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.

All that I recollect is, that the lady, according to his account, was
certainly a little touched; for she used to accept all the music that he
copied for her harp, and all the patterns that he drew for her dresses;
and he began to flatter himself, after a long course of delicate
attentions, that he was gradually fanning up a gentle flame in her
heart, when she suddenly accepted the hand of a rich, boisterous,
fox-hunting baronet, without either music or sentiment, who carried her
by storm, after a fortnight's courtship.

Master Simon could not help concluding by some observation upon "modest
merit," and the power of gold over the sex. As a remembrance of his
passion, he pointed out a heart carved on the bark of one of the trees;
but which, in the process of time, had grown out into a large