HENRY DUFF TRAILL.

There, pay it, James! 'tis cheaply earned;My conscience! how one's cabman charges!But never mind, so I'm returnedSafe to my native street of Clarges.I've just an hour for one cigar(What style these Reinas have, andwhatash!)One hour to watch the evening starWith just one Curaçao-and-potash.Ah me! that face beneath the leavesAnd blossoms of its piquant bonnet!Who would have thought that forty thievesOf years had laid their fingers on it!Could you have managed to enchantAt 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 crowsHave traced about your eyes a wrinkle;Your sunny hair has thawed the snowsThat other heads with silver sprinkle.I wonder if that pair of glovesI won of you you'll ever pay me!I wonder if our early lovesWere wise or foolish, cousin Amy?I wonder if our childish tiffNow seems to you, like me, a blunder!I wonder if you wonder ifI ever wonder if you wonder.I wonder if you'd think it blissOnce more to be the fashion's leader!I wonder if the trick of thisEscapes the unsuspecting reader!And as for him who does or canDelight in it, I wonder whetherHe knows that almost any manCould reel it off by yards together!I wonder if— What's that? a knock?Is that you, James? Eh? What? God bless me!How time has flown! It's eight o'clock,And here's my fellow come to dress me.Be quick, or I shall be the guestWhom Lady Mary never pardons;I trust you, James, to do your bestTo save the soup at Grosvenor Gardens.

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, andwhatash!)

One hour to watch the evening star

With just one Curaçao-and-potash.

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

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 crowsHave traced about your eyes a wrinkle;Your sunny hair has thawed the snowsThat other heads with silver sprinkle.

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 glovesI won of you you'll ever pay me!I wonder if our early lovesWere wise or foolish, cousin Amy?I wonder if our childish tiffNow seems to you, like me, a blunder!I wonder if you wonder ifI ever wonder if you wonder.

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 blissOnce more to be the fashion's leader!I wonder if the trick of thisEscapes the unsuspecting reader!And as for him who does or canDelight in it, I wonder whetherHe knows that almost any manCould reel it off by yards together!

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!

I wonder if— What's that? a knock?Is that you, James? Eh? What? God bless me!How time has flown! It's eight o'clock,And here's my fellow come to dress me.Be quick, or I shall be the guestWhom Lady Mary never pardons;I trust you, James, to do your bestTo save the soup at Grosvenor Gardens.

I wonder if— What's that? a knock?

Is that you, James? Eh? What? God bless me!

How time has flown! It's eight o'clock,

And here's my fellow come to dress me.

Be quick, or I shall be the guest

Whom Lady Mary never pardons;

I trust you, James, to do your best

To save the soup at Grosvenor Gardens.

Put case I circumvent and kill him: good.Good riddance—wipes at least from book o' th' worldThe ugly admiration-note-like blot—Gives honesty more elbow-room by justThe three dimensions of one wicked knave.But then slips in the plaguy After-voice.'Wicked? Holloa! my friend, whither awaySo fast? Who made you, Moses-like, a judgeAnd ruler over men to spare or slay?A blot wiped off forsooth! Produce forthwithCredentials of your mission to eraseThe ink-spots of mankind—t' abolish illFor being what it is, is bound to be,Its nature being so—cut wizards offIn flower of their necromantic livesFor being wizards, when 'tis plain enoughThat they have no more wrought their wizardshipThan cats their cathood.' Thus the plaguy Voice,Puzzling withal not overmuch, for thusI turn the enemy's flank: 'Meseems, my friend,Your argument's a thought too fine of mesh,And catches what you would not. Every mouseTrapped i' the larder by the kitchen wenchMight reason so—but scarcely with effect.Methinks 'twould little serve the captured thiefTo plead, "The fault's Dame Nature's, guiltless I.Am I to blame that in the parcelling-outOf my ingredients the Great Chemist setJust so much here, there so much, and no more(Since 'tis but question, after all is said,Of mere proportion 'twixt the part that feelsAnd that which guides), so much proclivityTo nightly cupboard-breaking, so much lustOf bacon-scraps, such tendency to thinkOld Stilton-rind the noblest thing on earth?Then theper contra—so much power to chooseThe right and shun the wrong; so much of forceOf uncorrupted will to stoutly barThe sensory inlets of the murine soul,And, when by night the floating rare-bit fumeLures like a siren's song, stop nostrils fastWith more than Odusseian sailor-wax:Lastly so much of wholesome fear of trapTo keep self-abnegation sweet. Then comesThe hour of trial, when lo! the suadent scaleSinks instant, the deterrent kicks the beam,The heavier falls, the lighter mounts (as muchA thing of law with motives as with plums),And I, forsooth, must die simply becauseDame Nature, having chosen so to loadThe dishes, did not choose suspend for meThe gravitation of the moral world."How would the kitchen-wench reply? Why thus(If given, as scullions use, to logic-fenceAnd keen retorsion of dilemmataIn speeches of a hundred lines or so):"Grant your plea valid. Good. There's mine to hear.'Twas Nature made you? well: and me, no less;You she by forces past your own controlMade a cheese-stealer? Be it so: of meBy forces as resistless and her ownShe made a mouse-killer. Thus, either playsA rôle in no wise chosen of himself,But takes what part the great Stage ManagerCast him for, when, the play was set afoot.Remains we act ours—without private spite,But still with spirit and fidelity,As fits good actors: you I blame no whitFor nibbling cheese—simply I throw you downUnblamed—nay, even morally assoiled,To pussy there: blame thou not me for that."Or say perhaps the girl is slow of wit,Something inapt at ethics—why, then thus."Enough of prating, little thief! This talkOf 'fate, free-will, foreknowledge absolute,'Is hugely out of place! What next indeed,If all the casuistry of the schoolsBe prayed in aid by every pilfering mouseThat's caught i' th' trap? See here, my thieving friend,Thus I resolve the problem. We preferTo keep our cheeses for our own behoof,And eat them with our proper jaws; and so,Having command of mouse-traps, we will catchWhatever mice we can, and promptly killWhatever mice we catch.Entendez vous?Aye, and wewill, though all the mice on earthPass indignation votes, obtest the faithOf gods and men, and make the welkin ringWith world-resounding dissonance of squeak!"'But hist! here comes my wizard! Ready thenMy nerves—and talons—for the trial of strength!A stout heart, feline cunning, and—who knows?

Put case I circumvent and kill him: good.

Good riddance—wipes at least from book o' th' world

The ugly admiration-note-like blot—

Gives honesty more elbow-room by just

The three dimensions of one wicked knave.

But then slips in the plaguy After-voice.

'Wicked? Holloa! my friend, whither away

So fast? Who made you, Moses-like, a judge

And ruler over men to spare or slay?

A blot wiped off forsooth! Produce forthwith

Credentials of your mission to erase

The ink-spots of mankind—t' abolish ill

For being what it is, is bound to be,

Its nature being so—cut wizards off

In flower of their necromantic lives

For being wizards, when 'tis plain enough

That they have no more wrought their wizardship

Than cats their cathood.' Thus the plaguy Voice,

Puzzling withal not overmuch, for thus

I turn the enemy's flank: 'Meseems, my friend,

Your argument's a thought too fine of mesh,

And catches what you would not. Every mouse

Trapped i' the larder by the kitchen wench

Might reason so—but scarcely with effect.

Methinks 'twould little serve the captured thief

To plead, "The fault's Dame Nature's, guiltless I.

Am I to blame that in the parcelling-out

Of my ingredients the Great Chemist set

Just so much here, there so much, and no more

(Since 'tis but question, after all is said,

Of mere proportion 'twixt the part that feels

And that which guides), so much proclivity

To nightly cupboard-breaking, so much lust

Of bacon-scraps, such tendency to think

Old Stilton-rind the noblest thing on earth?

Then theper contra—so much power to choose

The right and shun the wrong; so much of force

Of uncorrupted will to stoutly bar

The sensory inlets of the murine soul,

And, when by night the floating rare-bit fume

Lures like a siren's song, stop nostrils fast

With more than Odusseian sailor-wax:

Lastly so much of wholesome fear of trap

To keep self-abnegation sweet. Then comes

The hour of trial, when lo! the suadent scale

Sinks instant, the deterrent kicks the beam,

The heavier falls, the lighter mounts (as much

A thing of law with motives as with plums),

And I, forsooth, must die simply because

Dame Nature, having chosen so to load

The dishes, did not choose suspend for me

The gravitation of the moral world."

How would the kitchen-wench reply? Why thus

(If given, as scullions use, to logic-fence

And keen retorsion of dilemmata

In speeches of a hundred lines or so):

"Grant your plea valid. Good. There's mine to hear.

'Twas Nature made you? well: and me, no less;

You she by forces past your own control

Made a cheese-stealer? Be it so: of me

By forces as resistless and her own

She made a mouse-killer. Thus, either plays

A rôle in no wise chosen of himself,

But takes what part the great Stage Manager

Cast him for, when, the play was set afoot.

Remains we act ours—without private spite,

But still with spirit and fidelity,

As fits good actors: you I blame no whit

For nibbling cheese—simply I throw you down

Unblamed—nay, even morally assoiled,

To pussy there: blame thou not me for that."

Or say perhaps the girl is slow of wit,

Something inapt at ethics—why, then thus.

"Enough of prating, little thief! This talk

Of 'fate, free-will, foreknowledge absolute,'

Is hugely out of place! What next indeed,

If all the casuistry of the schools

Be prayed in aid by every pilfering mouse

That's caught i' th' trap? See here, my thieving friend,

Thus I resolve the problem. We prefer

To keep our cheeses for our own behoof,

And eat them with our proper jaws; and so,

Having command of mouse-traps, we will catch

Whatever mice we can, and promptly kill

Whatever mice we catch.Entendez vous?

Aye, and wewill, though all the mice on earth

Pass indignation votes, obtest the faith

Of gods and men, and make the welkin ring

With world-resounding dissonance of squeak!"'

But hist! here comes my wizard! Ready thenMy nerves—and talons—for the trial of strength!A stout heart, feline cunning, and—who knows?

But hist! here comes my wizard! Ready then

My nerves—and talons—for the trial of strength!

A stout heart, feline cunning, and—who knows?

'Why do you wear your hair like a man,Sister Helen?This week is the third since you began.''I'm writing a ballad; be still if you can,Little brother.(O Mother Carey, mother!What chickens are these between sea and heaven?)''But why does your figure appear so lean,Sister Helen?And why do you dress in sage, sage green?''Children should never be heard, if seen,Little brother.(O Mother Carey, mother!What fowls are a-wing in the stormy heaven!)''But why is your face so yellowy white,Sister Helen?And why are your skirts so funnily tight?''Be quiet, you torment, or how can I write,Little brother?(O Mother Carey, mother!How gathers thy train to the sea from the heaven!)''And who's Mother Carey, and what is her train,Sister Helen?And why do you call her again and again?''You troublesome boy, why that's the refrain,Little brother.(O Mother Carey, mother!What work is toward in the startled heaven?)''And what's a refrain? What a curious word,Sister Helen!Is the ballad you're writing about a sea-bird?''Not at all; why should it be? Don't be absurd,Little brother.(O Mother Carey, mother!Thy brood flies lower as lowers the heaven.)'(A big brother speaketh:)'The refrain you've studied a meaning had,Sister Helen!It gave strange force to a weird ballàd.But refrains have become a ridiculous "fad,"Little brother.AndMother Carey, mother,Has a bearing on nothing in earth or heaven.'But the finical fashion has had its day,Sister Helen.And let's try in the style of a different layTo bid it adieu in poetical way,Little brother.So, Mother Carey, mother!Collect your chickens and go to—heaven.'(A pause. Then the big brother singeth, accompanyinghimself in a plaintive wise on the triangle:)'Look in my face. My name is Used-to-was,I am also called Played-out and Done-to-death,And It-will-wash-no-more. AwakenethSlowly, but sure awakening it has,The common-sense of man; and I, alas!The ballad-burden trick, now known too well,Am turned to scorn, and grown contemptible—A too transparent artifice to pass.'What a cheap dodge I am! The cats who dartTin-kettled through the streets in wild surpriseAssail judicious ears not otherwise;And yet no critics praise the urchin's "art,"Who to the wretched creature's caudal partIts foolish empty-jingling "burden" ties.'

'Why do you wear your hair like a man,

Sister Helen?

This week is the third since you began.'

'I'm writing a ballad; be still if you can,

Little brother.

(O Mother Carey, mother!

What chickens are these between sea and heaven?)'

'But why does your figure appear so lean,Sister Helen?And why do you dress in sage, sage green?''Children should never be heard, if seen,Little brother.(O Mother Carey, mother!What fowls are a-wing in the stormy heaven!)'

'But why does your figure appear so lean,

Sister Helen?

And why do you dress in sage, sage green?'

'Children should never be heard, if seen,

Little brother.

(O Mother Carey, mother!

What fowls are a-wing in the stormy heaven!)'

'But why is your face so yellowy white,Sister Helen?And why are your skirts so funnily tight?''Be quiet, you torment, or how can I write,Little brother?(O Mother Carey, mother!How gathers thy train to the sea from the heaven!)'

'But why is your face so yellowy white,

Sister Helen?

And why are your skirts so funnily tight?'

'Be quiet, you torment, or how can I write,

Little brother?

(O Mother Carey, mother!

How gathers thy train to the sea from the heaven!)'

'And who's Mother Carey, and what is her train,Sister Helen?And why do you call her again and again?''You troublesome boy, why that's the refrain,Little brother.(O Mother Carey, mother!What work is toward in the startled heaven?)'

'And who's Mother Carey, and what is her train,

Sister Helen?

And why do you call her again and again?'

'You troublesome boy, why that's the refrain,

Little brother.

(O Mother Carey, mother!

What work is toward in the startled heaven?)'

'And what's a refrain? What a curious word,Sister Helen!Is the ballad you're writing about a sea-bird?''Not at all; why should it be? Don't be absurd,Little brother.(O Mother Carey, mother!Thy brood flies lower as lowers the heaven.)'

'And what's a refrain? What a curious word,

Sister Helen!

Is the ballad you're writing about a sea-bird?'

'Not at all; why should it be? Don't be absurd,

Little brother.

(O Mother Carey, mother!

Thy brood flies lower as lowers the heaven.)'

(A big brother speaketh:)'The refrain you've studied a meaning had,Sister Helen!It gave strange force to a weird ballàd.But refrains have become a ridiculous "fad,"Little brother.AndMother Carey, mother,Has a bearing on nothing in earth or heaven.

(A big brother speaketh:)

'The refrain you've studied a meaning had,

Sister Helen!

It gave strange force to a weird ballàd.

But refrains have become a ridiculous "fad,"

Little brother.

AndMother Carey, mother,

Has a bearing on nothing in earth or heaven.

'But the finical fashion has had its day,Sister Helen.And let's try in the style of a different layTo bid it adieu in poetical way,Little brother.So, Mother Carey, mother!Collect your chickens and go to—heaven.'(A pause. Then the big brother singeth, accompanyinghimself in a plaintive wise on the triangle:)

'But the finical fashion has had its day,

Sister Helen.

And let's try in the style of a different lay

To bid it adieu in poetical way,

Little brother.

So, Mother Carey, mother!

Collect your chickens and go to—heaven.'

(A pause. Then the big brother singeth, accompanyinghimself in a plaintive wise on the triangle:)

'Look in my face. My name is Used-to-was,I am also called Played-out and Done-to-death,And It-will-wash-no-more. AwakenethSlowly, but sure awakening it has,The common-sense of man; and I, alas!The ballad-burden trick, now known too well,Am turned to scorn, and grown contemptible—A too transparent artifice to pass.

'Look in my face. My name is Used-to-was,

I am also called Played-out and Done-to-death,

And It-will-wash-no-more. Awakeneth

Slowly, but sure awakening it has,

The common-sense of man; and I, alas!

The ballad-burden trick, now known too well,

Am turned to scorn, and grown contemptible—

A too transparent artifice to pass.

'What a cheap dodge I am! The cats who dartTin-kettled through the streets in wild surpriseAssail judicious ears not otherwise;And yet no critics praise the urchin's "art,"Who to the wretched creature's caudal partIts foolish empty-jingling "burden" ties.'

'What a cheap dodge I am! The cats who dart

Tin-kettled through the streets in wild surprise

Assail judicious ears not otherwise;

And yet no critics praise the urchin's "art,"

Who to the wretched creature's caudal part

Its foolish empty-jingling "burden" ties.'

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