Thus doubly disappointed in his meal and his business, Sitgreaves suddenly declared his intention of visiting the Locusts, and inquiring into the state of Captain Singleton. Lawton was ready for the excursion; and mounting, they were soon on the road, though the surgeon was obliged to submit to a few more jokes from the washerwoman, before he could get out of hearing. For some time the two rode in silence, when Lawton, perceiving that his companion’s temper was somewhat ruffled by his disappointments and Betty’s attack, made an effort to restore the tranquillity of his feelings.
“That was a charming song, Archibald, that you commenced last evening, when we were interrupted by the party that brought in the peddler,” he said. “The allusion to Galen was much to the purpose.”
“I knew you would like it, Jack, when you had got the fumes of the wine out of your head. Poetry is a respectable art, though it wants the precision of the exact sciences, and the natural beneficence of the physical. Considered in reference to the wants of life, I should define poetry as an emollient, rather than as a succulent.”
“And yet your ode was full of the meat of wit.”
“Ode is by no means a proper term for the composition; I should term it a classical ballad.”
“Very probably,” said the trooper. “Hearing only one verse, it was difficult to class the composition.”
The surgeon involuntarily hemmed, and began to clear his throat, although scarcely conscious himself to what the preparation tended. But the captain, rolling his dark eyes towards his companion, and observing him to be sitting with great uneasiness on his horse, continued,—
“The air is still, and the road solitary—why not give the remainder? It is never too late to repair a loss.”
“My dear John, if I thought it would correct the errors you have imbibed, from habit and indulgence, nothing could give me more pleasure.”
“We are fast approaching some rocks on our left; the echo will double my satisfaction.”