The obedient minstrel again made a graceful reverence, and throwing his hands upon his harp, sung as follows—
“Hark, hark, tis the bugle! It wafts to my ear
“The signal for parting—Adieu to my dear.
“I go to the isles, where the climate is death,
“And Fate’s pallid hand weaves my funeral wreath.
“When I leave my soul’s treasure forlorn on the shore,
“And I strain my sad eyes, till they see her no more,
“My sorrows unheeded no pity shall move,
“While my cold-hearted comrades cry—Why did you love?
“A soldier, whose sword is his all, should obey
“No mistress but Honor—and truly they say—
“Behold! at her call, to my duty I fly;
“Can a soldier do more for his honor than die?”
When Mr. Gryffin Gryffin had concluded his madrigal, of which the melody at least was extremely well composed, the painter, who ought to have been a better critic, than to have overlooked the effect, which it had had upon the countenance of old Morgan, unadvisedly enquired who the mistress of the poet was—A poet’s mistress, you may be sure, De Lancaster instantly replied; every thing is imaginary; the mistress and the muse are alike ideal beings, and death and dying are only put in to make out the rhymes; then turning to the master of the table, he said—Brother Morgan, I perceive you drink no wine; I have had my glass, and if the company will excuse us, you and I old fellows will leave them to their claret, and take a cup of coffee tete à tete in the next room.
The motion was seasonable, and so immediately seconded by the man of medicine, that the mover and the man to be moved soon found themselves in a situation equally well adapted to the compassionate object of the one, and the seasonable relief of the other.
Here as soon as they had taken their seats, and were left to themselves, De Lancaster commenced his lecture De consolatione. On this occasion it so happened, that a fair opportunity was not made use of, for, except a slight hint at Cicero and his daughter, very little philology or common-place argument were resorted to: common sense was found upon trial to answer all purposes quite as well: when the one lamented that he had not discovered his daughter’s attachment, the other very naturally demanded, who but the lady was to be blamed for that? Where there was such a flagrant want of confidence on the part of the daughter, and no compulsion on that of the father, by what kind of sophistry could he suggest occasion for any self-reproach?—To this when Morgan answered, that he feared his daughter had been awed into concealment, De Lancaster sharply replied, that he defied him to assign any honourable motive for a disingenuous action: a father could only recommend the situation, which he thought most eligible and advantageous for his child, presuming that she had not previously engaged her heart; in which if he was deceived by her, it only proved that either he was very unsuspecting, or she extremely cunning. In conclusion Morgan was driven to confess that his only remaining compunction arose from the reflection upon what Mr. Philip De Lancaster might suffer by a connection, so little likely to promote his happiness.
If that be your regret, resumed De Lancaster, dismiss it from your mind at once. Philip is made at all points for your daughter: no couple can be better paired. Fondness on either side would destroy their mutual tranquillity. They have given us, under Providence, a grandson, and if that blessing be continued to us, you and I must agree to regard the intermediate generation as a blank, and rest our only hope on what that child may be.
Heaven grant him life, cried Morgan! You have cured me of the mournfuls. Let us join our friends.