Chapter 58

“LORD, JOHN, HERE’S A BURROW!”

Nor more he listened to the Politician,Who lectured on his left, a formal prig,Of Belgium’s, Greece’s, Turkey’s sad condition,Not worth a cheese, an olive, or a fig;Nor yet unto the critic, fierce and big,Who, holding forth, all lonely, in his glory,Called one a sad bad Poet—and a Whig,And one, a first-rate proser—and a Tory;So critics judge, now, of a song or story.Nay, when the coachman spoke about the ’Leger,Of Popsy, Mopsy, Bergamotte, and Civet,Of breeder, trainer, owner, backer, hedger,And nags as right, or righter than a trivet,The theme his crack’d attention could not rivet,Though leaning forward to the man of whips,He seem’d to give an ear,—but did not give it,For Ellen’s moon (that saddest of her slips)Would not be hidden by a “new Eclipse.”

Nor more he listened to the Politician,

Who lectured on his left, a formal prig,

Of Belgium’s, Greece’s, Turkey’s sad condition,

Not worth a cheese, an olive, or a fig;

Nor yet unto the critic, fierce and big,

Who, holding forth, all lonely, in his glory,

Called one a sad bad Poet—and a Whig,

And one, a first-rate proser—and a Tory;

So critics judge, now, of a song or story.

Nay, when the coachman spoke about the ’Leger,Of Popsy, Mopsy, Bergamotte, and Civet,Of breeder, trainer, owner, backer, hedger,And nags as right, or righter than a trivet,The theme his crack’d attention could not rivet,Though leaning forward to the man of whips,He seem’d to give an ear,—but did not give it,For Ellen’s moon (that saddest of her slips)Would not be hidden by a “new Eclipse.”

Nay, when the coachman spoke about the ’Leger,

Of Popsy, Mopsy, Bergamotte, and Civet,

Of breeder, trainer, owner, backer, hedger,

And nags as right, or righter than a trivet,

The theme his crack’d attention could not rivet,

Though leaning forward to the man of whips,

He seem’d to give an ear,—but did not give it,

For Ellen’s moon (that saddest of her slips)

Would not be hidden by a “new Eclipse.”

THE HEAD WAITER AT HATCHETT’S.

If any thought e’er flitted in his headBelonging to the sphere of Bland and Crocky,It was to wish the team all thorough-bred,And every buckle on their backs a jockey:When spinning down a steep descent, or rocky,He never watch’d the wheel, and long’d to lock it,He liked the bolters that set off so cocky:Nor did it shake a single nerve or shock itBecause the Comet raced against the Rocket.Thanks to which rivalry, at last the journeyFinish’d an hour and a quarter under time,Without a case for surgeon or attorney,Just as St. James’s rang its seventh chime,And now, descending from his seat sublime,Behold Lorenzo, weariest of wights,In that great core of brick, and stone, and lime,Call’d England’s Heart—but which, as seen of nights,Has rather more th’ appearance of its lights.

If any thought e’er flitted in his head

Belonging to the sphere of Bland and Crocky,

It was to wish the team all thorough-bred,

And every buckle on their backs a jockey:

When spinning down a steep descent, or rocky,

He never watch’d the wheel, and long’d to lock it,

He liked the bolters that set off so cocky:

Nor did it shake a single nerve or shock it

Because the Comet raced against the Rocket.

Thanks to which rivalry, at last the journey

Finish’d an hour and a quarter under time,

Without a case for surgeon or attorney,

Just as St. James’s rang its seventh chime,

And now, descending from his seat sublime,

Behold Lorenzo, weariest of wights,

In that great core of brick, and stone, and lime,

Call’d England’s Heart—but which, as seen of nights,

Has rather more th’ appearance of its lights.

FREE TRADE.

Away he scudded—elbowing, perforce,Thro’ cads, and lads, and many a Hebrew worrier,With fruit, knives, pencils,—all dirt cheap of course,Coachmen, and hawkers of the Globe and “Currier;”Away!—the cookmaid is not such a skurrier,When, fit to split her gingham as she goes,With six just striking on the clock to hurry her,She strides along with one of her three beaux,To get well placed at “Ashley’s”—now Ducrow’s.“I wonder if her moon is full to-night!”He mutter’d, jealous as a Spanish Don,When, lo!—to aggravate that inward spite,In glancing at a board he spied thereonA play-bill for dramatic folks to con,In letters such as those may read, who run,“‘KING JOHN’—oh yes,—I recollect King John!‘My Lord, they say five moons’—fivemoons!—well done!I wonder Ellen was content with one!“Five moons—all full!—and all at once in heav’n!She should have lived in that prolific reign!”Here he arrived in front of number seven,Th’ abode of all his joy and all his pain;A sudden tremor shot through every vein,He wish’d he’d come up by the heavy waggon,And felt an impulse to turn back again,Oh, that he ne’er had quitted the Old Dragon!Then came a sort of longing for a flagon.His tongue and palate seem’d so parch’d with drouth,—The very knocker fill’d his soul with dread,As if it had a living lion’s mouth,With teeth so terrible, and tongue so red,In which he had engaged to put his head,The bell-pull turn’d his courage into vapour,As though ’t would cause a shower-bath to shedIts thousand shocks, to make him sigh and caper—He look’d askance, and did not like the scraper.“What business have I here? (he thought) a dunceA hopeless passion thus to fan and foster,Instead of putting out its wick at once;She’s gone—it’s very evident I’ve lost her,—And to the wanton wind I should have toss’d her—Pish! I will leave her with her moon, at ease,To toast and eat it, like a single Gloster,Or cram some fool with it, as good green cheese,Or make a honey-moon, if so she please.“Yes—here I leave her,” and as thus he spoke,He plied the knocker with such needless force,It almost split the panel of sound oak;And then he went as wildly through a courseOf ringing, till he made abrupt divorceBetween the bell and its dumfounded handle,Whilst up ran Betty, out of breath and hoarse,And thrust into his face her blown-out candle,To recognise the author of such scandal.Who, presto! cloak, and carpet-bag to boot,Went stumbling, rumbling, up the dark one pair,With other noise than his whose “very footHad music in’t as he came up the stair:”And then with no more manners than a bear,His hat upon his head, no matter how,No modest tap his presence to declare,He bolted in a room, without a bow,And there sat Ellen, with a marble brow!Like fond Medora, watching at her window,Yet not of any Corsair bark in search—The jutting lodging-house of Mrs. Lindo,“The Cheapest House in Town” of Todd and Sturch.The private house of Reverend Doctor Birch,The public-house, closed nightly at eleven,And then that house of prayer, the parish church,Some roofs, and chimneys, and a glimpse of heaven,Made up the whole look-out of Number Seven.

Away he scudded—elbowing, perforce,

Thro’ cads, and lads, and many a Hebrew worrier,

With fruit, knives, pencils,—all dirt cheap of course,

Coachmen, and hawkers of the Globe and “Currier;”

Away!—the cookmaid is not such a skurrier,

When, fit to split her gingham as she goes,

With six just striking on the clock to hurry her,

She strides along with one of her three beaux,

To get well placed at “Ashley’s”—now Ducrow’s.

“I wonder if her moon is full to-night!”He mutter’d, jealous as a Spanish Don,When, lo!—to aggravate that inward spite,In glancing at a board he spied thereonA play-bill for dramatic folks to con,In letters such as those may read, who run,“‘KING JOHN’—oh yes,—I recollect King John!‘My Lord, they say five moons’—fivemoons!—well done!I wonder Ellen was content with one!

“I wonder if her moon is full to-night!”

He mutter’d, jealous as a Spanish Don,

When, lo!—to aggravate that inward spite,

In glancing at a board he spied thereon

A play-bill for dramatic folks to con,

In letters such as those may read, who run,

“‘KING JOHN’—oh yes,—I recollect King John!

‘My Lord, they say five moons’—fivemoons!—well done!

I wonder Ellen was content with one!

“Five moons—all full!—and all at once in heav’n!She should have lived in that prolific reign!”Here he arrived in front of number seven,Th’ abode of all his joy and all his pain;A sudden tremor shot through every vein,He wish’d he’d come up by the heavy waggon,And felt an impulse to turn back again,Oh, that he ne’er had quitted the Old Dragon!Then came a sort of longing for a flagon.

“Five moons—all full!—and all at once in heav’n!

She should have lived in that prolific reign!”

Here he arrived in front of number seven,

Th’ abode of all his joy and all his pain;

A sudden tremor shot through every vein,

He wish’d he’d come up by the heavy waggon,

And felt an impulse to turn back again,

Oh, that he ne’er had quitted the Old Dragon!

Then came a sort of longing for a flagon.

His tongue and palate seem’d so parch’d with drouth,—The very knocker fill’d his soul with dread,As if it had a living lion’s mouth,With teeth so terrible, and tongue so red,In which he had engaged to put his head,The bell-pull turn’d his courage into vapour,As though ’t would cause a shower-bath to shedIts thousand shocks, to make him sigh and caper—He look’d askance, and did not like the scraper.

His tongue and palate seem’d so parch’d with drouth,—

The very knocker fill’d his soul with dread,

As if it had a living lion’s mouth,

With teeth so terrible, and tongue so red,

In which he had engaged to put his head,

The bell-pull turn’d his courage into vapour,

As though ’t would cause a shower-bath to shed

Its thousand shocks, to make him sigh and caper—

He look’d askance, and did not like the scraper.

“What business have I here? (he thought) a dunceA hopeless passion thus to fan and foster,Instead of putting out its wick at once;She’s gone—it’s very evident I’ve lost her,—And to the wanton wind I should have toss’d her—Pish! I will leave her with her moon, at ease,To toast and eat it, like a single Gloster,Or cram some fool with it, as good green cheese,Or make a honey-moon, if so she please.

“What business have I here? (he thought) a dunce

A hopeless passion thus to fan and foster,

Instead of putting out its wick at once;

She’s gone—it’s very evident I’ve lost her,—

And to the wanton wind I should have toss’d her—

Pish! I will leave her with her moon, at ease,

To toast and eat it, like a single Gloster,

Or cram some fool with it, as good green cheese,

Or make a honey-moon, if so she please.

“Yes—here I leave her,” and as thus he spoke,He plied the knocker with such needless force,It almost split the panel of sound oak;And then he went as wildly through a courseOf ringing, till he made abrupt divorceBetween the bell and its dumfounded handle,Whilst up ran Betty, out of breath and hoarse,And thrust into his face her blown-out candle,To recognise the author of such scandal.

“Yes—here I leave her,” and as thus he spoke,

He plied the knocker with such needless force,

It almost split the panel of sound oak;

And then he went as wildly through a course

Of ringing, till he made abrupt divorce

Between the bell and its dumfounded handle,

Whilst up ran Betty, out of breath and hoarse,

And thrust into his face her blown-out candle,

To recognise the author of such scandal.

Who, presto! cloak, and carpet-bag to boot,Went stumbling, rumbling, up the dark one pair,With other noise than his whose “very footHad music in’t as he came up the stair:”And then with no more manners than a bear,His hat upon his head, no matter how,No modest tap his presence to declare,He bolted in a room, without a bow,And there sat Ellen, with a marble brow!

Who, presto! cloak, and carpet-bag to boot,

Went stumbling, rumbling, up the dark one pair,

With other noise than his whose “very foot

Had music in’t as he came up the stair:”

And then with no more manners than a bear,

His hat upon his head, no matter how,

No modest tap his presence to declare,

He bolted in a room, without a bow,

And there sat Ellen, with a marble brow!

Like fond Medora, watching at her window,Yet not of any Corsair bark in search—The jutting lodging-house of Mrs. Lindo,“The Cheapest House in Town” of Todd and Sturch.The private house of Reverend Doctor Birch,The public-house, closed nightly at eleven,And then that house of prayer, the parish church,Some roofs, and chimneys, and a glimpse of heaven,Made up the whole look-out of Number Seven.

Like fond Medora, watching at her window,

Yet not of any Corsair bark in search—

The jutting lodging-house of Mrs. Lindo,

“The Cheapest House in Town” of Todd and Sturch.

The private house of Reverend Doctor Birch,

The public-house, closed nightly at eleven,

And then that house of prayer, the parish church,

Some roofs, and chimneys, and a glimpse of heaven,

Made up the whole look-out of Number Seven.

“MEET ME BY MOONLIGHT ALONE.”

Yet something in the prospect so absorbed her,She seemed quite drowned and dozing in a dream;As if her own belov’d full moon still orb’d her,Lulling her fancy in some lunar scheme,With lost Lorenzo, may be, for its theme—Yet when Lorenzo touch’d her on the shoulder,She started up with an abortive scream,As if some midnight ghost, from regions colder,Had come within his bony arms to fold her.“Lorenzo!” “Ellen!” then came “Sir!” and “Madam!”They tried to speak, but hammer’d at each word,As if it were a flint for great Mac Adam:Such broken English never else was heard,For like an aspen leaf each nerve was stirr’d,A chilly tremor thrill’d them through and through,Their efforts to be stiff were quite absurd,They shook like jellies made without a dueAnd proper share of common joiner’s glue.“Ellen! I’m come—to bid you—fare—farewell!”They thus began to fight their verbal duel;“Since some more hap—hap—happy man must dwell—”“Alas—Loren—Lorenzo!—cru—cru—cruel!”For so they split their words like grits for gruel.At last the Lover, as he long had plann’d,Drew out that once inestimable jewel,Her portrait, which was erst so fondly scann’d,And thrust poor Ellen’s face into her hand.“There—take it, Madam—take it back, I crave,The face of one—but I must now forget her,Bestow it on whatever hapless slaveYour art has last enticed into your fetter—And there are your epistles—there! each letter!I wish no record of your vow’s infractions,Send them to South—or Children—you had better—They will be novelties—rare benefactions!To shine in Philosophical Transactions!“Take them—pray take them—I resign them quite!And there’s the glove you gave me leave to steal—And there’s the handkerchief, so pure and white,Once sanctified by tears, when Miss O’Neill—But no—you did not—cannot—do not feelA Juliet’s faith, that time could only harden!Fool that I was, in my mistaken zeal!I should have led you,—by your leave and pardon—To Bartley’s Orrery, not Covent Garden!”

Yet something in the prospect so absorbed her,

She seemed quite drowned and dozing in a dream;

As if her own belov’d full moon still orb’d her,

Lulling her fancy in some lunar scheme,

With lost Lorenzo, may be, for its theme—

Yet when Lorenzo touch’d her on the shoulder,

She started up with an abortive scream,

As if some midnight ghost, from regions colder,

Had come within his bony arms to fold her.

“Lorenzo!” “Ellen!” then came “Sir!” and “Madam!”They tried to speak, but hammer’d at each word,As if it were a flint for great Mac Adam:Such broken English never else was heard,For like an aspen leaf each nerve was stirr’d,A chilly tremor thrill’d them through and through,Their efforts to be stiff were quite absurd,They shook like jellies made without a dueAnd proper share of common joiner’s glue.

“Lorenzo!” “Ellen!” then came “Sir!” and “Madam!”

They tried to speak, but hammer’d at each word,

As if it were a flint for great Mac Adam:

Such broken English never else was heard,

For like an aspen leaf each nerve was stirr’d,

A chilly tremor thrill’d them through and through,

Their efforts to be stiff were quite absurd,

They shook like jellies made without a due

And proper share of common joiner’s glue.

“Ellen! I’m come—to bid you—fare—farewell!”They thus began to fight their verbal duel;“Since some more hap—hap—happy man must dwell—”“Alas—Loren—Lorenzo!—cru—cru—cruel!”For so they split their words like grits for gruel.At last the Lover, as he long had plann’d,Drew out that once inestimable jewel,Her portrait, which was erst so fondly scann’d,And thrust poor Ellen’s face into her hand.

“Ellen! I’m come—to bid you—fare—farewell!”

They thus began to fight their verbal duel;

“Since some more hap—hap—happy man must dwell—”

“Alas—Loren—Lorenzo!—cru—cru—cruel!”

For so they split their words like grits for gruel.

At last the Lover, as he long had plann’d,

Drew out that once inestimable jewel,

Her portrait, which was erst so fondly scann’d,

And thrust poor Ellen’s face into her hand.

“There—take it, Madam—take it back, I crave,The face of one—but I must now forget her,Bestow it on whatever hapless slaveYour art has last enticed into your fetter—And there are your epistles—there! each letter!I wish no record of your vow’s infractions,Send them to South—or Children—you had better—They will be novelties—rare benefactions!To shine in Philosophical Transactions!

“There—take it, Madam—take it back, I crave,

The face of one—but I must now forget her,

Bestow it on whatever hapless slave

Your art has last enticed into your fetter—

And there are your epistles—there! each letter!

I wish no record of your vow’s infractions,

Send them to South—or Children—you had better—

They will be novelties—rare benefactions!

To shine in Philosophical Transactions!

“Take them—pray take them—I resign them quite!And there’s the glove you gave me leave to steal—And there’s the handkerchief, so pure and white,Once sanctified by tears, when Miss O’Neill—But no—you did not—cannot—do not feelA Juliet’s faith, that time could only harden!Fool that I was, in my mistaken zeal!I should have led you,—by your leave and pardon—To Bartley’s Orrery, not Covent Garden!”

“Take them—pray take them—I resign them quite!

And there’s the glove you gave me leave to steal—

And there’s the handkerchief, so pure and white,

Once sanctified by tears, when Miss O’Neill—

But no—you did not—cannot—do not feel

A Juliet’s faith, that time could only harden!

Fool that I was, in my mistaken zeal!

I should have led you,—by your leave and pardon—

To Bartley’s Orrery, not Covent Garden!”

“I RAN IT THRO’ E’EN FROM MY BOYISH DAYS.”

“And here’s the birth-day ring—nor man nor devilShould once have torn it from my living hand,Perchance ’twill look as well on Mr. Neville;And that—and that is all—and now I standAbsolved of each dissever’d tie and band—And so farewell, till Time’s eternal sickleShall reap our lives; in this, or foreign landSome other may be found for truth to stickleAlmost as fair—and not so false and fickle!”And there he ceased: as truly it was time,For of the various themes that left his mouth,One half surpass’d her intellectual climb:She knew no more than the old Hill of HowthAbout that “Children of a larger growth,”Who notes proceedings of the F. R. S.’s;Kit North, was just as strange to her as South,Except the south the weathercock expresses,Nay, Bartley’s Orrery defied her guesses.Howbeit some notion of his jealous driftShe gather’d from the simple outward fact,That her own lap contained each slighted gift;Though quite unconscious of his cause to actSo like Othello, with his face unblack’d;“Alas!” she sobbed, “your cruel course I seeThese faded charms no longer can attract;Your fancy palls, and you would wander free,And lay your own apostacy on me!”“I, false!—unjust Lorenzo!—and toyou!Oh, all ye holy gospels that inclineThe soul to truth, bear witness I am true!By all that lives, of earthly or divine—So long as this poor throbbing heart is mine—Ifalse!—the world shall change its course as soon!True as the streamlet to the stars that shine—True as the dial to the sun at noon,True as the tide to ‘yonder blessed moon’!”And as she spoke, she pointed through the window,Somewhere above the houses’ distant tops,Betwixt the chimney-pots of Mrs. Lindo,And Todd and Sturch’s cheapest of all shopsFor ribbons, laces, muslins, silks, and fops:—Meanwhile, as she upraised her face so Grecian,And eyes suffused with scintillating drops,Lorenzo looked, too, o’er the blinds venetian,To see the sphere so troubled with repletion.“The Moon!” he cried, and an electric spasmSeem’d all at once his features to distort,And fix’d his mouth, a dumb and gaping chasm—His faculties benumb’d and all amort—At last his voice came, of most shrilly sort,Just like a sea-gull’s wheeling round a rock—“Speak!—Ellen!—is your sight indeed so short?The Moon!—Brute! savage that I am, and block!The Moon! (O, ye Romantics, what a shock!)Why that’s the new Illuminated Clock!”

“And here’s the birth-day ring—nor man nor devil

Should once have torn it from my living hand,

Perchance ’twill look as well on Mr. Neville;

And that—and that is all—and now I stand

Absolved of each dissever’d tie and band—

And so farewell, till Time’s eternal sickle

Shall reap our lives; in this, or foreign land

Some other may be found for truth to stickle

Almost as fair—and not so false and fickle!”

And there he ceased: as truly it was time,For of the various themes that left his mouth,One half surpass’d her intellectual climb:She knew no more than the old Hill of HowthAbout that “Children of a larger growth,”Who notes proceedings of the F. R. S.’s;Kit North, was just as strange to her as South,Except the south the weathercock expresses,Nay, Bartley’s Orrery defied her guesses.

And there he ceased: as truly it was time,

For of the various themes that left his mouth,

One half surpass’d her intellectual climb:

She knew no more than the old Hill of Howth

About that “Children of a larger growth,”

Who notes proceedings of the F. R. S.’s;

Kit North, was just as strange to her as South,

Except the south the weathercock expresses,

Nay, Bartley’s Orrery defied her guesses.

Howbeit some notion of his jealous driftShe gather’d from the simple outward fact,That her own lap contained each slighted gift;Though quite unconscious of his cause to actSo like Othello, with his face unblack’d;“Alas!” she sobbed, “your cruel course I seeThese faded charms no longer can attract;Your fancy palls, and you would wander free,And lay your own apostacy on me!”

Howbeit some notion of his jealous drift

She gather’d from the simple outward fact,

That her own lap contained each slighted gift;

Though quite unconscious of his cause to act

So like Othello, with his face unblack’d;

“Alas!” she sobbed, “your cruel course I see

These faded charms no longer can attract;

Your fancy palls, and you would wander free,

And lay your own apostacy on me!”

“I, false!—unjust Lorenzo!—and toyou!Oh, all ye holy gospels that inclineThe soul to truth, bear witness I am true!By all that lives, of earthly or divine—So long as this poor throbbing heart is mine—Ifalse!—the world shall change its course as soon!True as the streamlet to the stars that shine—True as the dial to the sun at noon,True as the tide to ‘yonder blessed moon’!”

“I, false!—unjust Lorenzo!—and toyou!

Oh, all ye holy gospels that incline

The soul to truth, bear witness I am true!

By all that lives, of earthly or divine—

So long as this poor throbbing heart is mine—

Ifalse!—the world shall change its course as soon!

True as the streamlet to the stars that shine—

True as the dial to the sun at noon,

True as the tide to ‘yonder blessed moon’!”

And as she spoke, she pointed through the window,Somewhere above the houses’ distant tops,Betwixt the chimney-pots of Mrs. Lindo,And Todd and Sturch’s cheapest of all shopsFor ribbons, laces, muslins, silks, and fops:—Meanwhile, as she upraised her face so Grecian,And eyes suffused with scintillating drops,Lorenzo looked, too, o’er the blinds venetian,To see the sphere so troubled with repletion.

And as she spoke, she pointed through the window,

Somewhere above the houses’ distant tops,

Betwixt the chimney-pots of Mrs. Lindo,

And Todd and Sturch’s cheapest of all shops

For ribbons, laces, muslins, silks, and fops:—

Meanwhile, as she upraised her face so Grecian,

And eyes suffused with scintillating drops,

Lorenzo looked, too, o’er the blinds venetian,

To see the sphere so troubled with repletion.

“The Moon!” he cried, and an electric spasmSeem’d all at once his features to distort,And fix’d his mouth, a dumb and gaping chasm—His faculties benumb’d and all amort—At last his voice came, of most shrilly sort,Just like a sea-gull’s wheeling round a rock—“Speak!—Ellen!—is your sight indeed so short?The Moon!—Brute! savage that I am, and block!The Moon! (O, ye Romantics, what a shock!)Why that’s the new Illuminated Clock!”

“The Moon!” he cried, and an electric spasm

Seem’d all at once his features to distort,

And fix’d his mouth, a dumb and gaping chasm—

His faculties benumb’d and all amort—

At last his voice came, of most shrilly sort,

Just like a sea-gull’s wheeling round a rock—

“Speak!—Ellen!—is your sight indeed so short?

The Moon!—Brute! savage that I am, and block!

The Moon! (O, ye Romantics, what a shock!)

Why that’s the new Illuminated Clock!”

ST. BLAISE.

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