"Does your Augusta profit? is she tasked?"

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"Madam!" he cried, offended with her looks,

"There's time for all things, and not all for books:

Just on one's marriage to sit down, and prate

On points of learning, is a thing I hate.”
"T is right, my son; and it appears to me
If deep your hatred, you must well agree."
Finch was too angry for a man so wise,
And said, "Insinuation I despise !
Nor do I wish to have a mind so full
Of learned trash-it makes a woman dull.

Let it suffice that I in her discern
An aptitude and a desire to learn."

The matron smiled; but she observed a frown
On her son's brow, and calmly sat her down,
Leaving the truth to Time, who solves our doubt
By bringing his all-glorious daughter out-
Truth, for whose beauty all their love profess,
And yet how many think it ugliness!

"Augusta, love," said Finch, "while you engage
In that embroidery, let me read a page:
Suppose it Hume's; indeed he takes a side,
But still an author need not be our guide;
And as he writes with elegance and ease,
Do now attend-he will be sure to please.
Here at the Revolution we commence-
We date, you know, our liberties from hence."
"Yes, sure," Augusta answered with a smile;
"Our teacher always talked about his style,
When we about the Revolution read,

And how the martyrs to the flames were led-
The good old bishops, I forget their names,
But they were all committed to the flames;
Maidens and widows, bachelors and wives-
The very babes and sucklings lost their lives.
I read it all in Guthrie at the school-
What, now! I know you took me for a fool..
There were five bishops taken from the stall,
And twenty widows-I remember all;
And by this token, that our teacher tried
To cry for pity, till she howled and cried."

"True, true, my love, but you mistake the thing: The Revolution that made William king

Is what I mean; the Reformation you,

In Edward and Elizabeth."

"T is true: But the nice reading is the love between The brave lord Essex and the cruel queen; And how he sent the ring to save his head,

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Which the false lady kept till he was dead.
That is all true: now read, and I'll attend—
But was not she a most deceitful friend?
It was a monstrous, vile, and treacherous thing

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To show no pity and to keep the ring;
But the queen shook her in her dying bed,

And 'God forgive you!' was the word she said,

'Not I, for certain !'-Come, I will attend;

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So read the Revolutions to an end."

Finch, with a timid, strange, inquiring look,

Softly and slowly laid aside the book

With sigh inaudible. "Come, never heed,"

Said he, recovering; "now I cannot read."

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They walked at leisure through their wood and groves,

In fields and lanes, and talked of plants and loves,

And loves of plants. Said Finch, "Augusta, dear,
You said you loved to learn: were you sincere?
Do you remember that you told me once

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How much you grieved, and said you were a dunce?—
That is, you wanted information. Say,

What would you learn? I will direct your way."

"Goodness!" said she; "what meanings you discern

In a few words! I said I wished to learn,
And so I think I did; and you replied

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The wish was good: what would you now beside?

Did not you say it showed an ardent mind?
And pray what more do you expect to find?"
"My dear Augusta, could you wish indeed
For any knowledge, and not then proceed?
That is not wishing-"

"Mercy! how you tease!
You knew I said it with a view to please;
A compliment to you, and quite enough.

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You would not kill me with that puzzling stuff!
Sure I might say I wished, but that is still
Far from a promise; it is not 'I will.'
But come to show you that I will not hide
My proper talents, you shall be my guide;
And Lady Boothby, when we meet, shall cry,
'She's quite as good a botanist as I.'"

"Right, my Augusta." And in manner grave Finch his first lecture on the science gave

An introduction; and he said, "My dear,
Your thought was happy; let us persevere,
And let no trifling cause our work retard."
Agreed the lady, but she feared it hard.

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Now o'er the grounds they rambled many a mile.

He showed the flowers, the stamina, the style,

Calix and corol, pericarp and fruit,

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And all the plant produces, branch and root;

"Panduriform," "pinnatifid," "premorse,"

"Latent" and "patent," "papulous" and "plane”—

"Oh!" said the pupil, "it will turn my brain."

"Fear not," he answered, and again, intent

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To fill that mind, o'er class and order went; And, stopping, "Now," said he, “my love, attend." "I do," said she, "but when will be an end?" "When we have made some progress. Now begin: Which is the stigma? show me with the pin. Come, I have told you, dearest,-let me see— Times very many; tell it now to me.”

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"Stigma! I know-the things with yellow heads,
That shed the dust and grow upon the threads;
You call them wives and husbands, but you know
That is a joke-here, look, and I will show
All I remember." Doleful was the look
Of the preceptor when he shut his book
(The system brought to aid them in their view),
And now with sighs returned, "It will not do."

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A handsome face first led him to suppose
There must be talent with such looks as those:
The want of talent taught him now to find
The face less handsome with so poor a mind;
And half the beauty faded when he found
His cherished hopes were falling to the ground.
Finch lost his spirit; but e'en then he sought

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For fancied powers: she might in time be taught;

Sure there was nothing in that mind to fear;

The favourite study did not yet appear.

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Once he expressed a doubt if she could look

For five succeeding minutes on a book;
When, with awakened spirit, she replied
He was mistaken and she would be tried.
With this delighted, he new hopes expressed:
"How do I know? She may abide the test.
Men have I known, and famous in their day,
Who were by chance directed in their way.
I have been hasty.-Well, Augusta, well,
What is your favourite reading? prithee tell.

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Our different tastes may different books require;

Yours I may not peruse and yet admire.

Do then explain." "Good Heaven!" said she, in haste,

"How do I hate these lectures upon taste!"

"I lecture not, my love. But do declare—

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You read, you say what your attainments are.”

“Oh, you believe," said she, "that other things Are read as well as histories of kings,

And loves of plants, with all that simple stuff
About their sex, of which I know enough!
Well, if I must, I will my studies name:

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Blame if you please-I know you love to blame.
When all our childish books were set apart,
The first I read was 'Wanderings of the Heart';

It was a story where was done a deed

340

So dreadful that alone I feared to read.

The next was 'The Confessions of a Nun'

'T was quite a shame such evil should be done;

Nun of-no matter for the creature's name,

For there are girls no nunnery can tame.

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Then was the story of the haunted hall,

Where the huge picture nodded from the wall
When the old lord looked up with trembling dread;
And I grew pale and shuddered, as I read.
Then came the tales of winters, summers, springs,
At Bath and Brighton-they were pretty things!
No ghosts nor spectres there were heard or seen,
But all was love and flight to Gretna Green.
Perhaps your greater learning may despise
What others like, and there your wisdom lies.
Well-do not frown-I read the tender tales
Of lonely cots, retreats in silent vales
For maids forsaken and suspected wives,
Against whose peace some foe his plot contrives;
With all the hidden schemes that none can clear
Till the last book, and then the ghosts appear.
I read all plays that on the boards succeed,
And all the works that ladies ever read-
Shakspeare and all the rest,-I did indeed!
Ay, you may stare; but, sir, believe it true
That we can read and learn, as well as you.

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I would not boast-but I could act a scene

In any play, before I was fifteen.

Nor is this all, for many are the times

I read in Pope and Milton, prose and rhymes;

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They were our lessons, and at ten years old

I could repeat-but now enough is told.
Sir, I can tell you I my mind applied
To all my studies, and was not denied
Praise for my progress.-Are you satisfied?"
"Entirely, madam! else were I possessed
By a strong spirit who could never rest.
Yes, yes, no more I question-here I close
The theme forever-let us to repose."
1817-18.

1819.

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