Williams in case of the other's insensibility; and at the next opportunity, in Mr. Thornhill's presence, that day month was fixed upon for her nuptials with his rival. Such vigorous proceedings seemed to redouble Mr. Thornhill's anxiety: but what Olivia really felt gave me some uneasiness. In this struggle between prudence and passion, her vivacity quite forsook her, and every opportunity of solitude was sought, and spent in tears. One week passed away; but Mr. Thornhill made no efforts to restrain her nuptials. The succeeding week he was still assiduous, but not more open. On the third he discontinued his visits entirely; and instead of my daughter testifying any impatience, as I expected, she seemed to retain a pensive tranquillity, which I looked upon as resignation. For my own part, I was now sincerely pleased with thinking that my child was going to be secured in a continuance of competence and peace, and frequently applauded her resolution in preferring happiness to ostentation. It was within about four days of her intended nuptials, that my little family at night were gathered round a charming fire, telling stories of the past, and laying schemes for the future; busied in forming a thousand projects, and laughing at whatever folly came uppermost. "Well, Moses," cried I, "we shall soon, my boy, have a wedding in the family; what is your opinion of matters and things in general?" "My opinion, father, is, that all things go on very well; and I was just now thinking, that when sister Livy is married to Farmer Williams, we shall then have the loan of the cider-press and brewing-tubs for nothing." "That we shall, Moses," cried I, "and he will sing us _Death and the Lady_, to raise our spirits, into the bargain." "He has taught that song to our Dick," cried Moses; "and I think he goes through it very prettily." "Does he so?" cried I, "then let us have it: where is little Dick? let him up with it boldly." "My brother Dick," cried Bill, my youngest, "is just gone out with his sister Livy; but Mr. Williams has taught me two songs, and I'll sing them for you, papa. Which song do you choose—_The Dying Swan_, or the _Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog_?" "The elegy, child, by all means," said I; "I never heard that yet. And Deborah, my life, grief, you know, is dry; let us have a bottle of the best gooseberry-wine, to keep up our spirits. I have wept so much at all sorts of elegies of late, that, without an enlivening glass, I am sure this will overcome me. And Sophy, love, take your guitar, and thrum in with the boy a little." AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG. Good people all, of every sort, Give ear unto my song; And if you find it wondrous short, It cannot hold you long. In Islington there was a man Of whom the world might say, That still a godly race he ran Whene'er he went to pray.