Damon and Delia | Page 2

for lord Martin, who was
indisputably allowed to be the best match in the county, she could not
bear to hear him named with patience, and she always turned pale at the
sight of him.
But Delia was not destined always to laugh at the darts of Cupid. Mrs.
Bridget her waiting maid, delighted to run over the list of her adorers,
and she was much more eloquent and more copious upon the subject
than we have been. When her mistress received the mention of each
with gay indifference, Mrs. Bridget would close the dialogue, and with
a sagacious look, and a shake of her head, would tell the lovely Delia,
that the longer it was before her time came, the more surely and the
more deeply she would be caught at last. And to say truth, the wisest
philosopher might have joined in the verdict of the sage Bridget. There
was a softness in the temper of Delia, that seemed particularly formed
for the tender passion. The voice of misery never assailed her ear in
vain. Her purse was always open to the orphan, the maimed, and the
sick. After reading a tender tale of love, the intricacies of the Princess
of Cleves, the soft distress of Sophia Western, or the more modern
story of the Sorrows of Werter, her gentle breast would heave with
sighs, and her eye, suffused with tears, confess a congenial spirit.
The father of Delia--let the reader drop a tear over this blot in our little
narrative--had once been a tradesman. He was naturally phlegmatic,
methodical, and avaricious. His ear was formed to relish better the
hoarse voice of an exchange broker, than the finest tones of Handel's
organ. He found something much more agreeable and interesting in the
perusal of his ledger and his day book, than in the scenes of
Shakespeare, or the elegance of Addison. With this disposition, he had
notwithstanding, when age had chilled the vigour of his limbs, and
scattered her snow over those hairs which had escaped the hands of the
barber, resigned his shop, and retired to enjoy the fruits of his industry.
It is as natural for a tradesman in modern times to desire to die in the
tranquillity of a gentleman, as it was for the Saxon kings of the
Heptarchy to act the same inevitable scene amidst the severities of a

cloister.
The old gentleman however found, and it is not impossible that some of
his brethren may have found it before him, when the great transaction
was irretrievably over, that retirement and indolence did not constitute
the situation for which either nature or habit had fitted him. It has been
observed by some of those philosophers who have made the human
mind the object of their study, that idleness is often the mother of love.
It might indeed have been supposed, that Mr. Hartley, for that was his
name, by having attained the age of sixty, might have outlived every
danger of this kind. But opportunity and temptation supplied that,
which might have been deficient on the side of nature.
Within a little mile of the mansion in which he had taken up his retreat,
resided two ancient maiden ladies. Under cover of the venerable age to
which they had attained, they had laid aside many of those modes
which coyness and modesty have prescribed to their sex. The visits of a
man were avowedly as welcome to them, and indeed much more so,
than those of a woman. Their want of attractions either external or
mental, had indeed hindered the circle of their acquaintance from being
very extensive; but there were some, as well as Mr. Hartley, who
preferred the company of ugliness, censoriousness and ill nature to
solitude.
Such were the Miss Cranley's, the name of the elder of whom was
Amelia, and that of the younger Sophia. Miss Amelia was nominally
forty, and her sister thirty years of age. Perhaps if we stated the matter
more accurately, we should rate the elder at fifty-six, and the younger
somewhere about fifty. They both of them were masculine in their
behaviour, and studious in their disposition. Miss Amelia, delighted in
the study of theology; she disputed with the curate, maintained a godly
correspondence with a neighbouring cobler, and was even said to be
preparing a pamphlet in defence of the dogmas of Mr. Whitfield. Miss
Sophia, who will make a much more considerable figure in this history,
was altogether as indefatigable in the study of politics, as her sister was
in that of theology. She adhered indeed to none of our political parties,
for she suspected and despised them all. My lord North she treated as

stupid, sleepy, and void of personal principle. Mr. Fox was a brawling
gamester, devoid of all attachments but