'And you would not allow him, Mary?'
'Why should I tell a falsehood about it, Ma'am?' said she. 'To be sure I did not hinder him; for he is my sweetheart, and we are to be married next week.'
'And do you love him, Mary?'
'Better than my life, Ma'am. There never was such a good lad; he has not a fault in the wide world, and all the girls are dying of envy that I have got him.'
'Well, Mary,' said I, 'I foresee we shall spend a most delicious evening. We will take a rural repast down to the brook, and tell our loves. The contrast will be beautiful;—mine, the refined, sentimental, pathetic story; your's the pretty, simple, little, artless tale. Come, my friend; let us return, and prepare the rustic banquet. No souchong, or bohea; (blessed names these!) no hot or cold cakes—Oh! no, but creams, berries, and fruits; goat's milk, figs, and honey—Arcadian, pastoral, primeval dainties!'
We then went back to the cottage, but could get nothing better than currants, gooseberries, and a maple bowl of cream. Mary, indeed, cut a large slice of bread and butter for her private amusement; and with these we returned to the streamlet. I then threw myself on my flowery couch, and my companion sat beside me.
We helped ourselves. I took rivulet to my cream, and scooped the brook with my rosy palm. Innocent nymph! ah, why couldst thou not sit down in the lap of content here, and dance, and sing, and say thy prayers, and go to heaven with this nut-brown maid?
I picked up a languishing rose, and sighed as I inhaled its perfume, and gazed on its decay.
'Such, Mary,' said I, 'such will be the fate of you and me. How soft, how serene this evening. It is a landscape for a Claud. But how much more charming is an Italian or a French than an English landscape. O! to saunter over hillocks, covered with lavender, wild thyme, juniper and tamarise, while shrubs fringe the summits of the rocks, or patches of meagre vegetation tint their recesses! Plantations of almonds, cypresses, palms, olives, and dates stretch along; nor are the larch and ilex, the masses of granite, and dark forests of fir wanting; while the majestic Garonne wanders, descending from the Pyrenees, and winding its blue waves towards the Bay of Biscay.
'Is not all this exquisite, Mary?'