence, charming clever girl—an acquaintance worth cultivating—gain something by it, perhaps.”

“Why, you’re sure you can lose nothing,” cried my uncle, peevishly, and much vexed to hear of his intended visit to the Rectory. “I dare say,” continued he, “Dr. Markwell and the ladies will be out: we were to have taken tea, and a walk together.”

“What, here! taken tea here?” enquired the Doctor.

“Here, or there, no matter which,” replied my uncle, “but at all events it was a reciprocal engagement, which makes me say I think you’ll not find them at home.”

“Well, we can but go and see,” said the Doctor, nothing dismayed, “if we don’t find them at home, we shall conclude they are here, and we can join your walk in the evening, you know.”

“No: I don’t know any such thing,” answered my uncle, “it’s an equal chance we don’t walk at all; I may not be inclined, perhaps: and they, I’m sure, will have too much good manners to leave me at home alone.”

“Of course, of course,” rejoined the Doctor, looking very foolish at not receiving an expected invitation to join the tea party, as he imagined, and rising precipitately from his chair, “we’ll set off and try our luck, however,” cried he, “so, good day, gentlemen,” and away he went.

“Deuce take the man,” exclaimed my uncle, “how he perplexes and counteracts all my plans: now I won’t go to Markwell’s: I’ll send Geoffry to say so: all the delightful and edifying converse I anticipated will be marred by his scandalous babbling larum, and before breakfast to-morrow the whole village will know what we all said, did, and even thought, with a correct catalogue of how many pieces of bread and butter each person eat, and the precise attitude in which Miss Fitzclarence sipped her tea: therefore, I won’t go, Victor—I can’t bear it—I shall be out of temper all night.”

“I shall be greatly disappointed, Sir,” said I—“don’t send Geoffry: let us take a walk up, at all risks.”

“Well! well! have your own way,” replied my uncle, “but as Tonic and his chit are gone off, full tilt, I shan’t stir this hour to come.”

“Rosa will expect to see us, at all events,” said I in the mildest, humblest, tone I could assume.

“Most likely,” rejoined my uncle, “and you expect to see Rosa—yes, yes—I comprehend.”

I now dared not say another word about it, and different topics took their turn, till the irksome hour had elapsed; and, as I began to fidget on my chair, and draw my watch, my uncle caught the hint of my impatience, and calling for his hat and cane, instantly set off for the Rectory, where we expected to find the Tonics, but to our great satisfaction Dr. Markwell informed us, they had called and left their card in the absence of the family; for, as there was no afternoon service, they had strolled with Rosa to shew her the adjacent prospects that bounded the village, and make some calls of cottage benevolence, in the Rector’s usual way; and in one of these visits the Tonics missed them, and no doubt returned very sullenly home again, keeping an Argus’s eye on my uncle’s gate, to see the expected tea-visitors, while we were most happily employed in the romantic seclusion of the Rectory: my uncle and Dr. Markwell commenting over Macklin’s superb bible, with which a certain bishop had presented him, and Rosa and I botanizing till the evening dews compelled us to decline our amusement, and commence another theme.

As we approached the parlour-window, we distinctly heard the gentlemen in earnest conversation; and, in order not to interrupt them, we returned to a little romantic sort of hermitage, on which the resplendent moon-beams played in full lustre through the acacia boughs, lightly waving in the evening breeze, as the dulcet nightingale twitted her sombre lullaby, in cadence broken, or irregularly sinking to repose within her foilaged nest.

The hour, the scene, the opportunity, was most auspicious; we took a seat—my arm encircled the waist of Rosa, whose soft blue eyes were fixed upon the beauteous evening star.

“Behold,” cried she, “yon glorious planet—lovely resplendent gem of heaven—’tis Venus.”

“Queen of love,” answered I, abruptly, “whose celestial shadow I there behold, whilst I here clasp the terrestrial substance”—and what effervent rhapsody followed, I shall suppress, and leave to the reader’s imagination, merely observing, before Rosa Fitzclarence, and Victor St. Alban, quitted the hermitage, he had sworn eternal love by the light of the moon, and sacred fidelity, pure as the lustre of the evening star, the celestial witnesses of his fervent vows scarce breathed in whisper, e’er the voice of Dr. Markwell broke upon our ear, and hastening from the seat, the beauteous Rosa, whose trembling hand rested on my arm, close to her palpitating heart, entered the room, suffused in blushes, to which I rapturously felt I had given birth, as the candles beamed full upon her face, where love’s temerity did not permit him to discern a frown of disapproval.

Dr. Mark well now requested Rosa to favour us with some of the exquisite airs from the Messiah, which she executed on the piano in such masterly style, that Handel might have stood entranced with admiration.

“Rosa makes her piano talk, positively,” said the amiable and charming Mrs. Markwell.

“Yes, indeed, it speaks to the heart pretty eloquently,” replied my uncle: “I’ll tell you what, young lady,” continued he, “you have a great deal to answer for; it is not clear to me, but all the epidemics in the village will be laid to your charge: you are a very dangerous young lady—you rob us of our hearts”—my uncle paused, leered at me, and Rosa’s cheek was scarlet with hermitage conviction, as he thus continued: “Yes, you make us invalidate our understanding, by your superior knowledge and perfections; you kill all the women with envy, and you deal daggers among the men;” then, turning jocosely to myself, and looking earnestly at Dr. Markwell, “guilty, or not guilty, what say you both? behold the culprit smiling at her crimes.”

“Guilty! guilty!” replied I, emphatically.

“And am I not allowed to make my defence?” asked Rosa, “unconscious as I am of conviction.”

“Your condemnation is general—your actions speak for themselves,” cried my uncle, who had fixed himself at her elbow, and was enthusiastically pressing her hand between his.

“Then I must bow to the decision of my jurors,” continued Rosa, “but I hope, if I should hereafter be accused of that heinous crime called vanity, I shall find friends in court to allow every lenity for the offence, when they reflect on the source from whence it could alone originate: I have never been used to adulation from my birth, and it’s a science I cannot inculcate.”

“Pardon me, my child, it’s a baneful weed that does not grow in our village,” said the Rector, “suffer me, for the first time, to correct your opinion on that head as erroneous, for I am bold to say, those friends you now behold are no adulators.”

“No, by heavens,” replied my uncle, “and I trust time and circumstance will convince Miss Fitzclarence of it.”

“It’s in vain to contend the point,” answered Rosa, extending a lilly hand to my uncle and the Rector, “thus, thus, accept my grateful thanks for your good opinion, which I shall hope ever to cherish and deserve in a still more eminent degree.”

“And won’t you subjoin mine, Miss Fitzclarence?” asked I, extending my hand.

“Could Mr. St. Alban suppose himself excluded in those sentiments of gratitude? ah, if he did, he little knew the heart of Rosa.”

At this unguarded moment I seized her hand, I pressed it to my daring lip, but Rosa gently withdrawing it, awaked my reverie, as did the reprehension of my uncle, who observed I was a more gallant fellow than he supposed me to be.

We soon after partook sandwiches, and at the sober hour of ten left Rosa, and the worthy family, to their private and regular system of evening prayer.