A Love Story, by a Bushman | Page 5

When seems the bliss of former years,-- Too sweet, too pure, to feel
again,-- And long lost hours, scenes, friends, return, Remember me,
love--then!
"Ah, Clarendon! how often have I read those lines, and thought--but I
will not think now! Here come the letters! Henry will soon be busy--I
shall finish my drawing--and aunt will finish--no! she never can finish
her tambour work. Take my portfolio and give me another
contribution!" Gage now wrote "The Return," which we insert for the
reader's approval:--
THE RETURN.
When the blue-eyed morn doth peep Over the soft hill's verdant steep,
Lighting up its shadows deep, I'll think of thee, love, _then!_
When the lightsome lark doth sing Her grateful song to Nature's King,
Making all the woodlands ring, I'll think of thee, love, _then!_
Or when plaintive Philomel Shall mourn her mate in some lone dell,
And to the night her sorrows tell, I'll think of thee, love, _then!_
When the first green leaf of spring Shall promise of the summer bring,
And all around its fragrance fling, I'll think of thee, love, _then!_
Or when the last red leaf shall fall, And winter spread its icy pall, To
mind me of the death of all, I'll think of thee, love, _then!_
When the lively morning ray Is dancing on the river's spray, And
sunshine gilds the joyous day, I'll think of thee, love, then!
And when the shades of eve steal on, Lengthening as life's sun goes
down, Like sweetest constancy alone, I'll think of thee, love, then!
When I see a sweet smile play On coral lips, like Phoebus' ray, Making
all look warm and gay, I'll think of thee, love, then!
When steals the tear of pity, too, O'er a cheek, whose crimson hue
Looks like rose-leaf dipp'd in dew, I'll think of thee, love, then!
When mirth's pageant joys unbind The gloomy spells that chain my
mind, And make me dream of all that's kind, I'll think of thee, love,
then!
And when pensive sadness clouds me, When the host of memory

crowds me, When the shadowy past enshrouds me, I'll think of thee,
love, then!
When seems the bliss of former years,-- Too sweet, too pure, to feel
again,-- And long lost hours, scenes, friends, return, I'll think of thee,
love, then!

Chapter III.
The Dinner.

"Hues which have words, and speak to ye of heaven."
"Away! there need no words or terms precise, The paltry jargon of the
marble mart, Where pedantry gulls folly: we have eyes."
We are told by the members of the silver-fork school, that no tale of
fiction can be complete unless it embody the description of a dinner.
Let us, therefore, shutting from our view that white-limbed gum-tree,
and dismissing from our table tea and damper, [Footnote: Damper.
Bushman's fare--unleavened bread] call on memory's fading powers,
and feast once more with the rich, the munificent, the intellectual
Belliston Græme.
Dinner! immortal faculty of eating! to what glorious sense or
pre-eminent passion dost thou not contribute? Is not love half fed by
thy attractions? Beams ever the eye of lover more bright than when,
after gazing with enraptured glance at the coveted haunch, whose fat--a
pure white; whose lean--a rich brown--invitingly await the assault.
When doth lover's eye sparkle more, than when, at such a moment, it
lights on the features of the loved fair one? Is not the supper quadrille
the most dangerous and the dearest of all?
Cherished venison! delicate white soup! spare young susceptible
bosoms! Again we ask, is not dinner the very aliment of friendship? the
hinge on which it turns? Does a man's heart expand to you ere you have
returned his dinner? It would be folly to assert it. Cabinet
dinners--corporation dinners--election dinners--and vestry dinners--and
rail-road dinners--we pass by these things, and triumphantly ask--does
not the Ship par excellence--the Ship of Greenwich--annually assemble

under its revered roof the luminaries of the nation? Oh, whitebait!
called so early to your last account! a tear is all we give, but it flows
spontaneously at the memory of your sorrows!
As Mr. Belliston Græme was much talked of in his day, it may not be
amiss to say a few words regarding him. He was an only child, and at
an early age lost his parents. The expense of his education was defrayed
by a wealthy uncle, the second partner in a celebrated banking house.
His tutor, with whom he may be said to have lived from boyhood--for
his uncle had little communication with him, except to write to him one
letter half-yearly, when he paid his school bill--was a shy retiring
clergyman--a man of very extensive acquirements, and a first rate
classical scholar. After a short time, the curate and young Græme
became attached to each other. The tutor