Part 12

Was’t in the north, or in the south That summer breezes rocked your cradle? And had you in your baby mouth A wooden or a silver ladle? And was your first unconscious sleep By Brownie banned, or blessed by Fairy? And did you wake to laugh or weep? And were you christened Maud or Mary?

And was your father called “Your Grace?” And did he bet at Ascot races? And did he chat of commonplace? And did he fill a score of places? And did your lady-mother’s charms Consist in picklings, broilings, bastings? Or did she prate about the arms Her brave forefathers wore at Hastings?

Where were you _finished_? tell me where? Was it at Chelsea or at Chiswick? Had you the ordinary share Of books and backboard, harp and physic? And did they bid you banish pride, And mind your Oriental tinting? And did you learn how Dido died? And who found out the art of printing?

And are you fond of lanes and brooks-- A votary of the sylvan Muses? Or do you con the little books Which Baron Brougham and Vaux diffuses? Or do you love to knit and sow-- The fashionable world’s Arachne? Or do you canter down the Row Upon a very long-tailed hackney?

And do you love your brother James? And do you pet his mares and setters? And have your friends romantic names? And do you write them long, long letters? And are you--since the world began All women are--a little spiteful? And don’t you dote on Malibran? And don’t you think Tom Moore delightful?

I see they’ve brought you flowers to-day; Delicious food for eyes and noses; But carelessly you turn away From all the pinks and all the roses; Say, is that fond look sent in search Of one whose look as fondly answers? And is he, fairest, in the Church? Or is he--ain’t he--in the Lancers?

And is your love a motley page Of black and white, half joy, half sorrow? Are you to wait till you’re of age? Or are you to be his to-morrow? Or do they bid you, in their scorn, Your pure and sinless flame to smother? Is he so very meanly born? Or are you married to another?

Whate’er you are, at last, adieu! I think it is your bounden duty To let the rhymes I coin for you Be prized by all who prize your beauty. From you I seek nor gold nor fame; From you I fear no cruel strictures; I wish some girls that I could name Were half as silent as their pictures!

APRIL FOOLS.

----“passim Palantes error certo de tramite pellit; Ill sinistrorsum, hic dextrorsum abit.” --HORACE.

This day, beyond all contradiction, This day is all thine own, Queen Fiction! And thou art building castles boundless Of groundless joys, and griefs as groundless; Assuring Beauties that the border Of their new dress is out of order, And schoolboys that their shoes want tying, And babies that their dolls are dying. Lend me--lend me some disguise; I will tell prodigious lies; All who care for what I say Shall be April Fools to-day!

First, I relate how all the nation Is ruined by Emancipation; How honest men are sadly thwarted, How beads and faggots are imported, How every parish church looks thinner, How Peel has asked the Pope to dinner; And how the Duke who fought the duel, Keeps good King George on water gruel. Thus I waken doubts and fears In the Commons and the Peers; If they care for what I say, They are April Fools to-day!

Next, I announce to hall and hovel Lord Asterisk’s unwritten novel; It’s full of wit, and full of fashion, And full of taste, and full of passion; It tells some very curious histories, Elucidates some charming mysteries, And mingles sketches of society With precepts of the soundest piety. Thus I babble to the host Who adore the _Morning Post_; If they care for what I say, They are April Fools to-day!

Then to the artist of my raiment I hint his bankers have stopped payment; And just suggest to Lady Locket That somebody has picked her pocket; And scare Sir Thomas from the City By murmuring, in a tone of pity, That I am sure I saw my Lady Drive through the Park with Captain Grady. Off my troubled victims go, Very pale and very low; If they care for what I say, They are April Fools to-day!

I’ve sent the learned Doctor Trepan To feel Sir Hubert’s broken knee-pan; ’Twill rout the Doctor’s seven senses To find Sir Hubert charging fences! I’ve sent a sallow parchment-scraper To put Miss Tim’s last will on paper; He’ll see her, silent as a mummy, At whist, with her two maids and dummy. Man of brief, and man of pill, They will take it very ill; If they care for what I say, They are April Fools to-day!

And then to her whose smile shed light on My weary lot last year at Brighton I talk of happiness and marriage, St. George’s, and a travelling carriage; I trifle with my rosy fetters, I rave about her witching letters, And swear my heart shall do no treason Before the closing of the season. Thus I whisper in the ear Of Louisa Windermere; If she cares for what I say, She’s an April Fool to-day!

And to the world I publish gaily, That all things are improving daily; That suns grow warmer, streamlets clearer, And faith more warm, and love sincerer; That children grow extremely clever, That sin is seldom known, or never; That gas, and steam, and education, Are killing sorrow and starvation! Pleasant visions!--but alas, How those pleasant visions pass! If you care for what I say, You’re an April Fool to-day!

Last, to myself, when night comes round me, And the soft chain of thought has bound me, I whisper “Sir, your eyes are killing; You owe no mortal man a shilling; You never cringe for Star or Garter; You’re much too wise to be a martyr; And, since you must be food for vermin, You don’t feel much desire for ermine!” Wisdom is a mine, no doubt, If one can but find it out; But, whate’er I think or say, I’m an April Fool to-day!

SCHOOL AND SCHOOLFELLOWS.

FLOREAT ETONA.

Twelve years ago I made a mock Of filthy trades and traffics: I wondered what they meant by stock; I wrote delightful sapphics; I knew the streets of Rome and Troy, I supped with Fates and Furies,-- Twelve years ago I was a boy, A happy boy, at Drury’s.

Twelve years ago!--how many a thought Of faded pains and pleasures Those whispered syllables have brought From Memory’s hoarded treasures! The fields, the farms, the bats, the books, The glories and disgraces, The voices of dear friends, the looks Of all familiar faces!

Kind _Mater_ smiles again to me, As bright as when we parted; I seem again the frank, the free, Stout-limbed, and simple-hearted! Pursuing every idle dream, And shunning every warning; With no hard work but Bovney stream, No chill except Long Morning:

Now stopping Harry Vernon’s ball That rattled like a rocket; Now hearing Wentworth’s “Fourteen all!” And striking for the pocket; Now feasting on a cheese and flitch,-- Now drinking from the pewter; Now leaping over Chalvey ditch, Now laughing at my tutor.

Where are my friends? I am alone; No playmate shares my beaker: Some lie beneath the churchyard stone, And some--before the Speaker; And some compose a tragedy, And some compose a rondeau; And some draw sword for Liberty, And some draw pleas for John Doe.

Tom Mill was used to blacken eyes Without the fear of sessions; Charles Medlar loathed false quantities As much as false professions; Now Mill keeps order in the land, A magistrate pedantic; And Medlar’s feet repose unscanned Beneath the wide Atlantic.

Wild Nick, whose oaths made such a din, Does Dr. Martext’s duty; And Mullion, with that monstrous chin, Is married to a Beauty; And Darrell studies, week by week, His Mant, and not his Manton; And Ball, who was but poor in Greek, Is very rich at Canton.

And I am eight-and-twenty now;-- The world’s cold chains have bound me; And darker shades are on my brow, And sadder scenes around me; In Parliament I fill my seat, With many other noodles; And lay my head in Jermyn Street And sip my hock at Boodle’s.

But often when the cares of life Have sent my temples aching, When visions haunt me of a wife, When duns await my waking, When Lady Jane is in a pet, Or Hoby in a hurry, When Captain Hazard wins a bet, Or Beaulieu spoils a curry,--

For hours and hours I think and talk Of each remembered hobby; I long to lounge in Poet’s walk, To shiver in the Lobby; I wish that I could run away From House, and Court, and Levée, Where bearded men appear to-day Just Eton boys grown heavy,--

That I could bask in childhood’s sun, And dance o’er childhood’s roses, And find huge wealth in one pound one, Vast wit in broken roses, And play Sir Giles at Datchet Lane, And call the milk-maids Houris,-- That I could be a boy again,-- A happy boy,--at Drury’s.

ARRIVALS AT A WATERING-PLACE.

“I play a spade.--Such strange new faces Are flocking in from near and far; Such frights!--(Miss Dobbs holds all the aces)-- One can’t imagine who they are: The lodgings at enormous prices,-- New donkeys, and another fly; And Madame Bonbon out of ices, Although we’re scarcely in July: We’re quite as sociable as any, But one old horse can scarcely crawl; And really, where there are so many We can’t tell where we ought to call.

“Pray who has seen the odd old fellow Who took the Doctor’s house last week?-- A pretty chariot,--livery yellow, Almost as yellow as his cheek; A widower, sixty-five, and surly, And stiffer than a poplar tree; Drinks rum and water, gets up early To dip his carcass in the sea; He’s always in a monstrous hurry, And always talking of Bengal; They say his cook makes noble curry; I think, Louisa, we should call.

“And so Miss Jones, the mantua-maker, Has let her cottage on the hill!-- The drollest man,--a sugar baker Last year imported from the till; Prates of his _’orses_ and his _’oney_, Is quite in love with fields and farms; A horrid Vandal,--but his money Will buy a glorious coat of arms; Old Clyster makes him take the waters; Some say he means to give a ball; And after all, with thirteen daughters, I think, Sir Thomas, you might call.

“That poor young man!--I’m sure and certain Despair is making up his shroud; He walks all night beneath the curtain Of the dim sky and murky cloud: Draws landscapes,--throws such mournful glances; Writes verses,--has such splendid eyes; An ugly name,--but Laura fancies He’s some great person in disguise!-- And since his dress is all the fashion, And since he’s very dark and tall, I think that out of pure compassion, I’ll get Papa to go and call.

“So Lord St. Ives is occupying The whole of Mr. Ford’s hotel! Last Saturday his man was trying A little nag I want to sell. He brought a lady in the carriage; Blue eyes,--eighteen, or thereabouts;-- Of course, you know, we _hope_ it’s marriage, But yet the _femme de chambre_ doubts. She looked so pensive when we met her, Poor thing!--and such a charming shawl!-- Well! till we understand it better, It’s quite impossible to call!

“Old Mr. Fund, the London Banker, Arrived to-day at Premium Court; I would not, for the world, cast anchor In such a horrid dangerous port; Such dust and rubbish, lath and plaster,-- (Contractors play the meanest tricks),-- The roofs as crazy as its master, And he was born in fifty-six; Stairs creaking--cracks in every landing-- The colonnade is sure to fall; We shan’t find post or pillar standing Unless we make great haste to call.

“Who was that sweetest of sweet creatures Last Sunday in the Rector’s seat? The finest shape,--the loveliest features,-- I never saw such tiny feet! My brother,--(this is quite between us) Poor Arthur,--’twas a sad affair; Love at first sight!--she’s quite a Venus, But then she’s poorer far than fair; And so my father and my mother Agreed it would not do at all; And so, I’m sorry for my brother!-- It’s settled that we’re not to call.

“And there’s an author full of knowledge; And there’s a captain on half-pay; And there’s a baronet from college, Who keeps a boy and rides a bay; And sweet Sir Marcus from the Shannon, Fine specimen of brogue and bone; And Dr. Calipel, the Canon, Who weighs. I fancy, twenty stone: A maiden lady is adorning, The faded front of Lily Hall:-- Upon my word, the first fine morning, We’ll make a round, my dear, and call.”

Alas! disturb not, maid and matron, The swallow in my humble thatch; Your son may find a better patron, Your niece may meet a better match: I can’t afford to give a dinner, I never was on Almack’s list; And since I seldom rise a winner, I never like to play at whist; Unknown to me the stocks are falling, Unwatched by me the glass may fall: Let all the world pursue its calling,-- I’m not at home if people call.

TWENTY-EIGHT AND TWENTY-NINE.

“Rien n’est changé, mes amis!”--CHARLES X.

I heard a sick man’s dying sigh, And an infant’s idle laughter; The Old Year went with mourning by, And the New came dancing after. Let Sorrow shed her lonely tear, Let Revelry hold her ladle! Bring boughs of cypress for the bier, Fling roses on the cradle: Mutes to wait on the funeral state! Pages to pour the wine: A requiem for Twenty-eight, And a health to Twenty-nine!

Alas for human happiness! Alas for human sorrow! Our yesterday is nothingness,-- What else will be our morrow? Still Beauty must be stealing hearts, And Knavery stealing purses; Still cooks must live by making tarts, And wits by making verses: While sages prate, and courts debate, The same stars set and shine; And the world, as it rolled through Twenty-eight, Must roll through Twenty-nine.

Some king will come, in Heaven’s good time, To the tomb his father came to; Some thief will wade through blood and crime To a crown he has no claim to; Some suffering land will rend in twain The manacles that bound her, And gather the links of the broken chain To fasten them proudly round her: The grand and great will love and hate, And combat, and combine; And much where we were in Twenty-eight We shall be in Twenty-nine.

O’Connell will toil to raise the rent, And Kenyon to sink the nation, And Sheil will abuse the Parliament, And Peel the Association; And the thought of bayonets and swords Will make ex-chancellors merry, And jokes will be cut in the House of Lords, And throats in the County Kerry; And writers of weight will speculate On the Cabinet’s design; And just what it did in Twenty-eight It will do in Twenty-nine.

John Thomas Mugg, on the lonely hill, Will do a deed of mystery; The _Morning Chronicle_ will fill Five columns with the history. The jury will be all surprise, The prisoner quite collected, And Justice Park will wipe his eyes And be very much affected; And folks will relate poor Corder’s fate As they hurry home to dine, Comparing the hangings of Twenty-eight With the hangings of Twenty-nine.

And the goddess of love will keep her smiles, And the god of cups his orgies, And there’ll be riots in St. Giles’, And weddings in St. George’s. And mendicants will sup like kings, And lords will swear like lacqueys, And black eyes oft will lead to rings, And rings will lead to black eyes; And pretty Kate will scold her mate In a dialect all divine; Alas! they married in Twenty-eight,-- They will part in Twenty-nine!

And oh! I shall find how, day by day, All thoughts and things look older; How the laugh of pleasure grows less gay, And the heart of friendship colder; But still I shall be what I have been, Sworn foe to Lady Reason, And seldom troubled with the spleen, And fond of talking treason: I shall buckle my skate, and leap my gate, And throw--and write--my line; And the woman I worshipped in Twenty-eight I shall worship in Twenty-nine!

LETTERS FROM TEIGNMOUTH.

I.

OUR BALL.

“Comment! c’est lui? que je le regards encore! C’est que Vraiment il est bien changé; n’est-ce pas, mon papa?” --_Les Premier Amours._

You’ll come to our Ball;--since we parted, I’ve thought of you more than I’ll say; Indeed, I was half broken-hearted For a week, when they took you away. Fond fancy brought back to my slumbers Our walks on the Ness and the Den, And echoed the musical numbers Which you used to sing to me then. I know the romance, since it’s over, ’Twere idle, or worse, to recall; I know you’re a terrible rover; But Clarence, you’ll come to our Ball!

It’s only a year, since, at College, You put on your cap and your gown; But, Clarence, you’re grown out of knowledge, And changed from the spur to the crown: The voice that was best when it faltered Is fuller and firmer in tone, And the smile that should never have altered-- Dear Clarence--it is not your own: Your cravat was badly selected; Your coat don’t become you at all; And why is your hair so neglected? You must have it curled for our Ball.

I’ve often been out upon Haldon To look for a covey with pup; I’ve often been over to Shaldon, To see how your boat is laid up: In spite of the terrors of Aunty, I’ve ridden the filly you broke; And I’ve studied your sweet little Dante In the shade of your favourite oak: When I sat in July to Sir Lawrence, I sat in your love of a shawl; And I’ll wear what you brought me from Florence, Perhaps, if you’ll come to our Ball.

You’ll find us all changed since you vanished; We’ve set up a National School; And waltzing is utterly banished, And Ellen has married a fool; The Major is going to travel, Miss Hyacinth threatens a rout, The walk is laid down with fresh gravel, Papa is laid up with the gout; And Jane has gone on with her easels, And Anne has gone off with Sir Paul; And Fanny is sick with the measles,-- And I’ll tell you the rest at the Ball.

You’ll meet all your Beauties; the Lily And the Fairy of Willowbrook Farm, And Lucy, who made me so silly At Dawlish, by taking your arm; Miss Manners, who always abused you For talking so much about Hock, And her sister, who often amused you By raving of rebels and Rock; And something which surely would answer, An heiress quite fresh from Bengal; So though you were seldom a dancer, You’ll dance, just for once, at our Ball.

But out on the World! from the flowers It shuts out the sunshine of truth: It blights the green leaves in the bowers, It makes an old age of our youth; And the flow of our feeling, once in it, Like a streamlet beginning to freeze, Though it cannot turn ice in a minute, Grows harder by sudden degrees: Time treads o’er the graves of affection; Sweet honey is turned into gall; Perhaps you have no recollection That ever you danced at our Ball!

You once could be pleased with our ballads,-- To-day you have critical ears; You once could be charmed with our salads-- Alas! you’ve been dining with Peers; You trifled and flirted with many,-- You’ve forgotten the when and the how; There was one you liked better than any,-- Perhaps you’ve forgotten her now. But of those you remember most newly, Of those who delight or enthrall, None loves you a quarter so truly As some you will find at our Ball.

They tell me you’ve many who flatter, Because of your wit and your song: They tell me--and what does it matter?-- You like to be praised by the throng: They tell me you’re shadowed with laurel: They tell me you’re loved by a Blue: They tell me you’re sadly immoral-- Dear Clarence, that cannot be true! But to me, you are still what I found you, Before you grew clever and tall; And you’ll think of the spell that once bound you; And you’ll come--won’t you come?--to our Ball!

II.

PRIVATE THEATRICALS.

----“Sweet, when actors first appear, The loud collision of applauding gloves.” --MOULTRIE.

Your labours, my talented brother, Are happily over at last: They tell me--that, somehow or other, The Bill is rejected,--or passed; And now you’ll be coming, I’m certain, As fast as your posters can crawl, To help us to draw up our curtain, As usual, at Fustian Hall.

Arrangements are nearly completed; But still we’ve a Lover or two, Whom Lady Albina entreated We’d keep, at all hazards, for you: Sir Arthur makes horrible faces; Lord John is a trifle too tall; And yours are the safest embraces To faint in, at Fustian Hall.

Come, Clarence;--its really enchanting To listen and look at the rout: We’re all of us puffing and panting, And raving, and running about; Here Kitty and Adelaide bustle; There Andrew and Anthony bawl; Flutes murmur--chains rattle--robes rustle In chorus, at Fustian Hall.

By-the-by, there are two or three matters We want you to bring us from town: The Inca’s white plumes from the hatter’s, A nose and a hump for the clown; We want a few harps for our banquet, We want a few masks for our ball; And steal from your wise friend Bosanquet His white wig, for Fustian Hall!

Hunca Munca must have a huge sabre; Friar Tuck has forgotten his cowl; And we’re quite at a stand-still with Weber For want of a lizard and owl: And then, for our funeral procession, Pray get us a love of a pall,-- Or how shall we make an impression On feelings, at Fustian Hall?

And, Clarence, you’ll really delight us, If you’ll do your endeavour to bring, From the Club, a young person to write us Our prologue, and that sort of thing; Poor Crotchet, who did them supremely, Is gone for a Judge to Bengal; I fear we shall miss him extremely This season, at Fustian Hall.