The weather certainly had its effect even upon Master Simon, for he seemed obstinately bent upon the pensive mood.  Instead of stepping briskly along, smacking his dog-whip, whistling quaint ditties, or telling sporting anecdotes, he leaned on my arm, and talked about the approaching nuptials; from whence he made several digressions upon the character of womankind, touched a little upon the tender passion, and made sundry very excellent, though rather trite, observations upon disappointments in love.  It was evident that he had something on his mind which he wished to impart, but felt awkward in approaching it.  I was curious to see to what this strain would lead; but I was determined not to assist him.  Indeed, I mischievously pretended to turn the conversation, and talked of his usual topics, dogs, horses, and hunting; but he was very brief in his replies, and invariably got back, by hook or by crook, into the sentimental vein.

[Illustration:  “Here Master Simon made a pause, pulled up a tuft of flowers, and threw them one by one into the water.”—­Page 165.]

At length we came to a clump of trees that overhung a whispering brook, with a rustic bench at their feet.  The trees were grievously scored with letters and devices, which had grown out of all shape and size by the growth of the bark:  and it appeared that this grove had served as a kind of register of the family loves from time immemorial.  Here Master Simon made a pause, pulled up a tuft of flowers, threw them one by one into the water, and at length, turning somewhat abruptly upon me, asked me if ever I had been in love.  I confess the question startled me a little, as I am not over fond of making confessions of my amorous follies; and, above all, should never dream of choosing my friend Master Simon for a confidant.  He did not wait, however, for a reply; the inquiry was merely a prelude to a confession on his own part, and after several circumlocutions and whimsical preambles, he fairly disburthened himself of a very tolerable story of his having been crossed in love.

The reader will, very probably, suppose that it related to the gay widow who jilted him not long since at Doncaster races;—­no such thing.  It was about a sentimental passion that he once had for a most beautiful young lady, who wrote poetry and played on the harp.  He used to serenade her; and indeed he described several tender and gallant scenes, in which he was evidently picturing himself in his mind’s eye as some elegant hero of romance, though, unfortunately for the tale, I only saw him as he stood before me, a dapper little old bachelor, with a face like an apple that has dried with the bloom on it.

What were the particulars of this tender tale I have already forgotten; indeed I listened to it with a heart like a very pebble stone, having hard work to repress a smile while Master Simon was putting on the amorous swain, uttering every now and then a sigh, and endeavouring to look sentimental and melancholy.