—­“Those days were never; airy dream
  Sat for the picture, and the poet’s hand,
  Imparting substance to an empty shade,
  Imposed a gay delirium for a truth. 
  Grant it; I still must envy them an age
  That favour’d such a dream.”

THE MANUSCRIPT.

Yesterday was a day of quiet and repose, after the bustle of May-day.  During the morning, I joined the ladies in a small sitting-room, the windows of which came down to the floor, and opened upon a terrace of the garden, which was set out with delicate shrubs and flowers.  The soft sunshine that fell into the room through the branches of trees that overhung the windows, the sweet smell of the flowers, and the singing of the birds, seemed to produce a pleasing yet calming effect on the whole party; for some time elapsed without any one speaking.  Lady Lillycraft and Miss Templeton were sitting by an elegant work-table, near one of the windows, occupied with some pretty lady-like work.  The captain was on a stool at his mistress’ feet, looking over some music; and poor Phoebe Wilkins, who has always been a kind of pet among the ladies, but who has risen vastly in favour with Lady Lillycraft, in consequence of some tender confessions, sat in one corner of the room, with swoln eyes, working pensively at some of the fair Julia’s wedding ornaments.

The silence was interrupted by her ladyship, who suddenly proposed a task to the captain.  “I am in your debt,” said she, “for that tale you read to us the other day; I will now furnish one in return, if you’ll read it:  and it is just suited to this sweet May morning, for it is all about love!”

The proposition seemed to delight every one present.  The captain smiled assent.  Her ladyship rung for her page, and despatched him to her room for the manuscript.  “As the captain,” said she, “gave us an account of the author of his story, it is but right I should give one of mine.  It was written by the parson of the parish where I reside.  He is a thin, elderly man, of a delicate constitution, but positively one of the most charming men that ever lived.  He lost his wife a few years since; one of the sweetest women you ever saw.  He has two sons, whom he educates himself; both of whom already write delightful poetry.  His parsonage is a lovely place, close by the church, all overrun with ivy and honeysuckles; with the sweetest flower-garden about it; for, you know, our country clergymen are almost always fond of flowers, and make their parsonages perfect pictures.

“His living is a very good one, and he is very much beloved, and does a great deal of good in the neighbourhood, and among the poor.  And then such sermons as he preaches!  Oh, if you could only hear one taken from a text in Solomon’s Song, all about love and matrimony, one of the sweetest things you ever heard!  He preaches it at least once a year, in springtime, for he knows I am fond of it.  He always dines with me on Sundays, and often brings me some of the sweetest pieces of poetry, all about the pleasures of melancholy, and such subjects, that make me cry so, you can’t think.  I wish he would publish.  I think he has some things as sweet as any thing of Moore or Lord Byron.