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There could be no such ambiguity in Burns; his work is at the opposite pole from such indefinite and stammering performances; and a whole lifetime passed in the study of Shenstone would only lead a man further and further from writing the "Address to a Louse."
William Shenstone, the son of Thomas Shenstone and Anne Pen, was born in November, 1714, at the Leasowes in Hales-Owen, one of those insulated districts which, in the division of the kingdom, was appended, for some reason not now discoverable, to a distant county; and which, though surrounded by Warwickshire and Worcestershire, belongs to Shropshire, though perhaps thirty miles distant from any other part of it.
Shenstone certainly never associated the ease of his inn with any such hyperbolical sumptuousness as this; and it probably could not arise in any community that did not include a large class of individuals with literally more money than they knew what to do with, and desirous of any means of indicating their powers of expenditure.
"It is Sir Cyril Shenstone," the captain of the Fan Fan, who had come with the party, said sternly, feeling ruffled at the familiarity with which this rough-looking servitor of a City trader spoke of the gentleman in his charge. "It is Sir Cyril Shenstone, as brave a gentleman as ever drew sword, and who, as I hear, saved Prince Rupert's ship from being burnt by the Dutchmen."
She herself sat behind it, the very image of the Shenstone school-mistress, with wide white cap, black poke- bonnet, crossed kerchief, red cloak, and formidable rod; and her myrmidons were in costume to match.
"I don't care about that a bit," Beatrice said; "but you did not say, father, that it was a young gentleman, no older than Sydney, who found us and carried us out. I had expected to see a great big man." "I don't think I said anything about his age, Beatrice, but simply told you that I had found out that it was Sir Cyril Shenstone that had saved you." "Is the nurse recovering, my Lord?"
How ironically the kindly old words used to come floating to me out of Shakespeare each evening as the shadows fell, and the lights came out in the windows "to take mine ease at mine inn;" and assuredly it was on another planet that Shenstone wrote: Whoe'er hath travelled life's dull round, Whate'er his fortunes may have been, Must sigh to think he still has found His warmest welcome at an inn.
But this was the last evening. A parting impended. Also there had been tense moments in the honeysuckle arbour. Jim's blue eyes were mutinous. He stood holding her hands against his breast, as he had done in Horseshoe Cove, when the waves swept round their feet, and he had cried: "You must climb!" "So to-morrow night," he said, "you will be at the Lodge, Shenstone; and I, at my Club in town.
For the Shepherds' eldest daughter had just been figuring in a divorce case to the distress of the Shepherds' neighbours. Miss Shenstone showed patience. "I'll have the note ready directly." And when it was ready, the vicar took it like a lamb. He walked first to Great End, meditating as he went on Miss Henderson's engagement.
I beg to present to your Majesty Sir Cyril Shenstone, the son of the late Sir Aubrey Shenstone, a most gallant gentleman, who rode under my banner in many a stern fight in the service of your royal father." "I knew him well," the King said graciously, "but had not heard of his death. I am glad to hear that his son inherits his bravery.
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