Such was the story of this strange man, who in truth very much resembled the portraits of sentimental and unsentimental Laurence Sterne; but William Fairfax said aloud,—“George, thou talks of thy uncle, but wilt thou take thy affirmation that thou dost not amuse thyself in thy journeys through the country with these phantasmagoria? What says thy man, William Theobald?”
“Ask master himself,” said William; “he is of age.”
“Well then, George Barthe—what say’st thou?”
“I say nothing,” replied Barthe, amid a general laughter.
Thorsby was delighted with the fiery hair and beard, and would put them on, to the great sport of the young people. And then he would insist on some of the young ladies either putting them on, or trying one of the noses. At this instant, however, a singular note, high in a thickly-ivied tree just behind, caught their ears.
“What is that?” asked a dozen voices.
“It is a note of a nightingale,” said some one.
“No, that cannot be,” said Mr. Thomas Clavering, “the nightingales have long ceased for this year.”
The sound recommenced and went on. “It is a thrush,” said Mr. Clavering. “No,—what is it? It is a thrush, and it is not.”
A loud, clear, warbling again issued from the ivy aloft in the tree. It was to ordinary ears a thrush, and a very fine one. But Mr. Clavering, most intimate with English birds’ notes, said,—“No, it was no thrush; he believed it to be a man, but an extraordinarily clever one, and where was he?”