At length we came to a clump of trees that overhung a whispering
brook, with a rustic bench at their feet. The trees were grievously
scored with letters and devices, which had grown out of all shape and
size by the growth of the bark; and it appeared that this grove had
served as a kind of register of the family loves from time immemorial.
Here Master Simon made a pause, pulled up a tuft of flowers, threw
them one by one into the water, and at length, turning somewhat
abruptly upon me, asked me if I had ever been in love. I confess the
question startled me a little, as I am not over-fond of making
confessions of my amorous follies; and above all, should never dream
of choosing my friend Master Simon for a confidant. He did not wait,
however, for a reply; the inquiry was merely a prelude to a confession
on his own part, and after several circumlocutions and whimsical
preambles, he fairly disburthened himself of a very tolerable story of
his having been crossed in love.
The reader will, very probably, suppose that it related to the gay
widow who jilted him not long since at Doncaster races;--no such
thing. It was about a sentimental passion that he once had for a most
beautiful young lady, who wrote poetry and played on the harp.
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