--I
think on it with rapture.--I will set it down on the heart of your
dutiful and affectionate
E. Delves.
LETTER XLV.
Miss Delves to the same.
_Barford Abbey_
Surely I must smell of venison,--roast beef, and plumb-puddings.--Yes, I
smell of the Old English hospitality.--_You_, Madam, have no tenants to
regale so;--are safe from such troubles on my account.--Will you believe
me, Madam, I had rather see their honest old faces than go to the finest
opera ever exhibited.--What think you of a hundred-and-seven chearful
farmers sitting at long tables spread with every thing the season can
afford;--two hogsheads of wine at their elbows;--the servants waiting on
them with assiduous respect:--Their songs still echo in my ears.
I thought the roof would have come down, when Lord and Lady Darcey made
their appearance.--Some sung one tune,--some another;--some paid
extempore congratulations;--others that had not a genius, made use of
ballads compos'd on the marriage of the King and Queen.--One poor old
soul cried to the Butler, because he could neither sing or repeat a
verse.--Seeing his distress, I went to him, and repeated a few lines
applicable to the occasion, which he caught in a moment, and tun'd away
with the best of them.
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