SIR W. Aye, aye; we generally begin that way.
BLEN. My passion was returned with equal fervor; when it became necessary that I should select my position in life. My friends suggested the army, and my inclination led me to adopt their views. Ireland soon became my destination—a constant correspondence with the object of my passion was my only solace in exile, and for months I almost daily opened a letter written by her dear hand.
SIR W. How delightful! I have often thought how charming it must be to receive an eloquent letter from a much-loved source—to have the colloquial grace of a Sévigné mingled with the fervor of a Heloise, or the moral delicacy of a Chapone. Oh, my dear fellow, I envy you!
BLEN. Have you never experienced that happiness?
SIR W. Never;—but proceed with your history, mine shall follow—you went to Ireland, and there received letters from the lady of your love.
BLEN. A long silence ensued.
SIR W. What anxious hours you must have passed.
BLEN. Till one morning my servant placed a letter on my table—the object of my passion had married during her silence.
SIR W. I guessed as much—always something ominous in a woman’s silence.
BLEN. Her parents had met with misfortunes—a wealthy match presented itself—a match with a title.