THE COCK-LOFT
contour comme deux gouttes d’eau, not a doubt existed; it was mamma’s objection to be thought old enough to be the mother of a girl of eighteen—what amour propre! “All eyes but your own can see you are no younger.” However, I took care to have the politesse not to offend her juvenile feelings, ever addressing her as the aunt. As to accomplishments; of the young lady’s acquirements (from the aunt’s information), in French, Italian, music, and dancing, she was au fait, and no expense was spared. The master who taught the harp (I saw there an expensive one) was an eminent performer from Paris; nine guineas for twelve lessons. Bravo, Monsieur! All this for her future elevation. Sums lavished to “build castles in the air.” Those fortunate damsels of the theatre must have turned aunty’s head, fancying her daughter would be trap for another stage-struck amoureux. Poor woman, here she fails; beauty alone, unless a prominent actress, is but a poor speculation. It is years since I saw the beautiful expectant, then in an inferior situation at Astley’s Theatre, and I never heard of her again.
The Cock-loft.
At Easter, the trout streams at Rickmansworth were my usual resort. While on a ramble there, I prevailed on my friend John Bannister, with our old crony, James Heath, the artist, to accompany me. Bannister, whose time had always been better engaged than standing for hours by the water-side, encouraged by my telling him I was well acquainted with all the places where the largest fish were to be found, and that he might be sure to fill his bag, and astonish his family at his return home, with such sport; replied—“So I was told when
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