THE WATER-CURE.

[1]"Unwisely," surely. But 'tis well to mentionThat this particular isnotinvention.

[1]

"Unwisely," surely. But 'tis well to mentionThat this particular isnotinvention.

A TALE: IN THE MANNER OF PRIOR.

"—portentaque Thessala rides?"—Hor."—Thessalian portents do you flout?"* *

Cardenio'sfortunes ne'er miscarriedUntil the dayCardeniomarried.What then? the Nymph no doubt was young?She was: but yet—she had a tongue!Most women have, you seem to say.I grant it—in a different way.'Twas not that organ half-divine,With which, Dear Friend, your spouse or mine,What time we seek our nightly pillows,Rebukes our easy peccadilloes:'Twas not so tuneful, so composing;'Twas louder and less often dozing;AtOmbre,Basset,Loo,Quadrille,You heard it resonant and shrill;You heard it rising, rising yetBeyondSelinda'sparroquet;You heard it rival and outdoThe chair-men and the link-boy too;In short, wherever lungs perform,LikeMarlborough, it rode the storm.So uncontrolled it came to be,Cardeniofeared hischère amie(LikeEchobyCephissusshore)Would turn to voice and nothing more.That ('tis conceded) must be curedWhich can't by practice be endured.Cardenio, though he loved the maid,Grew daily more and more afraid;And since advice could not prevail(Reproof but seemed to fan the gale),A prudent man, he cast aboutTo find some fitting nostrum out.What need to say that priceless drugHad not in any mine been dug?What need to say no skilful leechCould check that plethora of speech?Suffice it, that one lucky dayCardeniotried—another way.A Hermit (there were hermits then;The most accessible of men!)NearVauxhall'ssacred shade resided;In him, at length, our friend confided.(Simples, for show, he used to sell;But castNativitiesas well.)Consulted, he looked wondrous wise;Then undertook the enterprise.What that might be, the Muse must spare:To tell the truth, she was not there.She scorns to patch what she ignoresWithSimilesandMetaphors;And so, in short, to change the scene,She slips a fortnight in between.Behold our pair then (quite by chance!)InVauxhall'sgarden of romance,—That paradise of nymphs and grottoes,Of fans, and fiddles, and ridottoes!What wonder if, the lamps reviewed,The song encored, the maze pursued,No further feat could seem more patThan seek the Hermit after that?Who then more keen her fate to seeThan this, the newLeuconoë,On fire to learn the lore forbiddenIn Babylonian numbers hidden?Forthwith they took the darkling roadToAlbumazarhis abode.Arriving, they beheld the sageIntent on hieroglyphic page,In highArmeniancap arrayedAnd girt with engines of his trade;(AsSkeletons, andSpheres, andCubes;AsAmuletsandOptic Tubes;)With dusky depths behind revealingStrange shapes that dangled from the ceiling,While more to palsy the beholderA Black Cat sat upon his shoulder.The Hermit eyed the Lady o'erAs one whose face he'd seen before;And then, with agitated looks,He fell to fumbling at his books.Cardeniofelt his spouse was frightened,Her grasp upon his arm had tightened;Judge then her horror and her dreadWhen "Vox Stellarum" shook his head;Then darkly spake in phrase forlornOfTaurusand ofCapricorn;Of stars averse, and stars ascendant,And stars entirely independent;In fact, it seemed that all the HeavensWere set at sixes and at sevens,Portending, in her case, some fateToo fearful to prognosticate.Meanwhile the Dame was well-nigh dead."But is there naught,"Cardeniosaid,"No sign or token, Sage, to showFrom whence, or what, this dismal woe?"The Sage, with circle and with plane,Betook him to his charts again."It vaguely seems to threaten Speech:No more (he said) the signs can teach."But stillCardeniotried once more:"Is there no potion in your store,No charm byChaldeemage concertedBy which this doom can be averted?"The Sage, with motion doubly mystic,Resumed his juggling cabalistic.The aspects here again were various;But seemed to indicateAquarius.Thereat portentously he frowned;Then frowned again, then smiled:—'twas found!But 'twas too simple to be tried."What is it, then?" at once they cried."Whene'er by chance you feel incitedTo speak at length, or uninvited;Whene'er you feel your tones grow shrill(At times, we know, the softest will!),This word oracular, my daughter,Bids you to fill your mouth with water:Further, to hold it firm and fast,Until the danger be o'erpast."The Dame, by this in part relievedThe prospect of escape perceived,Rebelled a little at the diet.Cardeniosaid discreetly, "Try it,Try it, my Own. You have no choice,What if you lose your charming voice!"She tried, it seems. And whether thenSome god stepped in, benign to men;Or Modesty, too long outlawed,Contrived to aid the pious fraud,I know not:—but from that same dayShe talked in quite a different way.

'Twas not that organ half-divine,With which, Dear Friend, your spouse or mine,What time we seek our nightly pillows,Rebukes our easy peccadilloes:'Twas not so tuneful, so composing;'Twas louder and less often dozing;AtOmbre,Basset,Loo,Quadrille,You heard it resonant and shrill;You heard it rising, rising yetBeyondSelinda'sparroquet;You heard it rival and outdoThe chair-men and the link-boy too;In short, wherever lungs perform,LikeMarlborough, it rode the storm.

So uncontrolled it came to be,Cardeniofeared hischère amie(LikeEchobyCephissusshore)Would turn to voice and nothing more.

That ('tis conceded) must be curedWhich can't by practice be endured.Cardenio, though he loved the maid,Grew daily more and more afraid;And since advice could not prevail(Reproof but seemed to fan the gale),A prudent man, he cast aboutTo find some fitting nostrum out.What need to say that priceless drugHad not in any mine been dug?What need to say no skilful leechCould check that plethora of speech?Suffice it, that one lucky dayCardeniotried—another way.

A Hermit (there were hermits then;The most accessible of men!)NearVauxhall'ssacred shade resided;In him, at length, our friend confided.(Simples, for show, he used to sell;But castNativitiesas well.)Consulted, he looked wondrous wise;Then undertook the enterprise.

What that might be, the Muse must spare:To tell the truth, she was not there.She scorns to patch what she ignoresWithSimilesandMetaphors;And so, in short, to change the scene,She slips a fortnight in between.

Behold our pair then (quite by chance!)InVauxhall'sgarden of romance,—That paradise of nymphs and grottoes,Of fans, and fiddles, and ridottoes!What wonder if, the lamps reviewed,The song encored, the maze pursued,No further feat could seem more patThan seek the Hermit after that?Who then more keen her fate to seeThan this, the newLeuconoë,On fire to learn the lore forbiddenIn Babylonian numbers hidden?Forthwith they took the darkling roadToAlbumazarhis abode.

Arriving, they beheld the sageIntent on hieroglyphic page,In highArmeniancap arrayedAnd girt with engines of his trade;(AsSkeletons, andSpheres, andCubes;AsAmuletsandOptic Tubes;)With dusky depths behind revealingStrange shapes that dangled from the ceiling,While more to palsy the beholderA Black Cat sat upon his shoulder.

The Hermit eyed the Lady o'erAs one whose face he'd seen before;And then, with agitated looks,He fell to fumbling at his books.

Cardeniofelt his spouse was frightened,Her grasp upon his arm had tightened;Judge then her horror and her dreadWhen "Vox Stellarum" shook his head;Then darkly spake in phrase forlornOfTaurusand ofCapricorn;Of stars averse, and stars ascendant,And stars entirely independent;In fact, it seemed that all the HeavensWere set at sixes and at sevens,Portending, in her case, some fateToo fearful to prognosticate.

Meanwhile the Dame was well-nigh dead."But is there naught,"Cardeniosaid,"No sign or token, Sage, to showFrom whence, or what, this dismal woe?"

The Sage, with circle and with plane,Betook him to his charts again."It vaguely seems to threaten Speech:No more (he said) the signs can teach."

But stillCardeniotried once more:"Is there no potion in your store,No charm byChaldeemage concertedBy which this doom can be averted?"

The Sage, with motion doubly mystic,Resumed his juggling cabalistic.The aspects here again were various;But seemed to indicateAquarius.Thereat portentously he frowned;Then frowned again, then smiled:—'twas found!But 'twas too simple to be tried."What is it, then?" at once they cried.

"Whene'er by chance you feel incitedTo speak at length, or uninvited;Whene'er you feel your tones grow shrill(At times, we know, the softest will!),This word oracular, my daughter,Bids you to fill your mouth with water:Further, to hold it firm and fast,Until the danger be o'erpast."

The Dame, by this in part relievedThe prospect of escape perceived,Rebelled a little at the diet.Cardeniosaid discreetly, "Try it,Try it, my Own. You have no choice,What if you lose your charming voice!"She tried, it seems. And whether thenSome god stepped in, benign to men;Or Modesty, too long outlawed,Contrived to aid the pious fraud,I know not:—but from that same dayShe talked in quite a different way.

"Ce sont les amoursQui font les beaux jours."

What is aPatron?Johnsonknew,And well that lifelike portrait drew.He is a Patron who looks downWith careless eye on men who drown;But if they chance to reach the land,Encumbers them with helping hand.Ah! happy we whose artless rhymeNo longer now must creep to climb!Ah! happy we of later days,Who 'scape thoseCaudine Forksof praise!Whose votive page may dare commendA Brother, or a private Friend!Not so it fared with scribbling man,AsPopesays, "under my QueenAnne."Dick Dovecot(this was long, be sure,Ere he attained hisWiltshirecure,And settled down, like humbler folks,To cowslip wine and country jokes)Once hoped—as who will not?—for fame,And dreamed of honours and a Name.A fresh-cheek'd lad, he came to TownIn homespun hose and russet brown,But armed at point with every viewEnforced inRapinandBossu.Besides a stout portfolio ripeForLintot'sor forTonson'stype.He went the rounds, saw all the sights,Dropped in atWillsandTom'so' nights;HeardBurnetpreach, sawBicknelldance,E'en gained fromAddisona glance;Nay, once, to make his bliss complete,He supp'd withSteeleinBury Street.('Tis true the feast was half by stealth:Pruewas in bed: they drank her health.)By this his purse was running low,And he must either print or go.He went toTonson.Tonsonsaid—Well!Tonsonhummed and shook his head;Deplor'd the times; abus'd the Town;But thought—at length—it might go down;With aid, of course, ofElzevir,AndPrologueto a Prince, or Peer.Dick winced at this, for adulationWas scarce that candid youth's vocation:Nor did he deem his rustic laysRequired aCoronetforBays.But there—the choice was that, or none.The Lord was found; the thing was done.WithHoraceand withTooke'sPantheon,He penn'd his tributary pæan;Despatched his gift, nor waited longThe meed of his ingenuous song.Ere two days pass'd, a hackney chairBrought a pert spark with languid air,A lace cravat about his throat,—Brocaded gown,—enpapillotes.("My Lord himself," quothDick, "at least!"But no, 'twas that "inferior priest,"His Lordship's man.) He held a card:My Lord (it said) would see the Bard.The day arrived;Dickwent, was shownInto an anteroom, alone—A great gilt room with mirrored door,Festoons of flowers and marble floor,Whose lavish splendours made him lookMore shabby than a sheepskin book.(His own book—by the way—he spiedOn a far table, toss'd aside.)Dickwaited, as they only waitWho haunt the chambers of the Great.He heard the chairmen come and go;He heard the Porter yawn below;Beyond him, in the Grand Saloon,He heard the silver stroke of noon,And thought how at this very timeThe old church clock at home would chime.Dear heart, how plain he saw it all!The lich-gate and the crumbling wall,The stream, the pathway to the wood,The bridge where they so oft had stood.Then, in a trice, both church and clockVanish'd before ... a shuttlecock.A shuttlecock! And following slowThe zigzag of its to-and-fro,And so intent upon its flightShe neither look'd to left nor right,Came a tall girl with floating hair,Light as a wood-nymph, and as fair.O Dea certé!—thought poor Dick,And thereupon his memories quickRan back to her who flung the ballInHomer'spage, and next to allThe dancing maids that bards have sung;Lastly to One at home, as young,As fresh, as light of foot, and glad,Who, when he went, had seem'd so sad.O Dea certé!(Still, he stirredNor hand nor foot, nor uttered word.)Meanwhile the shuttlecock in airWent darting gaily here and there;Now crossed a mirror's face, and nextShot up amidst the sprawl'd, perplex'dOlympus overhead. At last,Jerk'd sidelong by a random cast,The striker miss'd it, and it fellFull on the bookDickknew so well.(If he had thought to speak or bow,Judge if he moved a muscle now!)The player paused, bent down to look,Lifted a cover of the book;Pished at the Prologue, passed it o'er,Went forward for a page or more(Asem and Asa:Dickcould traceAlmost the passage and the place);Then for a moment with bent headRested upon her hand and read.(Dickthought once more how cousinCisUsed when she read to lean like this;—"Used when sheread,"—why,CiscouldsayAll he had written,—any day!)Sudden was heard a hurrying tread;The great doors creaked. The reader fled.Forth came a crowd with muffled laughter,A waft of Bergamot, and after,His Chaplain smirking at his side,My Lord himself in all his pride—A portly shape in stars and lace,With wine-bag cheeks and vacant face.Dickbowed and smiled. The Great Man stared,With look half puzzled and half scared;Then seemed to recollect, turned round,And mumbled some imperfect sound:A moment more, his coach of stateDipped on its springs beneath his weight;AndDick, who followed at his heels,Heard but the din of rolling wheels.Away, too, all his dreams had rolled;And yet they left him half consoled:Fame, after all, he thought might wait.WouldCis? Suppose he were too late!Ten months he'd lost in Town—an age!Next day he took theWiltshireStage.

Dick Dovecot(this was long, be sure,Ere he attained hisWiltshirecure,And settled down, like humbler folks,To cowslip wine and country jokes)Once hoped—as who will not?—for fame,And dreamed of honours and a Name.

A fresh-cheek'd lad, he came to TownIn homespun hose and russet brown,But armed at point with every viewEnforced inRapinandBossu.Besides a stout portfolio ripeForLintot'sor forTonson'stype.He went the rounds, saw all the sights,Dropped in atWillsandTom'so' nights;HeardBurnetpreach, sawBicknelldance,E'en gained fromAddisona glance;Nay, once, to make his bliss complete,He supp'd withSteeleinBury Street.('Tis true the feast was half by stealth:Pruewas in bed: they drank her health.)

By this his purse was running low,And he must either print or go.He went toTonson.Tonsonsaid—Well!Tonsonhummed and shook his head;Deplor'd the times; abus'd the Town;But thought—at length—it might go down;With aid, of course, ofElzevir,AndPrologueto a Prince, or Peer.Dick winced at this, for adulationWas scarce that candid youth's vocation:Nor did he deem his rustic laysRequired aCoronetforBays.

But there—the choice was that, or none.The Lord was found; the thing was done.WithHoraceand withTooke'sPantheon,He penn'd his tributary pæan;Despatched his gift, nor waited longThe meed of his ingenuous song.

Ere two days pass'd, a hackney chairBrought a pert spark with languid air,A lace cravat about his throat,—Brocaded gown,—enpapillotes.("My Lord himself," quothDick, "at least!"But no, 'twas that "inferior priest,"His Lordship's man.) He held a card:My Lord (it said) would see the Bard.

The day arrived;Dickwent, was shownInto an anteroom, alone—A great gilt room with mirrored door,Festoons of flowers and marble floor,Whose lavish splendours made him lookMore shabby than a sheepskin book.(His own book—by the way—he spiedOn a far table, toss'd aside.)

Dickwaited, as they only waitWho haunt the chambers of the Great.He heard the chairmen come and go;He heard the Porter yawn below;Beyond him, in the Grand Saloon,He heard the silver stroke of noon,And thought how at this very timeThe old church clock at home would chime.Dear heart, how plain he saw it all!The lich-gate and the crumbling wall,The stream, the pathway to the wood,The bridge where they so oft had stood.Then, in a trice, both church and clockVanish'd before ... a shuttlecock.

A shuttlecock! And following slowThe zigzag of its to-and-fro,And so intent upon its flightShe neither look'd to left nor right,Came a tall girl with floating hair,Light as a wood-nymph, and as fair.

O Dea certé!—thought poor Dick,And thereupon his memories quickRan back to her who flung the ballInHomer'spage, and next to allThe dancing maids that bards have sung;Lastly to One at home, as young,As fresh, as light of foot, and glad,Who, when he went, had seem'd so sad.O Dea certé!(Still, he stirredNor hand nor foot, nor uttered word.)

Meanwhile the shuttlecock in airWent darting gaily here and there;Now crossed a mirror's face, and nextShot up amidst the sprawl'd, perplex'dOlympus overhead. At last,Jerk'd sidelong by a random cast,The striker miss'd it, and it fellFull on the bookDickknew so well.

(If he had thought to speak or bow,Judge if he moved a muscle now!)

The player paused, bent down to look,Lifted a cover of the book;Pished at the Prologue, passed it o'er,Went forward for a page or more(Asem and Asa:Dickcould traceAlmost the passage and the place);Then for a moment with bent headRested upon her hand and read.

(Dickthought once more how cousinCisUsed when she read to lean like this;—"Used when sheread,"—why,CiscouldsayAll he had written,—any day!)

Sudden was heard a hurrying tread;The great doors creaked. The reader fled.Forth came a crowd with muffled laughter,A waft of Bergamot, and after,His Chaplain smirking at his side,My Lord himself in all his pride—A portly shape in stars and lace,With wine-bag cheeks and vacant face.

Dickbowed and smiled. The Great Man stared,With look half puzzled and half scared;Then seemed to recollect, turned round,And mumbled some imperfect sound:A moment more, his coach of stateDipped on its springs beneath his weight;AndDick, who followed at his heels,Heard but the din of rolling wheels.

Away, too, all his dreams had rolled;And yet they left him half consoled:Fame, after all, he thought might wait.WouldCis? Suppose he were too late!Ten months he'd lost in Town—an age!

Next day he took theWiltshireStage.

Just for a space that I met her—Just for a day in the train!It began when she feared it would wet her,That tiniest spurtle of rain:So we tucked a great rug in the sashes,And carefully padded the pane;And I sorrow in sackcloth and ashes,Longing to do it again!Then it grew when she begged me to reach herA dressing-case under the seat;She was "really so tiny a creature,That she needed a stool for her feet!"Which was promptly arranged to her orderWith a care that was even minute,And a glimpse—of an open-work border,And a glance—of the fairyest boot.Then it drooped, and revived at some hovels—"Were they houses for men or for pigs?"Then it shifted to muscular novels,With a little digression on prigs:She thought "Wives and Daughters" "so jolly;""Had I read it?" She knew when I had,Like the rest, I should dote upon "Molly;"And "poor Mrs. Gaskell—how sad!""Like Browning?" "But so-so." His proof layToo deep for her frivolous mood.That preferred your mere metricalsouffléTo the stronger poetical food;Yet at times he was good—"as a tonic:"Was Tennyson writing just now?And was this new poet Byronic,And clever, and naughty, or how?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 notedIn the prettiest possible book;While her talk like a musical rilletFlashed on with the hours that flew,And the carriage, her smile seemed to fill itWith just enough summer—for Two.Till at last in her corner, peepingFrom a nest of rugs and of furs,With the white shut eyelids sleepingOn those dangerous looks of hers,She seemed like a snow-drop breaking,Not wholly alive nor dead,But with one blind impulse makingTo the sounds of the spring overhead;And I watched in the lamplight's swervingThe 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 merryBon Soir,Adding, too, to my utter vexation,A surplus, unkindAu Revoir.So left me to muse on her graces,To dose and to muse, till I dreamedThat we sailed through the sunniest placesIn 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 labelledMarriage,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 ashesLonging to see her again.

Then it grew when she begged me to reach herA dressing-case under the seat;She was "really so tiny a creature,That she needed a stool for her feet!"Which was promptly arranged to her orderWith a care that was even minute,And a glimpse—of an open-work border,And a glance—of the fairyest boot.

Then it drooped, and revived at some hovels—"Were they houses for men or for pigs?"Then it shifted to muscular novels,With a little digression on prigs:She thought "Wives and Daughters" "so jolly;""Had I read it?" She knew when I had,Like the rest, I should dote upon "Molly;"And "poor Mrs. Gaskell—how sad!"

"Like Browning?" "But so-so." His proof layToo deep for her frivolous mood.That preferred your mere metricalsouffléTo the stronger poetical food;Yet at times he was good—"as a tonic:"Was Tennyson writing just now?And was this new poet Byronic,And clever, and naughty, or how?

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 notedIn the prettiest possible book;While her talk like a musical rilletFlashed on with the hours that flew,And the carriage, her smile seemed to fill itWith just enough summer—for Two.

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

And I watched in the lamplight's swervingThe 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 merryBon Soir,Adding, too, to my utter vexation,A surplus, unkindAu Revoir.

So left me to muse on her graces,To dose and to muse, till I dreamedThat we sailed through the sunniest placesIn 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 labelledMarriage,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 ashesLonging to see her again.

"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 isLike mine: I am equally fondOf 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 passOf Macheath, between Lucy and Polly,—Or Buridan's ass.If it happens that Rosa I've singledFor a soft celebration in rhyme,Then the ringlets of Dora get mingledSomehow with the tune and the time;Or I painfully pen me a sonnetTo an eyebrow intended for Do.'s,And behold I am writing upon itThe legend "To Rose."Or I try to draw Dora (my blotterIs 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 addingTo the rapturous tresses of RoseMiss 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 sideI've a scruple,—a grain, more affection,Icannotdecide.And, as either so hopelessly nice is,My sole and my final resourceIs to wait some indefinite crisis,—Some feat of molecular force,To solve me this riddle conduciveBy no means to peace or repose,Since the issue can scarce be inclusiveOf DoraandRose.(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 sequelIs easily guessed.

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 passOf Macheath, between Lucy and Polly,—Or Buridan's ass.

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

Or I try to draw Dora (my blotterIs 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 addingTo the rapturous tresses of RoseMiss 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 sideI've a scruple,—a grain, more affection,Icannotdecide.

And, as either so hopelessly nice is,My sole and my final resourceIs to wait some indefinite crisis,—Some feat of molecular force,To solve me this riddle conduciveBy no means to peace or repose,Since the issue can scarce be inclusiveOf DoraandRose.

(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 sequelIs easily guessed.

"Mitte sectariRosaquo locorumSera 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 spokenThat all hear—king and clown:You smiled—the ice was broken;You stopped—the bill was down.How blind we are! It neverOccurred to me to seekIf 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 plainlyAs any Expert could;In short, we dreamed,—insanely,As only lovers should.I broke the tall Œnone,That then my chambers graced,Because she seemed "too bony,"To suit your purist taste;And you, without vexation,May certainly confessSome graceful approbation,Designedà mon adresse.You liked me then, carina,—You liked me then, I think;For your sake gall had been aMere tonic-cup to drink;For your sake, bonds were trivial,The rack, atour-de-force;And banishment, convivial,—You coming too, of course.Then, Rose, a word in jest meantWould throw you in a stateThat no well-timed investmentCould quite alleviate;Beyond a Paris trousseauYou prized my smile, I know,I, yours—ah, more than RousseauThe lip of d'Houdetot.Then, Rose,—But why pursue it?When Fate begins to frownBest 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 drearytête-à-tête!)To pen my "Last Lament," orExtemporize to Fate,In blankest verse disclosingMy bitterness of mind,—Which is, I learn, composingIn 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 loversThe hemlock or the hood;My rarer soul recoversIn dreams of public good.The Roses of this nation—Or so I understandFrom careful computation—Exceed the gross demand;And, therefore, in civilityTo maids that can't be matched,No man of sensibilityShould 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, beginA new card—"Tenant Wanted;Particulars within."

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 spokenThat all hear—king and clown:You smiled—the ice was broken;You stopped—the bill was down.How blind we are! It neverOccurred to me to seekIf 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 plainlyAs any Expert could;In short, we dreamed,—insanely,As only lovers should.

I broke the tall Œnone,That then my chambers graced,Because she seemed "too bony,"To suit your purist taste;And you, without vexation,May certainly confessSome graceful approbation,Designedà mon adresse.

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

Then, Rose, a word in jest meantWould throw you in a stateThat no well-timed investmentCould quite alleviate;Beyond a Paris trousseauYou prized my smile, I know,I, yours—ah, more than RousseauThe lip of d'Houdetot.

Then, Rose,—But why pursue it?When Fate begins to frownBest 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 drearytête-à-tête!)To pen my "Last Lament," orExtemporize to Fate,In blankest verse disclosingMy bitterness of mind,—Which is, I learn, composingIn 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 loversThe hemlock or the hood;My rarer soul recoversIn dreams of public good.

The Roses of this nation—Or so I understandFrom careful computation—Exceed the gross demand;And, therefore, in civilityTo maids that can't be matched,No man of sensibilityShould 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, beginA new card—"Tenant Wanted;Particulars within."

(HORACE, iii. 7.)

"Quid fles, Asterie, quem tibi candidiPrimo restituent vere Favonii—Gygen?"

Come, Laura, patience. Time and SpringYour absent Arthur back shall bring,Enriched with many an Indian thingOnce 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 passSafe through that eastward-faring classWho sail to marry.For him fond mothers, stout and fair,Ascend the tortuous cabin stairOnly to hold around his chairInsidious sessions;For him the eyes of daughters droopAcross 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 roastThe youthful griffin;All, all with pleased persistence showHis 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 speakOf woes that wait him;Naught can subdue his soul secure;"Arthur will come again," be sure,Though matron shrewd and maid matureConspire to mate him.But, Laura, on your side, forbearTo greet with too impressed an airA certain youth with chestnut hair,—A youth unstable;Albeit none more skilled can guideThe frail canoe on Thamis tide,Or, trimmer-footed, lighter glideThrough "Guards" or "Mabel."Be warned in time. Without a traceOf 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 lookGrow tender, close your music-book,And end the matter.

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 passSafe through that eastward-faring classWho sail to marry.

For him fond mothers, stout and fair,Ascend the tortuous cabin stairOnly to hold around his chairInsidious sessions;For him the eyes of daughters droopAcross 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 roastThe youthful griffin;All, all with pleased persistence showHis 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 speakOf woes that wait him;Naught can subdue his soul secure;"Arthur will come again," be sure,Though matron shrewd and maid matureConspire to mate him.

But, Laura, on your side, forbearTo greet with too impressed an airA certain youth with chestnut hair,—A youth unstable;Albeit none more skilled can guideThe frail canoe on Thamis tide,Or, trimmer-footed, lighter glideThrough "Guards" or "Mabel."

Be warned in time. Without a traceOf 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 lookGrow tender, close your music-book,And end the matter.

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.Thenherewe'll stay, please. Once for all,I bar all artists,—great and small!From now until we go in JuneI shall hear nothing but this tune:—Whether I like Long's "Vashti," orLike 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 prettyNot "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 pearlBefore 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 foregoAll 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 beforeThe "Rajah," or the "Koh-i-noor"....He would not barter it for allBenares, 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 pityPortraits are hung by the Committee?

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.

Thenherewe'll stay, please. Once for all,I bar all artists,—great and small!From now until we go in JuneI shall hear nothing but this tune:—Whether I like Long's "Vashti," orLike 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 prettyNot "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 pearlBefore 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 foregoAll 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 beforeThe "Rajah," or the "Koh-i-noor"....He would not barter it for allBenares, 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 pityPortraits are hung by the Committee?

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