“Of a noble race was Shenkin.”
“No more,” cried Angelina, stopping her ears; “no more, barbarous man!—you break the illusion.”
“Break the what?” said the harper to himself; “I thought, miss, that tune would surely please you; for it is a favourite one in these parts.”
“A favourite with Welsh squires, perhaps,” said our heroine; “but, unfortunately, I am not a Welsh squire, and have no taste for your ‘Bumper Squire Jones.’”
The man tuned his harp sullenly. “I’m sorry for it, miss,” said he: “more’s the pity, I can’t please you better!”
Angelina cast upon him a look of contempt. “He no way fills my idea of a bard!—an ancient and immortal bard!—He has no soul—fingers without a soul!—No ‘master’s hand,’ or ‘prophet’s fire!’—No ‘deep sorrows!’—No ‘sable garb of woe!’—No loose beard, or hoary hair, ‘streaming like a meteor to the troubled air!’—‘No haggard eyes!’—Heigho!”—“It is time for me to be going,” said the harper, who began to think, by the young lady’s looks and manners, that she was not in her right understanding. “It is time for me to be going; the gentlemen above in the Dolphin will be ready for me.”
“A mere modern harper! He is not even blind,” Angelina said to herself, as he examined the shilling which she gave him. “Begone, for Heaven’s sake!” added she, aloud, as he left the room;—and “leave me, leave me to repose.” She threw up the sash, to taste the evening air; but scarcely had she begun to repeat a sonnet to her Araminta—scarcely had she repeated the first two lines—
“Hail, far-famed, fairest, unknown friend,
Our sacred silent sympathy of soul,”
when a little ragged Welsh boy, who was playing with his companions, in a field at the back of Cardifie Inn, espied her, gave the signal to his playfellows, and immediately they all came running up to the window at which Angelina was standing, and with one loud shrill chorus of “Gi’ me ha’penny!—Gi’ me ha’penny!—Gi’ me one ha’penny!” interrupted the sonnet, Angelina threw out some money to the boys, though she was provoked by their interruption: her donation was, in the true spirit of a heroine, much greater than the occasion required and the consequence was, that these urchins, by spreading the fame of her generosity through the town of Cardiffe, collected a Lilliputian mob of petitioners, who assailed Angelina with fresh vehemence. Not a moment’s peace, not a moment for poetry or reverie would they allow her: so that she was impatient for her chaise to come to the door. Her Araminta’s cottage was but six miles distant from Cardiffe; and to speak in due sentimental language, every moment that delayed her long-expected interview with her beloved unknown friend, appeared to her an age.
“And what would you be pleased to have for supper, ma’am?” said the landlady. “We have fine Tenby oysters, ma’am; and, if you’d like a Welsh rabbit—”