As I Drove Along The Ridge Of Hempstead
Hill, By Jack Straw's Castle, I Paused At The Spot Where Columbine And
I Had Sat Down So Disconsolately In Our Ragged Finery, And Looked
Dubiously Upon London.
I almost expected to see her again, standing on
the hill's brink, "like Niobe all tears;" - mournful as Babylon in
ruins!
"Poor Columbine!" said I, with a heavy sigh, "thou wert a gallant,
generous girl - a true woman, faithful to the distressed, and ready to
sacrifice thyself in the cause of worthless man!"
I tried to whistle off the recollection of her; for there was always
Something of self-reproach with it. I drove gayly along the road,
enjoying the stare of hostlers and stable-boys as I managed my horses
knowingly down the steep street of Hempstead; when, just at the skirts
of the village, one of the traces of my leader came loose. I pulled up;
and as the animal was restive and my servant a bungler, I called for
assistance to the robustious master of a snug ale-house, who stood at
his door with a tankard in his hand. He came readily to assist me,
followed by his wife, with her bosom half open, a child in her arms,
and two more at her heels. I stared for a moment as if doubting my
eyes. I could not be mistaken; in the fat, beer-blown landlord of the
ale-house I recognized my old rival Harlequin, and in his slattern
spouse, the once trim and dimpling Columbine.
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