Say and Seal, Volume II

Laughing a little, his own cup sending its persuasive steam unheeded, his own face on the sparkling order—though the eyes looked demurely down,—Mr. Linden went on to answer.

"'Cupid and my Campaspe played
At cards for kisses; Cupid payed;
He stakes his quiver, bow and arrows,
His mother's doves, and teame of sparrows;
Loses them too; then down he throws
The coral of his lippe, the rose
Growing on's cheek, (but none knows how)
With these, the crystal of his browe,
And then the dimple of his chinne;
All these did my Campaspe winne.
At last he set her both his eyes,—
She won, and Cupid blind did rise.
O Love! has she done this to thee?
What shall, alas! become of me!'"

There was a general little breeze of laughter and applause. The doctor had glanced at Faith;—her colour was certainly raised; but then the old Judge had just bent down to ask her "if she had ever heard of Campaspe before?" The doctor did not hear but he guessed at the whisper, and saw Faith's laugh and shake of the head.

"Is that a true bill, Linden?"

"Very true,—" said Mr. Linden, trying his coffee. "But it is not yet known what will become of me."

"What has become of Campaspe?"

"She is using her eyes."

"Are they those eyes, Mr. Linden?" said Miss Essie coming nearer and using her own.

"What was the colour of Cupid's?"

"Blue, certainly!"

"Miss Derrick!"—said the doctor,—"let us have your opinion."

Faith gave him at least a frank view of her own, all blushing and laughing as she was, and answered readily,—"As to the colour of Cupid's eyes?—I have never seen him, sir."

The doctor was obliged to laugh himself, and the chorus became general, at something in the combination of Faith and her words. But Faith's confusion thereupon mastered her so completely, that perhaps to shield her the doctor requested silence and attention and began to read; of a lady who, he said he was certain, had borrowed of nobody—not even of Cupid.—

"'Whoe'er she be,
That not impossible she,
That shall command my heart and me.'"

"I believe she is impossible, to begin with," said Miss Essie. "You will never let any woman command you, Dr. Harrison."

"You don't know me, Miss Essie," said the doctor, with a curiously grave face, for him.

"He means—

'Who shall command my heart—not me.'"

said Mr. Linden.

"If she can command my heart—what of me is left to rebel?" said the doctor.

"Sophy," said Mrs. Somers, "how long has Julius been all heart?"

"Ever since my aunt Ellen has been all eyes and ears. Mr. Somers, which portion of your mental nature owns the supremacy of your wife? may I inquire, in the course of this investigation?"

"Ha!" said Mr. Somers blandly, thus called upon—"I own her supremacy, sir—ha—in all proper things!"

"Ha! Very proper!" said the doctor.

"That is all any good woman wants," said the old Judge benignly. "I take it, that is all she wants."

"Then you must say which are the proper things, father!" said MissSophy laughing.

"You'll have to ask every man separately, Sophy," said Mrs. Somers,—"they all have their own ideas about proper things. Mr. Somers thinks milk porridge is the limit."

"Mr. Stoutenburgh," said the doctor, "haven't you owned yourself commanded, ever since your heart gave up its lock and key?"

"Yes indeed," said the Squire earnestly,—"I am so bound up in slavery that I have even forgotten the wish to be free! All my wife's things are proper!"

"O hush!" his wife said laughing, but with a little quick bright witness in her eyes, that was pretty to see. Dr. Harrison smiled.

"You see, Miss Derrick!" he said with a little bow to her,—"there is witness on all sides;—and now I will go on with my not impossible she."—

He got through several verses, not without several interruptions, till he came to the exquisite words following;—

"'I wish her beauty,
That owes not all his duty
To gaudy tire or glistring shoetye.

'Something more than
Taffeta or tissue can,
Or rampant feather, or rich fan.

'More than the spoil
Of shop, or silk-worm's toil,
Or a bought blush, or a set smile.'"

While Miss Essie exclaimed, Miss Harrison stole a look at Faith; who was looking up at the doctor, listening, with a very simple face of amusement. Her thoughts were indeed better ballasted than to sway to such a breeze if she had felt it. But the real extreme beauty of the image and of the delineation was what she felt; she made no application of them. The doctor came to this verse.

"'A well-tamed heart,
For whose more noble smart
Love may be long choosing a dart.'—

What does that mean, Linden?—isn't that an error in the description?"

"Poetical license," said Mr. Linden smiling. "Psyche will give you trouble enough, wings and all,—there is no fear you will find her 'tamed'."