Part 7

You touched my heart; it gave a thrill Just like a rose That opens at a lady’s will; Its bloom is always yours, until You bid it close. _Mortimer Collins._

MARTIAL IN LONDON

EXQUISITE wines and comestibles, From Slater, and Fortnum and Mason; Billiard, écarté, and chess tables; Water in vast marble basin; Luminous books (not voluminous) To read under beech-trees cacuminous; One friend, who is fond of a distich, And doesn’t get too syllogistic; A valet, who knows the complete art Of service—a maiden, his sweetheart: Give me these, in some rural pavilion, And I’ll envy no Rothschild his million. _Mortimer Collins._

THE BEST OF THE BALL

AT last! O, sensation delicious! At last, it is here, it is here! That moment supremely auspicious In the jolliest ball of the year.

It is all as I dreamt it would happen— The rooms grown oppressive with heat, And my darling, alarm’d with the crowding, Suggesting a timely retreat.

“Not there; not among the exotics; I faint with that fragrance of theirs. Let us go—it will be so refreshing— And find out a seat on the stairs.”

How dear are the lips that could utter Such exquisite music as this! How I listen’d, my heart all a-flutter, Assenting, transported with bliss!

All the house with the dancers is throbbing, The music seems born of the air: O, joy of all joy the extremest, To sit, as I sit, on a stair!

To sit, and to gaze on my darling, Enraptured in thrilling delight, As I think, “Never face could be fairer, Nor eyes half so tenderly bright.”

It is all as I knew it would happen, Yet, no; there is something I miss— The eloquent words I intended To speak in a moment like this.

They were tender, and soft, and poetic, And I thought, “As I timidly speak, She will smile, and a blush sympathetic Will crimson the rose in her cheek.”

And now that we sit here together, I only—do all that I can— Converse on the ball and the weather, While she opens and closes her fan.

What I thought to have said seems audacious, Her ear it would surely offend; She would turn from me, no longer gracious, And frown my delight to an end.

Far better to talk of the weather, Or ponder in rapture supreme: ’Tis so joyous to sit here together, So pleasant to wake and to dream!

Contented, long hours we could measure, Forgetting, forgotten by all; Nor envy the dancers their pleasure For ours is the best of the ball. _William Sawyer._

THE BALLAD OF DEAD LADIES

(_Translation from François Villon, 1450_)

TELL me now in what hidden way is Lady Flora the lovely Roman? Where’s Hipparchia, and where is Thais, Neither of them the fairer woman? Where is Echo, beheld of no man, Only heard on river and mere,— She whose beauty was more than human?... But where are the snows of yester-year?

Where’s Heloise, the learned nun, For whose sake Abeillard, I ween, Lost manhood and put priesthood on? (From love he won such dule and teen!) And where, I pray you is the Queen Who will’d that Buridan should steer Sew’d in a sack’s mouth down the Seine?... But where are the snows of yester-year?

White Queen Blanche, like a queen of lilies, With a voice like any mermaiden,— Bertha Broadfoot, Beatrice, Alice, And Ermengarde the lady of Maine,— And that good Joan whom Englishmen At Rouen doom’d and burn’d her there,— Mother of God, Where are they then?... But where are the snows of yester-year?

Nay, never ask this weak, fair lord, Where they are gone, nor yet this year, Save with thus much for an overword,— But where are the snows of yester-year? _Dante Gabriel Rossetti._

FEMININE ARITHMETIC

_Laura_

ON me he shall ne’er put a ring, So, mamma, ’tis in vain to take trouble— For I was but eighteen in spring, While his age exactly is double.

_Mamma_

He’s but in his thirty-sixth year, Tall, handsome, good-natured and witty, And should you refuse him, my dear, May you die an old maid without pity!

_Laura_

His figure, I grant you, will pass, And at present he’s young enough plenty; But when I am sixty, alas! Will not he be a hundred and twenty? _Charles Graham Halpine._

A TRIFLE

I KNOW not why, but ev’n to me My songs seem sweet when read to thee.

Perhaps in this the pleasure lies— I read my thoughts within thine eyes.

And so dare fancy that my art May sink as deeply as thy heart.

Perhaps I love to make my words Sing round thee like so many birds,

Or, Maybe, they are only sweet As they seem offerings at thy feet.

Or haply, Lily, when I speak, I think, perchance, they touch thy cheek,

Or with a yet more precious bliss, Die on thy red lips in a kiss.

Each reason here—I cannot tell— Or all perhaps may solve the spell.

But if she watch when I am by, Lily may deeper see than I. _Henry Timrod._

FLIGHT

O MEMORY! that which I gave thee To guard in thy garner yestreen— Little deeming thou e’er could’st behave thee Thus basely—hath gone from thee clean! Gone, fled, as ere autumn is ended The yellow leaves flee from the oak— I have lost it forever, my splendid Original joke.

What was it? I know I was brushing My hair when the notion occurred: I know that I felt myself blushing As I thought, “How supremely absurd! How they’ll hammer on floor and on table As its drollery dawns on them—how They will quote it”—I wish I were able To quote it just now.

I had thought to lead up conversation To the subject—it’s easily done— Then let off, as an airy creation Of the moment, that masterly pun. Let it off, with a flash like a rocket’s; In the midst of a dazzled conclave, Where I sat, with my hands in my pockets, The only one grave.

I had fancied young Titterton’s chuckles, And old Bottleby’s hearty guffaws As he drove at my ribs with his knuckles, His mode of expressing applause: While Jean Bottleby—queenly Miss Janet— Drew her handkerchief hastily out, In fits at my slyness—what can it Have all been about?

I know ’twas the happiest, quaintest Combination of pathos and fun: But I’ve got no idea—the faintest— Of what was the actual pun. I think it was somehow connected With something I’d recently read— Or heard—or perhaps recollected On going to bed.

What had I been reading? The _Standard_: “Double Bigamy”; “Speech of the Mayor.” And later—eh? yes! I meandered Through some chapters of “Vanity Fair.” How it fuses the grave with the festive! Yet e’en there, there is nothing so fine— So playfully, subtly suggestive— As that joke of mine.

Did it hinge upon “parting asunder?” No, I don’t part my hair with my brush. Was the point of it “hair”? Now I wonder! Stop a bit—I shall think of it—hush! There’s hare, a wild animal—stuff! It was something a deal more recondite: Of that I am certain enough; And of nothing beyond it.

Hair—locks! There are probably many Good things to be said about those. Give me time—that’s the best guess of any— “Lock” has several meanings, one knows. Iron locks—iron-gray-locks—a “deadlock”— That would set up an everyday wit: Then of course there’s the obvious “wedlock”; But that wasn’t it.

No! mine was a joke for the ages; Full of intricate meaning and pith; A feast for your scholars and sages— How it would have rejoiced Sydney Smith! ’Tis such thoughts that ennoble a mortal; And, singling him out from the herd, Fling wide immortality’s portal— But what was the word?

Ah me! ’tis a bootless endeavor. As the flight of a bird of the air Is the flight of a joke—you will never See the same one again, you may swear. ’Twas my firstborn, and O how I prized it! My darling, my treasure, my own! This brain and none other devised it— And now it has flown. _Charles Stuart Calverley._

LOVE

CANST thou love me, lady? I’ve not learn’d to woo; Thou art on the shady Side of sixty, too. Still I love thee dearly! Thou hast lands and pelf: But I love thee merely Merely for thyself.

Wilt thou love me, fairest? Though thou art not fair; And I think thou wearest Someone-else’s hair. Thou could’st love, though, dearly; And, as I am told, Thou art very nearly Worth thy weight in gold.

Dost thou love me, sweet one? Tell me that thou dost! Women fairly beat one, But I think thou must. Thou art loved so dearly: I am plain, but then Thou (to speak sincerely) Art as plain again.

Love me, bashful fairy! I’ve an empty purse: And I’ve “moods,” which vary; Mostly for the worst. Still, I love thee dearly: Though I make (I feel) Love a little queerly, I’m as true as steel.

Love me, swear to love me (As you know, they do) By yon heaven above me And its changeless blue. Love me, lady, dearly, If you’ll be so good; Though I don’t see clearly On what ground you should.

Love me—ah! or love me Not, but be my bride! Do not simply shove me (So to speak) aside! P’raps it would be dearly Purchased at the price; But a hundred yearly Would be very nice. _Charles Stuart Calverley._

SINCE WE PARTED

SINCE we parted yester eve, I do love thee, love, believe, Twelve times dearer, twelve hours longer, One dream deeper, one night stronger, One sun surer,—thus much more Than I loved thee, love, before. _Owen Meredith._

A KISS—BY MISTAKE

UPON the railway train we met— She had the softest, bluest eyes, A face you never could forget— “Sixteen” with all that that implies. I knew her once a little girl, And meeting now a mutual friend, Our thoughts and hearts got in a whirl; We talked for miles without much end,

I threw my arms around the seat Where, just in front, she sideways sat, Her melting eyes and face to meet— (And no one wondered much at that), For soon the station where she left Would on the sorrowing vision rise, And I at least should feel bereft; I thought a tear stood in her eyes.

She was but kith, not kin of mine; Ten years had passed since last we met, And when in going she did incline Her face ’twas natural to forget, It seemed so like a child I knew— I met her half way by mistake; And coming near those eyes of blue, She gently kissed me—by mistake!

She saw her error, and straightway ran With flaming blushes, rosy red; I should not be one-half a man If thoughts of wrong came in my head; In fact, I’d take that very train And travel daily for her sake, If she would only come again And gently kiss me—by mistake! _Joel Benton._

A GAME OF FIVES

FIVE little girls, of Five, Four, Three, Two, One: Rolling on the hearthrug, full of tricks and fun.

Five rosy girls, in years from Ten to Six: Sitting down to lessons—no more time for tricks.

Five growing girls, from Fifteen to Eleven: Music, Drawing, Languages, and food enough for seven!

Five winsome girls, from Twenty to Sixteen: Each young man that calls, I say “Now tell me which you _mean_!”

Five dashing girls, the youngest Twenty-one: But, if nobody proposes, what is there to be done?

Five showy girls—but Thirty is an age When girls may be engaging, but they somehow don’t engage.

Five dressy girls, of Thirty-one or more: So gracious to the shy young men they snubbed so much before!

* * * * *

Five _passé_ girls—Their age? Well, never mind! We jog along together, like the rest of human kind: But the quondam “careless bachelor” begins to think he knows The answer to that ancient problem “how the money goes!” _Lewis Carroll._

A VALENTINE

(_Sent to a friend who complained that I was glad enough to see him when he came, but didn’t seem to miss him if he stayed away._)

AND cannot pleasures, while they last, Be actual unless, when past, They leave us shuddering and aghast, With anguish smarting? And cannot friends be firm and fast, And yet bear parting?

And must I then, at Friendship’s call, Calmly resign the little all (Trifling, I grant, it is and small) I have of gladness, And lend my being to the thrall Of gloom and sadness?

And think you that I should be dumb, And full _dolorum omnium_, Excepting when you choose to come And share my dinner? At other times be sour and glum And daily thinner?

Must he then only live to weep, Who’d prove his friendship true and deep? By day a lonely shadow creep, At night-time languish, Oft raising in his broken sleep The moan of anguish.

The lover, if for certain days His fair one be denied his gaze, Sinks not in grief and wild amaze, But, wiser wooer He spends the time in writing lays, And posts them to her.

And if the verse flow free and fast, Till even the poet is aghast, A touching Valentine at last The post shall carry, When thirteen days are gone and past Of February.

Farewell, dear friend, and when we meet, In desert waste or crowded street, Perhaps before this week shall fleet, Perhaps to-morrow, I trust to find your heart the seat Of wasting sorrow. _Lewis Carroll._

THE WEDDING DAY

I

SWEETHEART, name the day for me When we two shall wedded be. Make it ere another moon, While the meadows are in tune, And the trees are blossoming, And the robins mate and sing. Whisper, love, and name a day In this merry month of May.

No, no, no, You shall not escape me so! Love will not forever wait; Roses fade when gathered late.

II

Fie, for shame, Sir Malcontent! How can time be better spent Than in wooing? I would wed When the clover blossoms red, When the air is full of bliss, And the sunshine like a kiss. If you’re good I’ll grant a boon: You shall have me, sir, in June.

Nay, nay, nay, Girls for once should have their way! If you love me, wait till June: Rosebuds wither, picked too soon. _Edmund Clarence Stedman._

EDGED TOOLS

WELL, Helen, quite two years have flown Since that enchanted, dreamy night, When you and I were left alone, And wondered whether they were right Who said that each the other loved; And thus debating, yes and no, And half in earnest, as it proved, We bargained to pretend ’twas so.

Two sceptic children of the world, Each with a heart engraven o’er With broken love-knots, quaintly curled, Of hot flirtations held before; Yet, somehow, either seemed to find, This time, a something more akin To that young, natural love,—the kind Which comes but once, and breaks us in.

What sweetly stolen hours we knew, And frolics perilous as gay! Though lit in sport, Love’s taper grew More bright and burning day by day. We knew each heart was only lent, The other’s ancient scars to heal: The very thought a pathos blent With all the mirth we tried to feel.

How bravely when the time to part Came with the wanton season’s close, Though nature with our mutual art Had mingled more than either chose, We smothered Love, upon the verge Of folly, in one last embrace, And buried him without a dirge, And turned, and left his resting-place.

Yet often (tell me what it means!) His spirit steals upon me here, Far, far away from all the scenes His little lifetime held so dear; He comes: I hear a mystic strain In which some tender memory lies; I dally with your hair again; I catch the gleam of violet eyes.

Ah, Helen! how have matters been Since those rude obsequies, with you? Say, is my partner in the sin A sharer of the penance too? Again the vision’s at my side: I drop my head upon my breast, And wonder if he really died, And why his spirit will not rest. _Edmund Clarence Stedman._

WITCHCRAFT

OUR great-great-grandpapas had schooled Your fancies, Lita, were you born In days when Cotton Mather ruled And damask petticoats were worn! Your pretty ways, your mocking air, Had passed, mayhap, for Satan’s wiles— As fraught with danger, then and there, To you, as now to us your smiles.

Why not? Were inquest to begin, The tokens are not far to seek: _Item_—the dimple of your chin; _Item_—that freckle on your cheek. Grace shield his simple soul from harm Who enters yon flirtation niche, Or trusts in whispered counter-charm, Alone with such a parlous witch!

Your fan a wand is, in disguise; It conjures, and we straight are drawn Within a witches’ Paradise Of music, germans, roses, lawn. So through the season, where you go, All else than Lita men forget: One needs no second-sight to know That sorcery is rampant yet.

Now, since the bars no more await Fair maids that practise sable arts, Take heed, while I pronounce the fate Of her who thus ensnares men’s hearts: In time you shall a wizard meet With spells more potent than your own, And you shall know your master, Sweet, And for these witcheries atone.

For you at his behest shall wear A veil, and seek with him the church, And at the altar rail forswear The craft that left you in the lurch; But oft thereafter, musing long, With smile and sigh, and conscience-twitch, You shall too late confess the wrong— A captive and repentant witch. _Edmund Clarence Stedman._

TOUJOURS AMOUR

PRITHEE tell me, Dimple-Chin, At what age doth love begin? Your blue eyes have scarcely seen Summers three, my fairy queen, But a miracle of sweets, Soft approaches, sly retreats, Show the little archer there, Hidden in your pretty hair; When didst learn a heart to win? Prithee tell me, Dimple-Chin!

“Oh!” the rosy lips reply, “I can’t tell you if I try. ’Tis so long I can’t remember: Ask some younger lass than I!”

Tell, O tell me, Grizzled-Face, Do your heart and head keep pace? When does hoary Love expire, When do frosts put out the fire? Can its embers burn below All that chill December snow? Care you still soft hands to press, Bonny heads to smooth and bless? When does Love give up the chase? Tell, O tell me, Grizzled-Face?

“Ah!” the wise old lips reply, “Youth may pass, and strength may die; But of Love I can’t foretoken: Ask some older sage than I!” _Edmund Clarence Stedman._

DICTUM SAPIENTI

THAT ’tis well to be off with the old love Before one is on with the new Has somehow passed into a proverb,— But I never have found it true.

No love can be quite like the old love, Whate’er may be said for the new— And if you dismiss me, my darling, You may come to this thinking, too.

Were the proverb not wiser if mended, And the fickle and wavering told To be sure they’re on with the new love Before they are off with the old? _Charles Henry Webb._

UNDOWERED

THOU hast not gold? Why, this is gold All clustering round thy forehead white; And were it weighed, and were it told, I could not say its worth to-night!

Thou hast not wit? Why, what is this Wherewith thou capturest many a wight, Who doth forget a tongue is his, As I well-nigh forgot to-night?

Nor station? Well, ah, well! I own Thou hast no place assured thee quite; So now I raise thee to a throne; Begin thy reign, my Queen, to-night. _Harriet McEwen Kimball._

THE LOVE-KNOT

TYING her bonnet under her chin, She tied her raven ringlets in; But not alone in the silken snare Did she catch her lovely floating hair, For tying her bonnet under her chin, She tied a young man’s heart within.

They were strolling together up the hill, Where the wind comes blowing merry and chill; And it blew the curls, a frolicsome race, All over the happy peach-colored face, Till, scolding and laughing, she tied them in, Under her beautiful dimpled chin.

And it blew a color, bright as the bloom Of the pinkest fuchsia’s tossing plume, All over the cheeks of the prettiest girl That ever imprisoned a romping curl, Or, tying her bonnet under her chin, Tied a young man’s heart within.

Steeper and steeper grew the hill; Madder, merrier, chillier still The western wind blew down and played The wildest tricks with the little maid, As, tying her bonnet under her chin, She tied a young man’s heart within.

O western wind, do you think it was fair To play such tricks with her floating hair? To gladly, gleefully do your best To blow her against the young man’s breast, Where he as gladly folded her in, And kissed her mouth and her dimpled chin?

Ah! Ellery Vane, you little thought, An hour ago, when you besought This country lass to walk with you, After the sun had dried the dew, What perilous danger you’d be in, As she tied her bonnet under her chin _Nora Perry._

VERS DE SOCIÉTÉ

THERE, pay it, James! ’tis cheaply earned; My conscience! how one’s cabman charges! But never mind, so I’m returned Safe to my native street of Clarges. I’ve just an hour for one cigar (What style these Reinas have, and what ash!) One hour to watch the evening star With just one Curaçoa-and-potash.

Ah me! that face beneath the leaves And blossoms of its piquant bonnet! Who would have thought that forty thieves Of years had laid their fingers on it! Could you have managed to enchant At Lord’s to-day old lovers simple, Had Robber Time not played gallant, And spared you every youthful dimple!

That Robber bold, like courtier Claude, Who danced the gay coranto jesting, By your bright beauty charmed and awed, Has bowed and passed you unmolesting. No feet of many-wintered crows Have traced about your eyes a wrinkle; Your sunny hair has thawed the snows That other heads with silver sprinkle.

I wonder if that pair of gloves I won of you you’ll ever pay me! I wonder if our early loves Were wise or foolish, Cousin Amy? I wonder if our childish tiff Now seems to you, like me, a blunder! I wonder if you wonder if I ever wonder if you wonder.

I wonder if you’d think it bliss Once more to be the fashion’s leader! I wonder if the trick of this Escapes the unsuspecting reader! And as for him who does or can Delight in it, I wonder whether He knows that almost any man Could reel it off by yards together!