good Dick is pulling
her back by her dress, that she may not go; but a villain's hand is
round her waist, and one foot he has upon the step of the chaise, and
the door is open. Poor Dick, you have nothing left you to do but to run
home as fast as you can; and there you will find such a scene of
innocent enjoyment, how to be marr'd! at the very moment, too, that the
good Vicar had been feeling and saying, "I think myself happier now than
the greatest monarch upon earth. He has no such fireside, nor such
pleasant faces about it. We are descended from ancestors that knew no
stain, and we shall leave a good and virtuous race of children behind
us. While we live they will be our support and our pleasure here, and
when we die they will transmit our honour untainted to posterity. Come,
my son, we wait for a song: let us have a chorus. But where is my
darling Olivia? That little cherub's voice is always sweetest in the
concert." O Dick, Dick! at such a moment as this to run in and tell him
to be miserable for ever; for that his cherub, his Olivia is gone, and
gone, as it appears, to infamy, a thousand times more grievous than
death. Was there ever so touching a scene?--Mr Mulready feared it. That
is a wonderful chapter--the happiness is so domestically heightened,
that the homefelt joy may be more instantly crushed. We know we shall
not see dear darling Olivia again for a long, long time; and feel we
want a pause and a little diversion--so we will go back to Bill the
songster for amusement, and take it if we can; and here is for the
purpose Bill's "Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog," alas! taught him, too,
by honest Mr Williams; we only hope young, sturdy farmers have strong
nerves, and don't break their hearts in love's disappointments. Here is
Dick's Elegy; and as we, too, have a Moses at home of a "miscellaneous
education," we will put on the Vicar's simplicity, and cheerful
familiarity with his own flesh and blood--and thus we address our Moses,
"Come, my boy, you are no hand at singing, so turn the Elegy another
way: let us have a little Latin, for your music is Hexameter and
Pentameter." Our Moses, "That's a hard task, sir, for one that cannot
mount to Parnass Hill without his 'Gradus ad Parnassum.'" "Well, then
get your Gradus, and put your foot in that first step of the ladder."
Our Moses, waggishly--"I must mind my feet, sir, or they will be but
lame verses, and go halting and hobbling--but I suppose you won't be
very par