_A Ghost._
Mr. Hartley had breakfasted and walked out in the fields, before Delia
appeared. She had scarcely begun her morning repast, ere Miss Fletcher,
the favourite companion and confidante of Delia, entered the room. "My
dearest creature," cried the visitor, "how do you do? Had not we not a
most charming evening? I vow I was fatigued to death: and then, lord
Martin, I think he never appeared to so much advantage. Why he was quite
covered with diamonds, spangles, and frogs." "Ah!" cried Delia, "but the
young stranger." "True," answered Miss Fletcher, "I liked him of all
things; so tall, so genteel, and so sweetly perfumed.--I cannot think who
he is. I called upon Miss Griskin, and I called upon Miss Savage, nobody
knows. He is some great man." "When did he come to town?" said Delia,
"Where does he lodge?" "My dear, he came to town yesterday in the evening,
and went away again as soon as the ball was over. But do not you think
that Mr. Prattle's new suit of scarlet sattin was vastly becoming? I vow I
could have fallen in love with him. He is so gay and so trifling, and so
fond of hearing himself talk. Why, does not he say a number of smart
things?" "It is exessively strange," said Delia. (She was thinking of the
stranger.) But Miss Fletcher went on--"Not at all, my life. Upon my word I
think he is always very entertaining. He cuts out paper so prettily, and he
has drawn me the sweetest pattern for an apron. I vow, I think, I never
showed you it." "What can be his name?" said Delia; "His name, my dear;
law, child, you do not hear a word one says to you. But of all things,
give me the green coat and pink breeches of Mr. Savage. But did you ever
hear the like? There will be a terrible to do--Lord Martin is in such a
quandary--He has sent people far and near." "I wish they may find him,"
exclaimed Delia. "Nay, if they do, I would not be in his shoes for the
world. My lord vows revenge. He says he is his rival. Why, child, the
stranger did not make love to you, did he?" "Mercy on us," cried Delia,
"then my dream is out." "Oh, bless us," said Miss Fletcher, "what dream,
my dear?" Her curiosity then prevailed upon her to be silent for a few
moments, while Delia related that with which the reader is already
acquainted.
In return, Delia requested of her friend to explain to her more
intelligibly what she hinted of the anger of lord Martin. "Why, my dear,
his lordship has been employed all this morning in writing challenges.
They say he has not writ less than a dozen, and has sent them by as many
messengers, like a hue and cry, all over the county--my lord is a little
man--but what of that--he is as stout as Hercules, and as brave as
what-d'ye call'um, that you and I read of in Pope's Homer. He is in such a
vengeance of a passion, that he cannot contain himself. He tells it to
every body he sees; and his mother and sister run about the house
screaming and fainting like so many mad things."
Delia, as we have already said, was endowed with a competent share of
natural understanding. She therefore easily perceived, that from an anger
so boisterous and so public, no very fatal effects were to be apprehended.
This reflection quieted the terrors that her dream had excited, and which
the young partiality she began to feel for the amiable stranger would
otherwise have confirmed. Her breast being thus calmed, she made about
half a dozen morning visits, among which, one to Miss Griskin, and another
to Miss Languish, were included. The conversation every where turned upon
the outrageousness of lord Martin. All but the gentle Delia, were full of
anxiety and expectation. The females were broken into parties respecting
the event of the duel. Many trembled for the fate of lord Martin, so
splendid, so rich, and consequently, in their opinion, so amiable and so
witty. Others, guided by the unadulterated sentiments of nature, poured
forth all their vows for the courteous unknown. "May those active limbs
remain without a wound! May his elegant blue and silver never be stained
with blood! Ah, what a pity, that eyes so bright, and teeth so white,
should be shrowded in the darkness of the grave."
The dinner, a vulgar meal, that passed exactly in the same manner as fifty
dinners had before it, shall be consigned to silence. The evening was
bright and calm. It was in the close of autumn; and every thing tempted
our lovely fair one to take the air. By the way she called upon her
inseparable friend and companion. They directed their course towards the
sea side.
Here they had not advanced far, before they entered a grove, a spot
particularly the favourite of Delia. In a little opening there was a bank
embroidered with daisies and butter-cups; a little row of willows bending
their heads forward, formed a kind of canopy; and directly before it,
there was a vista through the trees, which afforded a distant prospect of
the sea, with every here and there a vessel passing along, and the beams
of the setting sun quivered on the waves.
Delia and her companion advanced towards the well known spot. The mellow
voice of the thrush, and the clear pipe of the blackbird, diversified at
intervals with the tender notes of the nightingale, formed the most
agreable natural concert. The breast of Delia, framed for softness and
melancholy, was filled with sensations responsive to the objects around
her, and even the eternal clack of Miss Fletcher was still.
Presently, however, a new and unexpected object claimed their attention. A
note, stronger and sweeter than that of any of the native choristers of
the grove, swelled upon the air, and floated towards them. Having
approached a few paces, they stood still to listen. It seemed to proceed
from a flute, played upon by a human voice. The air was melancholy, but
the skill was divine.
The native curiosity of Miss Fletcher was not upon this occasion a match
for the sympathetic spirit of Delia. She pressed forward with an eager and
uncertain step, and looking through an interstice formed by two venerable
oaks, she perceived the figure of a young man sitting in her favourite
alcove. His back was turned towards the side upon which she was. Having
finished the air, he threw his flute carelesly from him, and folded his
arms in a posture the most disconsolate that can be imagined. He rose and
advanced a little with an irregular step. "Ah lovely mistress of my soul,"
cried he, "thou little regardest the anguish that must for ever be an
inmate of this breast! While I am a prey to a thousand tormenting
imaginations, thou riotest in the empire of beauty, heedless of the wounds
thou inflicted, and the slaves thou chainest to thy chariot. Wretch that I
am, what is to be done? But I must think no more." Saying this he snatched
up his flute, and thrusting it into his bosom, hurried out of the grove.
While he spoke, Delia imagined that the voice was one that she had heard
before though she knew not where. Her heart whispered her something more
than her understanding could disentangle. But as he stooped to take his
flute from the ground his profile was necessarily turned towards the inner
part of the grove. Delia started and trembled. Damon stood confessed. But
she scarcely recollected his features before he rushed away swifter than
the winged hawk, and was immediately out of sight.
Delia was too full of a thousand reflections upon this unexpected
rencounter to be able to utter a word. But Miss Fletcher immediately
began. "God bless us," cried she, "did you ever see the like? Why it is my
belief it is a ghost or a wizard. I never heard any thing so pretty--I
vow, I am terribly frightened."
Delia now caught hold of her arm. "For heaven's sake, let us quit the
grove. I do not know what is the matter--but I feel myself quite sick."
"Good God! good heavens! Well, I do not wonder you are all in a
tremble--But suppose now it should be nothing but Mr. Prattle--He is
always somewhere or other--And then he plays _God save the king_, and
_Darby and Joan_, like any thing." "Oh," said the lovely, trembling
nymph, "they were the sweetest notes!" "Ah," said her companion, "he is a
fine man. And then he is so modest--He will play at one and thirty, and
ride upon a stick with little Tommy all day long. But sure it could not be
Mr. Prattle--He always wears his hair in a queue you know--but the ghost
had a bag and solitaire." "Well," cried Delia, "let us think no more of
it. But did we hear anything?"--"Law, child, why he played the nicest
glee--and then he made such a speech, for all the world like Mr. Button,
that I like so to see in Hamlet." "True," said Delia,--"but what he said
was more like the soft complainings of my dear Castalio. Did not he
complain of a false mistress?" "Why he did say something of that kind.--If
it be neither a ghost nor Mr. Prattle. I hope in God he is going to appear
upon the Southampton stage. I do so love to see a fine young man come on
for the first time with
_May this alspishus day be ever sacred!_
Or,
_I am thy father's spirit._"