Part 1

[Illustration:

THE BELLE OF A SEASON, A Poem

_BY The Countess of Blessington_

ILLUSTRATIONS BY A. E. CHALON, R.A.

]

THE BELLE OF A SEASON.

BY

THE COUNTESS OF BLESSINGTON.

=Splendidly Illustrated=

FROM

DRAWINGS

BY

A. E. CHALON, R. A.

PAINTER TO THE QUEEN, &c.

UNDER THE SUPERINTENDENCE OF MR. CHARLES HEATH.

LONDON: PUBLISHED FOR THE PROPRIETOR, BY LONGMAN, ORME, BROWN, GREEN, AND LONGMANS; APPLETON AND CO., NEW YORK.

M.DCCC.XL.

LONDON:

PRINTED BY MOYES AND BARCLAY, CASTLE STREET, LEICESTER SQUARE.

INTRODUCTION.

Expect not, gentle readers, here to find Some wild romance,—effusion of a mind Imbued with pictures, which dark fancies give;— My Heroine, like yourselves doth act and live. No scenes of terror here you’ll see portrayed, To shock the feelings of a timid maid. No scowling wretches here with purpose dire, With dark-laid plots and fiendlike men conspire. No women, who, forgetful of their sex, Yielding to passion’s sway, their hearts perplex. No tyrant father, and no mother cross; No gamester desperate with heavy loss. No rivals using every wicked art, To rob a damsel of her lover’s heart. No murderous dagger, and no poisoned cup, To make pale readers full on horrors sup. No sinful love here marks its guilty course, Followed by shame, remorse, and a divorce. No ruined château, and no gliding ghost, No duel or elopement, can we boast In these poor pages, only meant to shew The scenes of real life, whose truth you know. My Heroine, like yourselves, devoid of art, Rich in each gift of person, mind, and heart;— Just such a daughter as all parents prize, And just as you appear to the fond eyes Of yours;—just such a nymph as men adore: Look in your glass—her image stands before. The tresses may present a different hue, The eyes may gray or black be, ’stead of blue; More or less _embonpoint_ perhaps you’ll see, But, ne’ertheless, mankind will all agree That beauties are as sisters like: ’tis true, When Mary I described—I thought of you. The same your winning charms, your dimples, smiles, The same mild virtue that each heart beguiles, The same your occupations, hopes, and fears, Your artless gaiety, your ready tears;— You’ll recognise the portrait I am sure, Though you deny it with a look demure: And thus alike in loveliness and lives, May you, like Mary, soon be blessed as—wives.

THE BELLE OF A SEASON.

’Tis noon, and Spring, with genial power, Hath lent her sunshine to the hour; Hath breathed her sweetness through the air That murmurs o’er the bright parterre; On many a forest-monarch tall Hath hung a fresh green coronal— The emerald turf hath dressed anew, With primrose pale, and violet blue; And showers of snow-like wind-flowers strown In many a copse and upland lone; Hath heaped on the laburnum gay Its gold—its fragrance on the May; And balls of silver rich to see Hung o’er the wild wayfaring-tree: No wonder that yon ancient hall Looks decked as for a festival. Yon ancient hall!—a noble race, Whose deeds hath History loved to trace, Spread yonder court, and raised that tower Whose oriel speaks it Beauty’s bower; And loved in manhood’s youthful pride Through that oak-planted chase to ride, Where antlered roamers brouse and play Throughout the golden summer day; And hares, with eyes like gems that burn, Crouch timid ’mid the rustling fern. Beyond,—a river, clear and blue As Heaven’s own bright cerulean hue, Winds with a song of pleasant tone Through many a meadow-valley lone, Where teeming cows and snowy sheep Along its flowery border creep— And soon as peeps the early Spring, Her merry choir their gladness sing— Whose joy but cheers the soft repose, So fair an English landscape knows.

[Illustration:

_The Hall_

_OR FEED THE BIRD THAT AT HER VOICE WOULD IN ITS PRISON-CAGE REJOICE_ ]

A daughter of that noble race, With all its beauty in her face, Looks from yon hall across that scene Of river bright and meadow green— I said her face was proudly fair, But—lovelier far—a heart is there, Filled with o’erflowing love of all On which her gentle glance doth fall. Oft have her childhood’s feet at dawn Brushed its bright dew from yonder lawn, And well she knows each sheltered dell, And each peculiar tree can tell; And every flower before her feet Is linked with memories passing sweet: She little dreams who gazes there, That _she_ is far more fresh and fair Than all the pride of her parterre: So those the most who charm and bless Least know their wealth of loveliness!

’Twould tame the most malicious sprite To watch those eyes so azure bright, Upon the faëry pleasaunce bent With wishes gay as innocent; Or mark her, with more serious air, Tend her flower-darlings rich and rare; Or feed the bird that at her voice Would in its prison-cage rejoice; Or when in other mood she came To stoop above her easel’s frame, As true her taper fingers sped To trace the scene before her spread; Or view her, in green garden nook, Bend thoughtful o’er some gentle book; Or hear when, blithe as bird of spring, She half unconsciously would sing A lay like this—O ne’er again Those woods will hear so sweet a strain!

SONG.

O Nature! let me dwell with thee, The happy playmate of the bee; Thou bringest back the golden Spring,— I cannot choose but gaily sing!

Old Winter’s gone with clouds and rain, And flowers are on the earth again, And birds fly forth with gladsome wing;— I cannot choose but gaily sing!

The insects chirp as blithe they pass Among the dew-gemmed waving grass, Fresh verdure clothes each fairy-ring;— I cannot choose but gaily sing!

O Nature! let me dwell with thee; Thou ne’er art stern and harsh to see, But mark’st each day by some bright thing, That makes thy children gaily sing.

What wonder that a maid like this, With heart so pure, so full of bliss, The sternest only named to bless!— Nay—even her cold staid governess Forgot her formal rules, and smiled, As she—half woman, half a child— Would break her studies grave and long, With carolled snatch of such a song; Or fragment of the blithest dance, That ever Sylph had stolen from France; Or through the opened window hie, To chase the gorgeous butterfly!

Delicious time! when life is new, And Pleasure opens wide to view Her paths of sunshine and of bloom, That in far distance hide the tomb; Ere one illusion false is known, Or one affection chilled, or flown. O Youth! how passing fair art thou, Ere care hath worn that open brow, Ere the fresh roses on thy cheek Sad tears have dewed—when but to speak Of joy, with rapture uncontrolled, Thy lips their coral gates unfold! Ere yet one bright and cherub trace Of Heaven hath parted from thy face, O Youth! so passing blithe and fair! Why should not Time thy gladness spare?

Now sixteen summers just had sped In rapid course o’er Mary’s head,— Each gave her cheek a brighter hue, Each to her mind some treasure new. Her sire—what wonder?—long had eyed His child, his idol, with the pride Which deems its darling hath no peer Among her sister-beauties here; And longs the envying world should view Her matchless charms, and think so, too. At length, this boastful rapture, nursed In secret, forth to utterance burst; ’Twas on that smiling April day He to his lady spouse did say— “I think, as now advances Spring, Our girl to town ’t were well to bring; ’T is time she went to court, my dear!” Quick cries the Lady—“What!—this year? Court at sixteen! too soon, no doubt! All the young ladies round about— The Greys—the Mordaunts—ne’er were seen, Never presented ’till eighteen.”— “Nay, as you will—perchance you’ve reason; Well then, we keep at home this season. That last election thinned my purse, Which, truth to say, requires a nurse; Though on dear Mary’s pleasure bent, I should not count how much I spent.”

The Lady hears—and from her spouse Hides sudden fears, she knits her brows, And o’er her features still most fair, Calls up a bland, persuaded air; “_Réflexion faite_—you _may_ be right, I would not stand in Mary’s light; And to her pleasure, I my own Would sacrifice;—let’s go to town!” She uttered not her thought of wo, “How rapidly one’s daughters grow!”

Yes, pain can seize a mother’s heart, When, _ere_ her mellowed charms depart, She must, a full-blown rose, retire While eager crowds the bud admire; And while a daughter at her feet } Hath words that burn, and hearts that beat, } Must fill the chaperon’s lonely seat! } Ye, whom a fate like this doth scare, Be wise, though Cupid sets the snare, Bid the sly urchin from your door, To come again at _twenty-four_; Then wedded, to such follies cold, At placid forty you’ll behold, Without an envious thought or care, Your second-self—or one more fair;— Hear with fond pride your daughter’s name, Look calmly on the lively game, Nor wince, if careless tongue should say, “Her mother, too, _she had her day_!”

Hail Fashion! thou mysterious Queen! Whose reign omnipotent hath been: Ay, since the times remote and dark, When Mistress Noah left her ark! Sovereign, whose subjects ne’er rebel, Though of tyrannic sway they tell! Thy sceptre, Queen, whom all adore, Hath strange and elephantine power,— Can rout an army with its strength, Or raise a pin an atom’s length; The young, the noble, and the gay, Hear thy loved voice, and straight obey. What though the Spring with open arms Spreads to their gaze her wealth of charms, With primrose and with king-cup gilds The hedge-row banks, the sunny fields, Thou callest—and from these scenes they part, To mingle in thy busy mart, And thought, and health, and pleasure drown, In the dull mazes of a town! Then, when the Dog-star rages high, Thou bidd’st the obedient throng to fly To coasts where not a leaf of green Their beauty from the blaze may screen, Let scorched-up eyes, and sun-browned faces, Declare thy might at watering places! Then, when rough Winter’s frost and snow His dismal coming makes them know, And all is gloom, and storm, and rain, And bowers are stripped, and hill, and plain, And garden path, and sheltered wood, Are carpeted alike with mud, Thou drivest the herd, most stern of Queens, To the repose of country scenes; O prithee! for one little season, Rule this poor weary world by reason!

At thy decree must Mary go The town’s tumultuous joys to know. In simple garb, the lovely maid Is for the journey soon arrayed; But ere she leaves that haunted ground, With tearful gaze she looks around, And every flower and every tree Awakens her fond sympathy, As sparkling with fresh morning dew, They seem to wave a kind adieu! She knows not yet of courtlier joys, No anxious thought her mind employs; She never dreamed of tricks or arts Used by coquettes to win light hearts; The snow-white lily of the lea Is not more free from guile than she!

The journey o’er—in Grosvenor Square Behold arrived our timid fair, Perplexed and deafened by the din Of crowds and carriages that spin In dizzy whirl through every street Where busy trade and luxury meet. At first the strangeness and surprise Brings her no joy—she softly sighs, “O my own home! that I were there ’Mid its green fields and purer air!”

Short time hath she to muse and dream Of grove-crowned hill, and placid stream, For Mary is a child no more, And a gay host assails her door, With smiles, and becks, and modish airs, _Marchandes des modes_—and _Couturières_; At first she shrinks back half-ashamed, As loud their splendid wares are named. One tells how rulers of the _monde_ Wear just such satin, just such blonde; Another, as a peacock vain, Spreads out a _corsage_ and a train: “_Pour une miladi, aussi belle, Ça irait vraiment à merveille._” A third brings wreaths so fair to see, The King of Judah’s[1] cunning bee From flower to flower had boldly flown, And deemed them surely Nature’s own. All praised her _tournure_, and her grace, Till modest blushes dyed her face; Then each, demanding “_pardon_,” thought “That if _sa seigneurie_ had bought A few more _nouveautés_ ’twere wise, Ere they were shewn to other eyes— As now _les grandes dames_ wished to buy More than their _artistes_ could supply; For then, just then,—’twas sad, but true,— Even if they wrought the whole night through, Full many a lady needs must wait, Who’d ordered robes for the next fête.” The prologue’s done—the father sighs, As all those glittering gauds he eyes; And, while his spouse makes haste to tell Their cheapness is a miracle, He thinks of his estates at nurse, And in his pocket grasps his purse.

And now to Mary’s wondering eyes, Behold the magic curtain rise; O day of joy, and agitation, Comes on her courtly presentation! Gems deck her brow, and waving plumes, Her train came forth from Genoa’s looms, And rich transparent folds of lace Fall from her head with airy grace; To Nature, Art has lent its aid, And proud she looks, though half afraid. No longer now the sportive child, With buoyant step, and spirits wild, Who chased the winged flowers of air, Or wandered through her bright parterre; Schooled to a stately dignity She moves, while crowds press on to see A form from Beauty’s finest mould, Which all of purple, and of gold, Of nodding plume, and diamond bright, Are but too poor to deck aright! They little dream who see her glide On her new path with mien of pride, How in her secret, throbbing breast, A trembling, timid heart doth rest!

Her mother leads her through the throng, Who whisper as she moves along, Some, with a haggard envious air, Whose ancient faces round her stare, “Wonder the men so weak can be, So undiscerning as to see One single charm or winning grace In such a blushing baby face.” In vain they cavil—gallants gay From older beauties shrink away; Eye the fair girl with flattering gaze, And whisper, to be heard, her praise; Their words, “How charming!” meet her ear, A spell to dissipate her fear. More calm she nears the throne at last— A step—the dreaded ordeal’s past!

[Illustration:

_The Presentation_

_SHE BENDS BEFORE OUR GENTLE QUEEN THE YOUNGEST, FAIREST, EVER SEEN_ ]

She bends before our gentle Queen, The youngest, fairest, ever seen, The Rose of England’s rich parterre (Where every flower is passing fair); All youth, all hope, all loveliness, Whom millions only name to bless. How dazzling is that open brow! Not even the diadem, whose glow Encircles it with lustre bright, Casts into shade its gentle light; So dignified, so lofty, mild, There meet the angel, woman, child. O! who could gaze upon thy face, Young scion of a royal race, Without that warm and earnest feeling, To hand, and heart, and word, appealing, Which stirred so well in days gone by Old England’s glorious chivalry, And now surrounds thy stately throne With millions proud thy sway to own, Ready the wide world to defy, And quick to arm—and blest to die, Ere from thy royal coronal Its smallest gem shall fade or fall! Thy gracious glance, with gentle spell } Can many a fluttering tremor quell, } As our young timid maid can tell; } Who never even in dreams hath been In such a bright and gorgeous scene. Before her, sparkling in the light, Dance waving plumes, flash diamonds bright; A thousand trains come sweeping by, A thousand beauties meet her eye: But o’er them all, like star serene, She sees her lovely, gentle Queen!

And now,—the presentation o’er Which opens Fashion’s fairy door— A thousand perfumed billets come Scrawled with these peaceful words, “At Home!” She, in her young simplicity, Admires the domesticity Of those whom opera, dinner, rout, Tempt to the sparkling world without! But soon (the enigma’s point to reach) A few entrancing midnights teach By nodding plumes, and whirling feet, And wheels that thunder down the street, And glittering lamps, and music loud, “_At home_,” in London means “_a crowd!_”

No longer decked in waving plumes, Mary a simpler dress assumes,— A robe that well her form displays, And many a silken ringlet strays Round pearly brow, and cheek that glows With Youth and Health’s most brilliant rose, At her first ball—where smile and stare Our heroine’s rising power declare— Her mother proud, with practised eye, Dissects the crowds that hover nigh; No younger brother dare draw near, To whisper in her treasure’s ear. Ah! in the world where hearts are stakes, Too oft the blessing Esau takes!

Now, shall we gently cast aside The veil that Mary’s heart doth hide? And whisper to all friendly ears, That child-like as the maid appears,— There is one youth, whose glance hath met Her own—she longs to know, and yet, For worlds she could not ask his name: The thought’s enough to tint with shame Her fair young cheek—though, truth to own, The maiden now hath curious grown, For those deep lustrous eyes have cast Spells o’er her thoughts to hold them fast; She looked but once, and half was won— She looked again, her heart was gone!

O Love! that find’st thy path through eyes, Revealed by glances and soft sighs, The harbingers of hopes, and fears, And rosy blushes, smiles, and tears,— Why, wily archer, try thine art On such a young unguarded heart? Why, ere yet childhood’s dreams have flown, Ere Life its fairest views hath shewn, Chase halcyon Peace from that sweet nest She builds in such a gentle breast? The experienced mother marks the gaze With which the youth her child surveys,— The blush that dyes her modest cheek,— And though ’tis best no word to speak, Swift through her heart a hope _will_ glance, That he will with her Mary dance: For well she knows, by form and air, He ranks among the noblest there. Is it all vainly she aspires? For lo! the admired one swift retires:— He’s gone—there seems a cloud to creep O’er Mary’s bosom still and deep— He’s gone—but, no—he’s here again, Leading the Duchess Deloraine. With outstretched hand and smiling face Thus speaks at once her sapient Grace:—

“Dear Lady Percy, how d’ ye do? I thought it could be only you My son described—let me present Lord Deloraine; indeed I meant To seek you—this is Lady Mary, Whom I remember, like a fairy, When tripping lightly round your room, Her lip all smiles, her cheek all bloom. I should have known her by her brow And chin. Dear girl, will you allow Me to present Lord Deloraine? You’ll make his mother very vain If you to him your smiles extend, And to her also, as the friend Of Lady Percy. How’s your Lord? Your daughter’s charming, on my word! While you—I vow I heard Lord Lyster Say you looked like her elder sister. My son has just come from the East, But has not suffered in the least, Though hundreds are in Smyrna dead, None saved, except the wise, who fled That dreadful plague!—It never ends, It killed a dozen of his friends— But Heaven be thanked—once more at home, I trust he ne’er again will roam. Well, Lady Mary’s quite a Belle, And dressed, I must say, _à merveille_— Any attachment, _entre nous_? } Too young?—ha! ha! that’s so like you! } _Au revoir, chère amie!_ adieu!” }

While thus his mother’s nimble tongue Talked on—the son enchanted hung On every smile, and winning grace, That played o’er Mary’s lovely face; The while she listened as he told Of many a storied land of old— Few words were said, ere youth and maid A kindred feeling did pervade: Did ever traveller talk so sprightly? Smiled ever Beauty’s eyes so brightly? The mother, with abundant tact The chaperon’s part did well enact, No over-marked desire to please, No feigned reserve—she talked at ease Of climes, and courts, where he had been, With wit and taste, which made it seem That study and reflection taught her, This gives bright promise for her daughter; So deems the youth, whom, half-past five Sees homeward from that revel drive.

We tell not Mary’s dreams that night, Or how next morning with delight She thought past doubt, that they should meet, Or in the park or in the street, Then gently sighed while counting o’er The hours which must elapse before. At length—at length the clock strikes five, And Mary’s summoned for a drive. She throws by a half-finished sonnet, And blushes as she ties her bonnet, Then smiles as in the glass she sees A face that every eye must please; Each Beau she passes in the street, Causes her timid heart to beat; Afar—she thinks it Deloraine, But near—O hope! why art thou vain? He comes not—an incipient pout Longs to enwreathe her lips about; But her sweet nature conquers spleen, And home returned, there’s something seen, On which her smiles unchecked may fall: His card—she finds it in the hall!

Now at her mirror stands our Mary, Like Cinderella dressed by fairy: A robe, than gossamer more light, And whiter even than snow is white, She wears; and with a bright wreath dresses The rich net of her glossy tresses.

[Illustration:

_The Toilet_

_NOW AT HER MIRROR STANDS OUR MARY LIKE CINDERELLA DRESSED BY FAIRY!_ ]

Ah! who that saw her thus arrayed Did e’er behold a fairer maid? While crowded carriages encumber The streets, she wonders at the number; So patient waiting in the Square, } Ere they arrive the ball to share, } When but one Deloraine _can_ be there! }

Now strains of music float around, Mingling with many a harsher sound Of crushing panels, curses, cries, As coachman, meeting coachman, tries To win the portal, whence a blaze Of light streams, brilliant as the rays Of noonday sun; while passers by Pause, and move on with envious sigh.

At length released, and in the hall, Their names the liveried Stentors call: Unshawled, uncloaked, they slow ascend, ’Midst flowers that thousand odours blend; And once again a fairy scene Holds her, in beauty’s right its Queen! They reach at last the bright saloon, One with a beating heart—how soon To beat more wildly:—yes! ’tis he Who nought but Mary seems to see. In her mild eyes one care will dwell— She hath not greeted him _too_ well? He bolder, blessing friendly chance, Must claim her for the coming dance; While some, with jealous envy vexed, Sneer as they pass, and ask “What next?”