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• son Crusoe and Friday the savage, and I
am now employed in reading the contro• versy in Religious Courtship.'- Very 6.well,' cried I, that's a good girl ; I ' find you are perfectly qualified for making converts, and so go help your mother to make the goofeberry-pye."
CH A P. 'CHAP. VIII.
An amour, which promises little good fortune, yet may be productive of much.
HE next morning we were again
visited by Mr. Burchell, though I began, for certain reasons, to be displeased with the frequency of his return; but I could not refuse him my company and fire-side. It is true his labour more than requited his entertainment; for he wrought among us with vigour, and either in the meadow, or at the hay-rick, put himself foremost. Besides, he had always something amusing to say that leffened our toil, and was at once so out of the way, and yet so sensible, that I loved, laughed at, and pitied him. My only dislike arose from an attachment he discovered to my daughter : he would, in a jefting manner, call her his little mistress, and when he bought each of the girls a set of ribbands, D 2
her's 6 and
her's was the finest. I knew not how, but he every day seemed to become more amiable, his wit to improve, and his simplicity to assume the superior airs of wisdoin.
Our family dined in the field, and we sate, or rather reclined, round a temperate repast, our cloth spread upon the hay, while Mr. Burchell gave chearfulness to the feast. To heighten our satisfaction two black-birds answered each other from opposite hedges, the familiar redbreast came and pecked the crumbs from our hands, and every sound seemed but the echo of tranquillity. I never fit • thus,' says Sophia, but I think of • the two lovers, so sweetly described by · Mr. Gay, who were ftruck dead in each 6 other's arms. There is something so
pathetic in the description, that I have e read it an hundred times with new rap- ture.'_ In my opinion,' cried my son, the finest strokes in that description are much below those in the Acis
and Galatea of Ovid. The Roman poet o understands the use of contrast better,
and upon that figure artfully managed • all strength in the pathetic depends.'• It is remarkable,' cried Mr. Burchell, " that both the poets you mention have
equally contributed to introduce a false • taste into their respective countries, by
loading all their lines with epithet. Men • of little genius found them most easily
imitáted in their defects, and English
poetry, like that in the latter empire of • Rome, is nothing at present but a combination of luxuriant images, without
plot or connexion ; a string of epithets " that improve the found without carrying
on the sense. But perhaps, Madam, < while I thus reprehend others, you'll " think it just that I should give them an
opportunity to retaliate, and indeed I
have made this remark only to have an « opportunity of introducing to the com
pany a ballad, which, whatever be its
(other other defects, is, I think, at least free « from those I have mentioned.'
A BALL AD.
URN, gentle hermit of the dales.
• And guide my lonely way, To where yon taper cheers the vale, • With hospitable ray.
. For here, forlorn and lost I tread,
With fainting steps and now ;. • Where wilds immeasurably spread,
Seem lengthening as I go.'
• Forbear, my son,' the hermit cries,
• To tempt the dangerous gloom ;
< Here to the houseless child of want,
· My door is open still; " And though my portion is but scant,
' I give it with good will.