_Mr. Derrydown._ We will examine Chevy Chase, then, with a view to the truth of things, instead of Old Robin Gray: God prosper long our noble king, Our lives and safeties all. _Mr. O’Scarum._ God prosper us all, indeed! if you are going through Chevy Chase at the same rate as you were through Old Robin Gray, there is an end of us all for a month. The truth of things, now!—is it that you’re looking for? Ask Miss Melincourt to touch the harp. The harp is the great key to the truth of things: and in the hand of Miss Melincourt it will teach you the music of the spheres, the concord of creation, and the harmony of the universe. _Anthelia._ You are a libeller of our sex, Mr. Derrydown, if you think the truth of things consists in showing it to be more governed by the meanest species of self-interest than yours. Few, indeed, are the individuals of either in whom the spirit of the age of chivalry survives. _Mr. Derrydown._ And yet, a man distinguished by that spirit would not be in society what Miss Melincourt is—a phoenix. Many knights can wield the sword of Orlando, but only one nymph can wear the girdle of Florimel. _The Hon. Mrs. Pinmoney._ That would be a very pretty compliment, Mr. Derrydown, if there were no other ladies in the room. Poor Mr. Derrydown looked a little disconcerted: he felt conscious that he had on this occasion lost sight of his usual politeness by too close an adherence to the truth of things. _Anthelia._ Both sexes, I am afraid, are too much influenced by the spirit of mercenary calculation. The desire of competence is prudence; but the desire of more than competence is avarice: it is against the latter only that moral censure should be directed: but I fear that in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred in which the course of true love is thwarted by considerations of fortune, it will be found that avarice rather than prudence is to be considered as the cause. Love in the age of chivalry, and love in the age of commerce, are certainly two very different deities; so much so, that the former may almost be regarded as a departed power; and, perhaps, the little ballad I am about to sing does not contain too severe an allegory in placing the tomb of chivalric love among the ruins of the castles of romance. THE TOMB OF LOVE By the mossy weed-flower’d column, Where the setting moonbeam’s glance Streams a radiance cold and solemn On the haunts of old romance: Know’st thou what those shafts betoken, Scatter’d on that tablet lone, Where the ivory bow lies broken By the monumental stone!