"More black than ash-buds in the front of March, A cedar spread his dark-green layers of shade."
"Capital term--'layers!' Wonderful man!" I did not know whether he was speaking to me or not; but I put in an assenting "wonderful," although I knew nothing about it; just because I was tired of being forgotten, and of being consequently silent.
He turned sharp round. "Ay! you may say 'wonderful.' Why, when I saw the review of his poems in 'Blackwood,' I set off within an hour, and walked seven miles to Misselton (for the horses were not in the way), and ordered them. Now, what color are ash-buds in March?"
Is the man going mad? thought I. He is very like Don Quixote.
"What color are they, I say?" repeated he, vehemently.
"I am sure I don't know, sir," said I, with the meekness of ignorance.
"I knew you didn't. No more did I--an old fool that I am! till this young man comes and tells me. 'Black as ash-buds in March.' And I've lived all my life in the country; more shame for me not to know. Black; they are jet-black, madam." And he went off again, swinging along to the music of some rhyme he had got hold of.
When he came home nothing would serve him but that he must read us the poems he had been speaking of; and Miss Pole encouraged him in his proposal, I thought, because she wished me to hear his beautiful reading, of which she had boasted; but she afterward said it was because she had got to a difficult part of her crotchet, and wanted to count her stitches without having to talk. Whatever he had proposed would have been right to Miss Matey; although she did fall sound asleep within five minutes after he began a long poem called "Locksley Hall," and had a comfortable nap, unobserved, till he ended; when the cessation of his voice wakened her up, and she said, feeling that something was expected, and that Miss Pole was counting:
"Pretty! madam! it's beautiful! Pretty, indeed!"
"Oh, yes! I meant beautiful!" said she, fluttered at his disapproval of her word. "It is so like that beautiful poem of Dr. Johnson's my sister used to read--I forget the name of it; what was it, my dear?" turning to me.
"Which do you mean, ma'am? What was it about?"
"I don't remember what it was about, and I've quite forgotten what the name of it was; but it was written by Dr. Johnson, and was very beautiful, and very like what Mr. Holbrook has just been reading."