The Manuscript, by Washington Irving
Hall, or The Humorists
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.
"He fell into very ill health some time ago, and was advised to go to
the continent; and I gave him no peace until he went, and promised to
take care of his two boys until he returned.
"He was gone for above a year, and was quite restored. When he came
back, he sent me the tale I'm going to show you.—Oh, here it is!"
said she, as the page put in her hands a beautiful box of satinwood.
She unlocked it, and from among several parcels of notes on embossed
paper, cards of charades, and copies of verses, she drew out a crimson
velvet case, that smelt very much of perfumes. From this she took a
manuscript, daintily written on gilt-edged vellum paper, and stitched
a light blue riband. This she handed to the captain, who read the
following tale, which I have procured for the entertainment of the