A pretty page was standing there;
Their eyes just met. Oh, long despair!
For both have died of love, they say.
So never laugh at Love, Miss, fancy free,
Lest the wanton boy should laugh at thee!
I cannot forbear quoting that one verse, to give a notion of the quaint mediæval charm of the words. * I wish I could transcribe the melody as well, which was delicious with the same quaint flavour.
* The Editor of this work must disclaim all responsibility
Dr. Benary's opinions upon matters literary and aesthetic.
Fairchild having finished his song, he and Miriam plunged into an animated conversation about music in the abstract, which I, for one—being, though an ardent lover of music, no musician—found of dubious interest.
“Wherefore, I think,” I interrupted them to say, “if you will forgive the breach of ceremony, Mr. Fairchild, I shall retire to my bedroom for a bit, and take a nap. I feel somewhat fatigued after the exertions of the forenoon; and, anyhow, I am accustomed to my forty winks at this hour of the day. I am sure I leave you in good hands when I leave you to my sister and my niece.”
“Indeed, Dr. Benary, the kindest thing you can do for me—you and your good ladies—will be to let me feel that in no wise do I interfere with your convenience or your pleasure. Otherwise, I shall be compelled to take my departure instanter; and I confess that by this time I am so deeply penetrated by the comfort of your interior that I should hate mortally to renew close quarters with the storm.”