Chapter 7

Then we trifled with concerts and croquêt, Then she daintily dusted her face; Then she sprinkled herself with "Ess Bouquet," Fished out from the foregoing case; And we chattered of Gassier and Grisi, And voted Aunt Sally a bore; Discussed if the tight rope were easy, Or Chopin much harder than Spohr.

And oh! the odd things that she quoted, With the prettiest possible look, And the price of two buns that she noted In the prettiest possible book; While her talk like a musical rillet Flashed on with the hours that flew, And the carriage, her smile seemed to fill it With just enough summer--for Two.

Till at last in her corner, peeping From a nest of rugs and of furs, With the white shut eyelids sleeping On those dangerous looks of hers, She seemed like a snow-drop breaking, Not wholly alive nor dead, But with one blind impulse making To the sounds of the spring overhead;

And I watched in the lamplight's swerving The shade of the down-dropt lid, And the lip-line's delicate curving, Where a slumbering smile lay hid, Till I longed that, rather than sever, The train should shriek into space, And carry us onward--for ever,-- Me and that beautiful face.

But she suddenly woke in a fidget, With fears she was "nearly at home," And talk of a certain Aunt Bridget, Whom I mentally wished--well, at Rome; Got out at the very next station, Looking back with a merry _Bon Soir_, Adding, too, to my utter vexation, A surplus, unkind _Au Revoir_.

So left me to muse on her graces, To dose and to muse, till I dreamed That we sailed through the sunniest places In a glorified galley, it seemed; But the cabin was made of a carriage, And the ocean was Eau-de-Cologne, And we split on a rock labelled MARRIAGE, And I woke,--as cold as a stone.

And that's how I lost her--a jewel, _Incognita_--one in a crowd, Nor prudent enough to be cruel, Nor worldly enough to be proud. It was just a shut lid and its lashes, Just a few hours in a train, And I sorrow in sackcloth and ashes Longing to see her again.

DORA VERSUS ROSE.

"_The Case is proceeding._"

From the tragic-est novels at Mudie's-- At least, on a practical plan-- To the tales of mere Hodges and Judys, One love is enough for a man. But no case that I ever yet met is Like mine: I am equally fond Of Rose, who a charming brunette is, And Dora, a blonde.

Each rivals the other in powers-- Each waltzes, each warbles, each paints-- Miss Rose, chiefly tumble-down towers; Miss Do., perpendicular saints. In short, to distinguish is folly; 'Twixt the pair I am come to the pass Of Macheath, between Lucy and Polly,-- Or Buridan's ass.

If it happens that Rosa I've singled For a soft celebration in rhyme, Then the ringlets of Dora get mingled Somehow with the tune and the time; Or I painfully pen me a sonnet To an eyebrow intended for Do.'s, And behold I am writing upon it The legend "To Rose."

Or I try to draw Dora (my blotter Is all overscrawled with her head), If I fancy at last that I've got her, It turns to her rival instead; Or I find myself placidly adding To the rapturous tresses of Rose Miss Dora's bud-mouth, and her madding, Ineffable nose.

Was there ever so sad a dilemma? For Rose I would perish (_pro tem._); For Dora I'd willingly stem a-- (Whatever might offer to stem); But to make the invidious election,-- To declare that on either one's side I've a scruple,--a grain, more affection, I _cannot_ decide.

And, as either so hopelessly nice is, My sole and my final resource Is to wait some indefinite crisis,-- Some feat of molecular force, To solve me this riddle conducive By no means to peace or repose, Since the issue can scarce be inclusive Of Dora _and_ Rose.

(_Afterthought._)

But, perhaps, if a third (say a Norah), Not quite so delightful as Rose,-- Not wholly so charming as Dora,-- Should appear, is it wrong to suppose,-- As the claims of the others are equal,-- And flight--in the main--is the best,-- That I might ... But no matter,--the sequel Is easily guessed.

AD ROSAM.

"_Mitte sectari ROSA quo locorum Sera moretur._" --Hor. i. 38.

I had a vacant dwelling-- Where situated, I, As naught can serve the telling, Decline to specify;-- Enough 'twas neither haunted, Entailed, nor out of date; I put up "Tenant Wanted," And left the rest to Fate.

Then, Rose, you passed the window,-- I see you passing yet,-- Ah, what could I within do, When, Rose, our glances met! You snared me, Rose, with ribbons, Your rose-mouth made me thrall, Brief--briefer far than Gibbon's, Was my "Decline and Fall."

I heard the summons spoken That all hear--king and clown: You smiled--the ice was broken; You stopped--the bill was down. How blind we are! It never Occurred to me to seek If you had come for ever, Or only for a week.

The words your voice neglected, Seemed written in your eyes; The thought your heart protected, Your cheek told, missal-wise;-- I read the rubric plainly As any Expert could; In short, we dreamed,--insanely, As only lovers should.

I broke the tall Oenone, That then my chambers graced, Because she seemed "too bony," To suit your purist taste; And you, without vexation, May certainly confess Some graceful approbation, Designed _à mon adresse_.

You liked me then, carina,-- You liked me then, I think; For your sake gall had been a Mere tonic-cup to drink; For your sake, bonds were trivial, The rack, a _tour-de-force_; And banishment, convivial,-- You coming too, of course.

Then, Rose, a word in jest meant Would throw you in a state That no well-timed investment Could quite alleviate; Beyond a Paris trousseau You prized my smile, I know, I, yours--ah, more than Rousseau The lip of d'Houdetot.

Then, Rose,--But why pursue it? When Fate begins to frown Best write the final "_fuit_," And gulp the physic down. And yet,--and yet, that only, The song should end with this:-- You left me,--left me lonely, _Rosa mutabilis_!

Left me, with Time for Mentor, (A dreary _tête-à-tête_!) To pen my "Last Lament," or Extemporize to Fate, In blankest verse disclosing My bitterness of mind,-- Which is, I learn, composing In cases of the kind.

No, Rose. Though you refuse me, Culture the pang prevents; "I am not made"--excuse me-- "Of so slight elements;" I leave to common lovers The hemlock or the hood; My rarer soul recovers In dreams of public good.

The Roses of this nation-- Or so I understand From careful computation-- Exceed the gross demand; And, therefore, in civility To maids that can't be matched, No man of sensibility Should linger unattached.

So, without further fashion-- A modern Curtius, Plunging, from pure compassion, To aid the overplus,-- I sit down, sad--not daunted, And, in my weeds, begin A new card--"Tenant Wanted; Particulars within."

OUTWARD BOUND.

(HORACE, III. 7.)

"_Quid fles, Asterie, quem tibi candidi Primo restituent vere Favonii-- Gygen?_"

Come, Laura, patience. Time and Spring Your absent Arthur back shall bring, Enriched with many an Indian thing Once more to woo you; Him neither wind nor wave can check, Who, cramped beneath the "Simla's" deck, Still constant, though with stiffened neck, Makes verses to you.

Would it were wave and wind alone! The terrors of the torrid zone, The indiscriminate cyclone, A man might parry; But only faith, or "triple brass," Can help the "outward-bound" to pass Safe through that eastward-faring class Who sail to marry.

For him fond mothers, stout and fair, Ascend the tortuous cabin stair Only to hold around his chair Insidious sessions; For him the eyes of daughters droop Across the plate of handed soup, Suggesting seats upon the poop, And soft confessions.

Nor are these all his pains, nor most. Romancing captains cease to boast-- Loud majors leave their whist--to roast The youthful griffin; All, all with pleased persistence show His fate,--"remote, unfriended, slow,"-- His "melancholy" bungalow,-- His lonely tiffin.

In vain. Let doubts assail the weak; Unmoved and calm as "Adam's Peak," Your "blameless Arthur" hears them speak Of woes that wait him; Naught can subdue his soul secure; "Arthur will come again," be sure, Though matron shrewd and maid mature Conspire to mate him.

But, Laura, on your side, forbear To greet with too impressed an air A certain youth with chestnut hair,-- A youth unstable; Albeit none more skilled can guide The frail canoe on Thamis tide, Or, trimmer-footed, lighter glide Through "Guards" or "Mabel."

Be warned in time. Without a trace Of acquiescence on your face, Hear, in the waltz's breathing-space, His airy patter; Avoid the confidential nook; If, when you sing, you find his look Grow tender, close your music-book, And end the matter.

IN THE ROYAL ACADEMY.

HUGH (_on furlough_). HELEN (_his cousin_).

HELEN.

They have not come! And ten is past,-- Unless, by chance, my watch is fast; --Aunt Mabel surely told us "ten."

HUGH.

I doubt if she can do it, then. In fact, their train....

HELEN.

That is,--you knew. How could you be so treacherous, Hugh?

HUGH.

Nay;--it is scarcely mine, the crime, One can't account for railway-time! Where shall we sit? Not here, I vote;-- At least, there's nothing here of note.

HELEN.

Then _here_ we'll stay, please. Once for all, I bar all artists,--great and small! From now until we go in June I shall hear nothing but this tune:-- Whether I like Long's "Vashti," or Like Leslie's "Naughty Kitty" more; With all that critics, right or wrong, Have said of Leslie and of Long.... No. If you value my esteem, I beg you'll take another theme; Paint me some pictures, if you will, But spare me these, for good and ill....

HUGH.

"Paint you some pictures!" Come, that's kind! You know I'm nearly colour-blind.

HELEN.

Paint then, in words. You did before; Scenes at--where was it? Dustypoor? You know....

HUGH (_with an inspiration_).

I'll try.

HELEN.

But mind they're pretty Not "hog hunts." ...

HUGH.

You shall be Committee, And say if they are "out" or "in."

HELEN.

I shall reject them all. Begin.

HUGH.

Here is the first. An antique Hall (Like Chanticlere) with panelled wall. A boy, or rather lad. A girl, Laughing with all her rows of pearl Before a portrait in a ruff. He meanwhile watches....

HELEN.

That's enough, It wants "_verve_," "_brio_," "breadth," "design," ... Besides, it's English. I decline.

HUGH.

This is the next. 'Tis finer far: A foaming torrent (say Braemar). A pony, grazing by a boulder, Then the same pair, a little older, Left by some lucky chance together. He begs her for a sprig of heather....

HELEN.

--"Which she accords with smile seraphic." I know it,--it was in the "Graphic." Declined.

HUGH.

Once more, and I forego All hopes of hanging, high or low: Behold the hero of the scene, In bungalow and palankeen....

HELEN.

What!--all at once! But that's absurd;-- Unless he's Sir Boyle Roche's bird!

HUGH.

Permit me--'Tis a Panorama, In which the person of the drama, Mid orientals dusk and tawny, Mid warriors drinking brandy pawnee, Mid scorpions, dowagers, and griffins, In morning rides, at noon-day tiffins, In every kind of place and weather, Is solaced ... by a sprig of heather.

(_More seriously._)

He puts that faded scrap before The "Rajah," or the "Koh-i-noor".... He would not barter it for all Benares, or the Taj-Mahal.... It guides,--directs his every act, And word, and thought--In short--in fact-- I mean ...

(_Opening his locket._)

Look, Helen, that's the heather! (Too late! Here come both Aunts together.)

HELEN.

What heather, Sir?

(_After a pause._)

And why ... "too late?" --Aunt Dora, how you've made us wait! Don't you agree that it's a pity Portraits are hung by the Committee?

THE LAST DESPATCH.

Hurrah! the Season's past at last; At length we've "done" our pleasure. Dear "Pater," if you _only_ knew How much I've _longed_ for home and you,-- Our own green lawn and leisure!

And then the pets! One half forgets The dear dumb friends--in Babel. I hope my special fish is fed;-- I long to see poor Nigra's head Pushed at me from the stable!

I long to see the cob and "Rob,"-- Old Bevis and the Collie; And _won't_ we read in "Traveller's Rest"! Home readings after all are best;-- None else seem half so "jolly!"

One misses your dear kindly store Of fancies quaint and funny; One misses, too, your kind _bon-mot_;-- The Mayfair wit I mostly know Has more of gall than honey!

How tired one grows of "calls and balls!" This "_toujours perdrix_" wearies; I'm longing, quite, for "Notes on Knox"; (_Apropos_, I've the loveliest box For holding _Notes and Queries_!)

A change of place would suit my case. You'll take me?--on probation? As "Lady-help," then, let it be; I feel (as Lavender shall see), That Jams are _my_ vocation!

How's Lavender? My love to her. Does Briggs still flirt with Flowers?-- Has Hawthorn stubbed the common clear?-- You'll let me give _some_ picnics, Dear, And ask the Vanes and Towers?

I met Belle Vane. "HE'S" still in Spain! Sir John won't let them marry. Aunt drove the boys to Brompton Rink; And Charley,--changing Charley,--think, Is now _au mieux_ with Carry!

And NO. You know what "_No_" I mean-- There's no one yet at present: The Benedick I have in view Must be a something wholly new,-- One's father's _far_ too pleasant.

So hey, I say, for home and you! Good-by to Piccadilly; Balls, beaux, and Bolton-row, adieu! Expect me, Dear, at half-past two; Till then,--your Own Fond--MILLY.

"PREMIERS AMOURS."

_Old Loves and old dreams,--_ _"Requiescant in pace."_ _How strange now it seems,--_ _"Old" Loves and "old" dreams!_ _Yet we once wrote you reams _Maude, Alice, and Gracie!_ _Old Loves and old dreams,--_ _"Requiescant in pace."_

When I called at the "Hollies" to-day, In the room with the cedar-wood presses, Aunt Deb. was just folding away What she calls her "memorial dresses."

She'd the frock that she wore at fifteen,-- Short-waisted, of course--my abhorrence; She'd "the loveliest"--something in "een" That she wears in her portrait by Lawrence;

She'd the "jelick" she used--"as a Greek," (!) She'd the habit she got her bad fall in; She had e'en the blue _moiré antique_ That she opened Squire Grasshopper's ball in:--

New and old they were all of them there:-- Sleek velvet and bombazine stately,-- She had hung them each over a chair To the "_paniers_" she's taken to lately

(Which she showed me, I think, by mistake). And I conned o'er the forms and the fashions, Till the faded old shapes seemed to wake All the ghosts of my passed-away "passions;"--

From the days of love's youthfullest dream, When the height of my shooting idea Was to burn, like a young Polypheme, For a somewhat mature Galatea.

There was Lucy, who "tiffed" with her first, And who threw me as soon as her third came; There was Norah, whose cut was the worst, For she told me to wait till my "berd" came;

Pale Blanche, who subsisted on salts; Blonde Bertha, who doted on Schiller; Poor Amy, who taught me to waltz; Plain Ann, that I wooed for the "siller;"--

All danced round my head in a ring, Like "The Zephyrs" that somebody painted, All shapes of the feminine thing-- Shy, scornful, seductive, and sainted,--

To my Wife, in the days she was young.... "How, Sir," says that lady, disgusted, "Do you dare to include ME among Your loves that have faded and rusted?"

"Not at all!"--I benignly retort. (I was just the least bit in a temper!) "Those, alas! were the fugitive sort, But you are my--_eadem semper_!"

Full stop,--and a Sermon. Yet think,-- There was surely good ground for a quarrel,-- She had checked me when just on the brink Of--I feel--a remarkable MORAL.

THE SCREEN IN THE LUMBER ROOM.

Yes, here it is, behind the box, That puzzle wrought so neatly-- That paradise of paradox-- We once knew so completely; You see it? 'Tis the same, I swear, Which stood, that chill September, Beside your aunt Lavinia's chair The year when ... You remember?

Look, Laura, look! You must recall This florid "Fairy's Bower," This wonderful Swiss waterfall, And this old "Leaning Tower;" And here's the "Maiden of Cashmere," And here is Bewick's "Starling," And here the dandy cuirassier You thought was "such a Darling!"

Your poor dear Aunt! you know her way, She used to say this figure Reminded her of Count D'Orsay "In all his youthful vigour;" And here's the "cot beside the hill" We chose for habitation, The day that ... But I doubt if still You'd like the situation!

Too damp--by far! She little knew, Your guileless Aunt Lavinia, Those evenings when she slumbered through "The Prince of Abyssinia," That there were two beside her chair Who both had quite decided To see things in a rosier air Than Rasselas provided!

Ah! men wore stocks in Britain's land, And maids short waists and tippets, When this old-fashioned screen was planned From hoarded scraps and snippets; But more--far more, I think--to me Than those who first designed it, Is this--in Eighteen Seventy-Three I kissed you first behind it.

DAISY'S VALENTINES.

All night through Daisy's sleep, it seems, Have ceaseless "rat-tats" thundered; All night through Daisy's rosy dreams Have devious Postmen blundered, Delivering letters round her bed,-- Mysterious missives, sealed with red, And franked of course with due Queen's-head,-- While Daisy lay and wondered.

But now, when chirping birds begin, And Day puts off the Quaker,-- When Cook renews her morning din, And rates the cheerful baker,-- She dreams her dream no dream at all, For, just as pigeons come at call, Winged letters flutter down, and fall Around her head, and wake her.

Yes, there they are! With quirk and twist, And fraudful arts directed; (Save Grandpapa's dear stiff old "fist," Through all disguise detected;) But which is his,--her young Lothair's,-- Who wooed her on the school-room stairs With three sweet cakes, and two ripe pears, In one neat pile collected?

'Tis there, be sure. Though truth to speak, (If truth may be permitted), I doubt that young "gift-bearing Greek" Is scarce for fealty fitted; For has he not (I grieve to say), To two loves more, on this same day, In just this same emblazoned way, His transient vows transmitted?

He _may_ be true. Yet, Daisy dear, That even youth grows colder You'll find is no new thing, I fear; And when you're somewhat older, You'll read of one Dardanian boy Who "wooed with gifts" a maiden coy,-- Then took the morning train to Troy, In spite of all he'd told her.

But wait. Your time will come. And then, Obliging Fates, please send her The bravest thing you have in men, Sound-hearted, strong, and tender;-- The kind of man, dear Fates, you know, That feels how shyly Daisies grow, And what soft things they are, and so Will spare to spoil or mend her.

IN TOWN.

"_The blue fly sung in the pane._"--Tennyson.

Toiling in Town now is "horrid," (There is that woman again!)-- June in the zenith is torrid, Thought gets dry in the brain.

There is that woman again: "Strawberries! fourpence a pottle!" Thought gets dry in the brain; Ink gets dry in the bottle.

"Strawberries! fourpence a pottle!" Oh for the green of a lane!-- Ink gets dry in the bottle; "Buzz" goes a fly in the pane!

Oh for the green of a lane, Where one might lie and be lazy! "Buzz" goes a fly in the pane; Bluebottles drive me crazy!

Where one might lie and be lazy, Careless of Town and all in it!-- Bluebottles drive me crazy: I shall go mad in a minute!

Careless of Town and all in it, With some one to soothe and to still you;-- I shall go mad in a minute; Bluebottle, then I shall kill you!

With some one to soothe and to still you, As only one's feminine kin do,-- Bluebottle, then I shall kill you: There now! I've broken the window!

As only one's feminine kin do,-- Some muslin-clad Mabel or May!-- There now! I've broken the window! Bluebottle's off and away!

Some muslin-clad Mabel or May, To dash one with eau de Cologne;-- Bluebottle's off and away; And why should I stay here alone!

To dash one with eau de Cologne, All over one's eminent forehead;-- And why should I stay here alone! Toiling in Town now is "horrid."

A SONNET IN DIALOGUE.

FRANK (_on the Lawn_). Come to the Terrace, May,--the sun is low.

MAY (_in the House_). Thanks, I prefer my Browning here instead.

FRANK. There are two peaches by the strawberry bed.

MAY. They will be riper if we let them grow.

FRANK. Then the Park-aloe is in bloom, you know.

MAY. Also, her Majesty Queen Anne is dead.

FRANK. But surely, May, your pony must be fed.

MAY. And was, and is. I fed him hours ago. 'Tis useless, Frank, you see I shall not stir.

FRANK. Still, I had something you would like to hear.

MAY. No doubt some new frivolity of men.

FRANK. Nay,--'tis a thing the gentler sex deplores Chiefly, I think....

MAY (_coming to the window_). What is this secret, then?

FRANK (_mysteriously_). There are no eyes more beautiful than yours!

GROWING GRAY.

"_On a l'âge de son coeur._"--A. d'Houdetot.

A little more toward the light;-- Me miserable! Here's one that's white; And one that's turning; Adieu to song and "salad days;" My Muse, let's go at once to Jay's, And order mourning.

We must reform our rhymes, my Dear,-- Renounce the gay for the severe,-- Be grave, not witty; We have, no more, the right to find That Pyrrha's hair is neatly twined,-- That Chloe's pretty.