"Yes," replied Sunderland; "with her I knew that I was perfectly safe, and that she would pronounce them sweet and delightful. And in short, that they would exactly suit the calibre of her understanding."
"Yet still," said Orinda, "with such an opinion of her mental qualifications, you professed to love this young lady—or rather you really loved her—no doubt you did."
"No, no," replied Sunderland, eagerly; "it was only a passing whim—only a boyish fancy—such as a man may feel a dozen times before he is five-and-twenty, and before he is seriously in love. I should have told you that at this period I had not yet arrived at years of discretion."
"I should have guessed it without your telling," said Orinda, mischievously.
The young officer smiled, and proceeded.
"I now saw my way clear. So I made a new pen, placed Pope on my desk, and sitting down to the album with a lightened spirit, I began with the first stanza of his poem:
'Fluttering spread thy purple pinions,
Gentle Cupid, o'er my heart—
I a slave in thy dominions,
Nature must give way to art.'
And I then added the second and sixth verses, substituting the name of my fair one for that of Aurelia."
"What would I not give to know that name!" thought Orinda. "But, in those verses," she remarked to Sunderland, "if I recollect aright, there is no direct compliment to the lady's beauty."
"But there is a very great one by implication," answered the lieutenant. "For instance, the line—'Hear me pay my dying vows.'—What more could I profess than to die for love of her! And a lady that is died for, must of course be superlatively charming. In short, I finished the verses, and I must say they were very handsomely transcribed. Now, do not laugh. Is it not more excusable to take some pride in writing a good hand, than to boast of scribbling a bad one? I have known persons who seemed absolutely to plume themselves on the illegibility of their scrawls; because, unfortunately, so many men of genius have indulged in a most shameful style of chirography.