Damon and Delia | Page 5

the
sweetest pattern for an apron. I vow, I think, I never showed you it."
"What can be his name?" said Delia; "His name, my dear; law, child,
you do not hear a word one says to you. But of all things, give me the
green coat and pink breeches of Mr. Savage. But did you ever hear the
like? There will be a terrible to do--Lord Martin is in such a
quandary--He has sent people far and near." "I wish they may find
him," exclaimed Delia. "Nay, if they do, I would not be in his shoes for
the world. My lord vows revenge. He says he is his rival. Why, child,
the stranger did not make love to you, did he?" "Mercy on us," cried
Delia, "then my dream is out." "Oh, bless us," said Miss Fletcher, "what
dream, my dear?" Her curiosity then prevailed upon her to be silent for
a few moments, while Delia related that with which the reader is
already acquainted.
In return, Delia requested of her friend to explain to her more
intelligibly what she hinted of the anger of lord Martin. "Why, my dear,
his lordship has been employed all this morning in writing challenges.
They say he has not writ less than a dozen, and has sent them by as
many messengers, like a hue and cry, all over the county--my lord is a
little man--but what of that--he is as stout as Hercules, and as brave as
what-d'ye call'um, that you and I read of in Pope's Homer. He is in such
a vengeance of a passion, that he cannot contain himself. He tells it to
every body he sees; and his mother and sister run about the house

screaming and fainting like so many mad things."
Delia, as we have already said, was endowed with a competent share of
natural understanding. She therefore easily perceived, that from an
anger so boisterous and so public, no very fatal effects were to be
apprehended. This reflection quieted the terrors that her dream had
excited, and which the young partiality she began to feel for the
amiable stranger would otherwise have confirmed. Her breast being
thus calmed, she made about half a dozen morning visits, among which,
one to Miss Griskin, and another to Miss Languish, were included. The
conversation every where turned upon the outrageousness of lord
Martin. All but the gentle Delia, were full of anxiety and expectation.
The females were broken into parties respecting the event of the duel.
Many trembled for the fate of lord Martin, so splendid, so rich, and
consequently, in their opinion, so amiable and so witty. Others, guided
by the unadulterated sentiments of nature, poured forth all their vows
for the courteous unknown. "May those active limbs remain without a
wound! May his elegant blue and silver never be stained with blood!
Ah, what a pity, that eyes so bright, and teeth so white, should be
shrowded in the darkness of the grave."
The dinner, a vulgar meal, that passed exactly in the same manner as
fifty dinners had before it, shall be consigned to silence. The evening
was bright and calm. It was in the close of autumn; and every thing
tempted our lovely fair one to take the air. By the way she called upon
her inseparable friend and companion. They directed their course
towards the sea side.
Here they had not advanced far, before they entered a grove, a spot
particularly the favourite of Delia. In a little opening there was a bank
embroidered with daisies and butter-cups; a little row of willows
bending their heads forward, formed a kind of canopy; and directly
before it, there was a vista through the trees, which afforded a distant
prospect of the sea, with every here and there a vessel passing along,
and the beams of the setting sun quivered on the waves.
Delia and her companion advanced towards the well known spot. The
mellow voice of the thrush, and the clear pipe of the blackbird,

diversified at intervals with the tender notes of the nightingale, formed
the most agreable natural concert. The breast of Delia, framed for
softness and melancholy, was filled with sensations responsive to the
objects around her, and even the eternal clack of Miss Fletcher was
still.
Presently, however, a new and unexpected object claimed their
attention. A note, stronger and sweeter than that of any of the native
choristers of the grove, swelled upon the air, and floated towards them.
Having approached a few paces, they stood still to listen. It seemed to
proceed from a flute, played upon by a human voice. The air was
melancholy, but the skill was divine.
The native curiosity of Miss Fletcher was not upon this occasion a
match for the sympathetic spirit of