Part 3
Among these gems Lord Squander shone, } A flashy—but not precious stone, } His health, his wealth, his feelings gone: } Misguided youth!—a prey to ills Which spring from long-neglected bills; Heir of an old estate, ’twas true— Now doubly mortgaged to the Jew— Compelled the evils to endure Which only can an heiress cure— “It must be so!” he sighs, “and, ’gad! ’Twill make some pretty person glad”— For ruin tries in vain to shake The self-assurance of a rake. O Vanity! ’tis passing strange, That thou, content with little change, The weakest heads wilt always rule, Nor from thy empire spare one fool! Our bold Adonis, passing well Could every widow’s jointure tell,— Knew, certain as by rule of three, What every spinster’s wealth must be. One month, when hard pressed—what a pity!— He turned his thoughts to the vile city; But flattering Fate, with kindly rigour, Denied him the appointed figure— A blessed release! indeed, ’twere shame To wed a miss with vulgar name; Whate’er her gold, if name she lacks, A dweller of St. Mary Axe! Oh, dreadful!—“No, it ne’er could be; Old family and wealth for me! A lovely girl—good manners, too.” So once again he did review The season’s list—and Mary saw, A prize he straight would seek to draw.
He dreamed not she could e’er withstand His thousand merits; well he scanned Her thousand acres—the rent-roll Of her papa quite charmed his soul: ’Twas very monstrous that her sire Of life, at fifty, would not tire; Pity, for reasons sound and weighty, They could not push him on to eighty! But still—though not a first-rate catch— } The match would be a decent match, } And just his worn-out fortune patch. } So, filled with his sublime intent, To see and conquer, forth he went!
Kind were the Fates: it oft befell Lord Squander met our youthful belle, And often to her side he drew, And tender adoration threw Into his eyes—that she might guess, The love it bored him to confess. She heeded not those loving eyes, Nor once remarked his frequent sighs; Or if she thought of him again, ’Twas but to vote him stupid, vain! A month went by—no progress made! And duns most clamorous to be paid! Urged by his pressing want of cash Our Celadon became more rash, And to explain his purpose better, Bestirred himself, and wrote a letter. A letter such as, well I ween, Few ladies’ eyes have ever seen Self-flatteries laid on so thick; But then the patient was so sick With debt—and with his love intense Was mingled such a confidence; Something like this the letter said, “You, lovely maid, I mean to wed— You’re far too charming, all agree To mate with any one, save me. To spare your blushes, I would rather Arrange the needful with your father: This done—though half the world may wonder, I’ll prove myself your faithful Squander!” Signed—sealed—the letter was despatched: The writer yawned, “At last I’m matched!”
No fears had he—in half an hour His homage entered Mary’s bower, A place unmeet for words of folly; They found her thoughtful—melancholy. ’Twas yet unopened—and a hue Of crimson to her soft cheek flew, By Love’s own instinct half-deceived, She paused, she trembled, and believed The thing she hoped—she broke the seal, Sure that the letter must reveal Lord Deloraine’s love, which though full well She knew, she longed to have him tell. But angry as Idalia’s Queen, If, bent on journey, she had seen Her doves towards haunts forbidden wander, When she beheld the name of Squander She stood one instant lost in rage, Then cast away th’ audacious page; She scarcely could the insult bear, That such a brainless fop should dare Address her thus—then once again Thought wistfully of Deloraine.
Struggling with shame she scarce could smother, She gave the letter to her mother; The Lady Percy spared her ire: “What! that known _roué_?—_He_ aspire To win my child, whom best of men Might scarce deserve? Be quick! a pen! I’ll write a proper answer now!” And, ere the flush passed from her brow, A proud rejection sent to Squander, Set that brave youth agape with wonder; And, while he gapes, the ghosts of bets, Dishonoured bills, rapacious debts, In a long line before him come, That stretches out “till crack of doom:” “Well, there’s no choice! and I _must_ pity Some golden Venus of the City!”
Were I a gossip, I could tell Of other suitors to our Belle: One—Sir George Vapid, hearing praised Her wondrous beauty—half-amazed Out of his slumbers—felt the praise, Somewhat like love, a _penchant_ raise; Not in his heart, but in his brain, For he was artless, cold, and vain, And ne’er till doomsday had desired To win a beauty few admired. Had Hebe’s self come down to snare The experienced youth of proud May Fair, He’d but have owned _her_ goddess when A goddess owned her other men. And thus it is—the word t’ admire, Through Fashion’s circles runs like fire; Nine out of ten, my Muse believes, Thus pin their taste on others’ sleeves! And so, with no more sapient reason, He sought the Beauty of the Season.
Needs it to tell how soon his wooing, Like my Lord Squander’s, went to ruin? The self-same pen—as proud, as rapid— His answer gave to Sir George Vapid. Great was his wonder, his dejection Gave birth for once to cool reflection: “There’s some one else, I clearly see, Will carry off this prodigy— I should have liked the gem to wear, And make my friends at Crockford’s stare!” Hail, Envy! thou their choicest bliss, Givest, by rebound, to fools like this!
Now change the scene, for one more gay! At least, so Lords and Ladies say; The maiden’s chamber fades in air, And with its sparkle and its glare, And music’s ever-witching spell, The Opera wooes our youthful Belle. For many a wise and cogent reason, The Lady Percy had each season An opera box; yet, though no prude, Suspicious doubt would now intrude, Whether ’twas right her virgin treasure Should share that fascinating pleasure? She scarcely knows what she intends, And hints her scruples to her friends; But all, inured to play and _ballet_, With many a pleasantry did rally The fears which in the mother woke: “How very odd!—’twas quite a joke! Why, all young ladies, when presented, That harmless paradise frequented. What is it you can see alarming? Not the Cachoucha?—that’s _so_ charming!” “My daughters, though they sometimes flush,” Quoth one high dame, “did never blush— Not even in their earliest teens: I’ve got a box beneath the Queen’s.”
Such sapient rhetoric laughed down all The reasons _Madame Mère_ could call For, or against; and, thus persuaded, Mary, she said, should do as they did— The glories of the opera see, And learn to _speak_ with ecstasy, As Grisi, like a summer bird, Poured forth the tones, while none who heard Had pity wherewithal to note How much the siren strained her throat.
The night is come—and now to eyes Behold the scarlet curtain rise, Which never novel’s page had read, But history, voyages, instead, With lives of great and virtuous men, Such as a Plutarch loved to pen; For poetry the maid had pleaded, And but enjoyed it—wisely weeded: Little she dreamed, how much less knew, What things Italian play-wrights do! Judge then—to make her entrance easy, The piece was “Norma,” played by Grisi! A Priestess breaking vestal vows, A mother twice—not once a spouse: All frenetic with jealous rage, Which nought but vengeance can assuage, Grasping a keen and murderous dagger, To yon low couch behold her stagger, Where sleep her babes:—but love prevails, The mother stays—the murderess fails! When this dark picture Mary saw She trembled—scarcely dared to draw Her breath—the while Bellini stole With magic witchery through her soul, And tears relieved her; then there came O’er her young brow the blush of shame. Around she timid glanced her eye, But none looked shocked, and none looked shy; Faces, as youthful as her own, Were placid all—nor there were shewn The feelings wakened in _her_ breast, By Norma’s love and shame confessed! The curtain falls—the horror’s o’er, And Mary calmer breathes once more!
[Illustration:
_The Opera_
_BRISK MUSIC GAYER SCENES ANNOUNCES AND IN A HALF-DRESSED DANSEUSE BOUNCES_ ]
Brisk music gayer scenes announces, And in a half-dressed _danseuse_ bounces, With arms that wreathe, and eyes that swim, And drapery that scarce shades each limb, And lip that wears a studied smile, Applauding coxcombs to beguile, As _entre-chat_ or _pirouette_ Doth “_Brava!_” thundered loud, beget. When Mary saw her vault in air, Her snow-white tunic leaving bare Her limbs—and heard that deafening shout Grow louder as she twirled about, With one leg pointing towards the sky As if the gallery to defy; Surprised, and shocked, she turned away, Wondering how women e’er could stay, And thinking men must sure be frantic Who patronised such postures antic; She felt abashed to meet the eye Of every fop that loitered by: And, oh! how rudely did it vex Her fresh, pure heart, to mark her sex Thus outraged, while the noblest came To gaze and revel in their shame. Her troubled look the mother saw, And rose all-pitying, to withdraw, Convinced such shows must pain dispense To one bred up in innocence. But there was one who joyed to see The pure and shrinking modesty Of this fair girl—’twas Deloraine! Ah! stands he at her side again?
[Illustration:
_The Maiden’s Chamber_
_HERE GAY AND PLACID SPEED THE HOURS AMONG HER MUSIC, BOOKS, AND FLOWERS_ ]
Yes, he now knows that there can be No maid more innocent than she; And doth with pitying look survey The bolder damsels—pleased to stay, And watch what makes the indignant blush Warm to his idol’s forehead rush.
The Races next,—O! Sport refined For women who pretend to mind— Come in their turn; but humdrum folks Can miss “the Derby,” or “the Oaks.” What, though the road to Epsom’s lined With crowds, and “cabined, cribbed, confined,” Each carriage scarce can move along Amid the dense and motley throng; And clouds of suffocating dust Are borne by every fitful gust; And slang, and curses—gentle notes!— Are heard from silken-kerchiefed throats; And rude remarks enough to raise The blush of shame—if ever praise Could mortify, it sure were here— When men, the vilest, passing near, Proclaim each high-born maid “a gal,” With half the points of Jane or Sal. And then tobacco’s fume exhales, To poison e’en the vernal gales. The coronetted coach, with steeds Such as our England only breeds, Ploughs down the crowded road its way, ’Mid taxcart, fly-van, buggy, dray; The four-in-hand, from whose high seat } Each Noble drives, with look elate, } As if he held the reins of State; } And flocks of men, and women too, With nought but staring work to do, And idle urchins, line the road And by loud shouts the horses goad: Such is the scene the route displays To Epsom, on the appointed days, When Fashion sends her votaries out To mingle with the rabble rout. The weather, too, propitious shines, And all our climate’s change combines; And showers, and wind, and dust, and sun, Annoy us ’till the day be done; Oh! who the Races ever knew To pass, and was not well soaked through? Arrived, the Stand each Lady seeks, With crimson nose and purple cheeks, Ringlets that all their curl have lost, And robes and canezous sadly tossed, And bonnets that from Paris came, So spoilt, who’d know them for the same? As droop poor Nattier’s faded flowers, Pale victims to this clime of ours; Or hangs the twisted, broken feather, Attesting our uncertain weather. The men behold the altered faces Of belles who stood in their good graces; And some, intending to propose, Draw off, alarmed by ruby nose. But Woman, ever prone to please, Affects, although she feels not ease; For, half-suspecting she’s a fright, She tries to set her toilette right; And lisps, “I hope _your_ horse will win,” To every beau that enters in: While man, the gentler sex forgetting, Remembers nothing but his betting, Consults his book, takes three to two, Then nods and hollas “Done with you!” ’Tis true he comes between the heats, And wanders round the women’s seats, ’Till he has found the favoured dame For whom he feels, or feigns a flame; And, by attentions somewhat free, Leads cool spectators to agree That “he’s a devilish lucky fellow,” Who’ll tell them all when next he’s mellow. To mingle with this herd of men, Who thought of nought but horses then, Our Mary felt was not her place, And took no pleasure in the race. But when she marked the women bet, And more and more excited get, With flushing cheek, and sparkling eye, Whene’er a favourite’s horse they spy, And talked of odds to give or take, Of Handicap, Match, or Sweepstake, And saw their dainty fingers hold Purses in which shone coins of gold, Ready to pay in case of loss, Though e’en the notion made them cross; Or heard them eager claim the cash Won from the losers, young and rash; She marked the scene with sad surprise, And wished her sex more proud—more wise.
Now rise the shouts of races bawled, And discord, falsely music called— Vile organs, viler clarionets, With cries of blacklegs offering bets; Shrill flutes, and shriller pipes of Pan, And songs deserving censor’s ban; “The horses, and their owners’ names,” At every side some knave proclaims; And cries of “Dorling’s genuine card,” From lungs stentorian ceaseless heard; While thimbleriggers boors entice, And sharpers others tempt with dice; And execrations, loud and deep, Are heard, as disappears the heap Of coins of silver and of brass, Won from the coffers of each ass; And countless beggars ply their trade, Whom practice long hath perfect made; And gipsy, chattering like a witch, Foretells weak maidens husbands rich, Prates of dark women and fair men, Begs you’ll but cross her hands, and then She’ll straight reveal your future fate, Whether a coffin or a mate: These mingled sounds produce such din, That Mary feels, a realm to win, Again she’d not a race-course see, And longed—how longed—at home to be!
And now the racers are led out, And quick disperse the rabble rout; The generous steeds impatient stand, While held in by their trainers’ hand: Their coats how sleek, their limbs how fine! England, what coursers equal thine? The Jockeys, too, how trim, how neat! How light each hand, how firm each seat! The signal’s given, they start a pace That promises a well-fought race: They quicker move—now quicker still, Round Tottenham Corner; see what skill Each Jockey shews to save his horse! Now rapidly along the course They dart, like arrows from the bow, And keep so near, that none can know Which is the fleetest. Side by side, The pink and yellow rapid glide; They’re neck to neck: how far behind The rest are left!—swift as the wind They fly. Now yellow dashes past The pink—the leader’s now the last! The yellow keeps a-head: he’ll win— He nears the goal—“He’s in! he’s in!” A deaf’ning shout now rends the air; } The winners laugh, the losers swear, } Whose feeling wives their salts prepare. } How pallid look their cheeks and brows! How sullen seems each beaten spouse, Reflecting he must soon “book up,” And leave the victor, gold, and cup!
A luncheon next the Stand supplies, Where chickens, _pâtés_, lamb, cold pies, Tongues, lobster-salads, hams, are all Devoured, till appetite doth pall; And soda-water, and champagne, Restore the losers’ nerves again. Those who, less favoured, find no place In the Grand Stand to see the race, Feast on their dickeys, or in carriage; And hungry gazers can’t disparage Their appetites, when e’en the fair Lay in a meal to make one stare; And sparkling eye, and deep-flushed cheek, Thy influence, brisk champagne! bespeak. How glad was Mary, when, all over, Seated beside her ardent lover, She heard her mother, with remorse, Regret the hours lost at the Course; And soon forgetting all around Her mind its native quiet found.
Time flew on gay and airy wing, And Summer had replaced the Spring; No more in the street and square were seen, The trees beclad in mantle green, For now exhausted, dusty, brown, They wore the livery of the town. The grass, wherever grass was seen, Resembled nought save washed nankeen; The shrubs, in spite of gardener’s care, Hung their limp boughs with dying air; No more the sickly window-roses Had strength to charm the inmates’ noses; And balconies in every street With mignonette so lately sweet, (A melancholy sight indeed!) Shewed their whole treasure run to seed. Now to the plague of mortal eyes Began the carnival of flies; All London, still of Fashion full, Sent up one groan—“How hot and dull!”
Now maidens bright begin to fear They needs must wait another year For that dear thing—establishment, On which their eager hearts were bent; “So fleet to chase—so hard to find, What ails the men? they grow so blind!” And pretty lips, with smiles that shone, Pout as their owners sit alone, Viewing with dread the time approach, When, packed in the ancestral coach, To London’s joys they bid adieu, With long and dreary months in view! Autumn and Winter spent at home, Where but old stupid neighbours come— The Rector and his prosy madam, Whose pedigree dates back to Adam; The Doctor, with his gossip small, So fond of luncheon at the Hall; The noisy, dull, and sporting Squire, Splashed to his waist in horrid mire; And then his loud, red-elbowed girls, What feet! what scarlet ears! what curls! Poor things! devoured with earnest passion To know and ape the newest fashion— What wonder maids would rather bear } With dusty streets, and blazing air, } Than bid adieu to dear May Fair? } Now mothers, too, with _soirées_ sated, Who hoped to see their daughters mated, And deemed their prey each sauntering beau, Who, passing, notice, chanced to shew; Whose talk, however slow and _fade_, } Betwixt _quadrille_ and _gallopade_ } No cold repulse from them forbade; } Are left—(the beaux all fled away), With milliners’ long bills to pay, Which now come pouring in a number To rob the matrons of their slumber, While they can scarcely courage gather To shew them to a surly father Too sure to swear—to sure to scoff— “Five hundred pounds?—not one gone off? Now truly, Madam, on my word, This cursed expense is quite absurd!” And while on sleepless beds they toss, Scared by the thoughts of husbands cross, The anxious chaperons fret and wonder Why men bend brows of darkest thunder Upon the adornments which, no doubt, No well-born girl could do without; And think some most malicious star Takes pains their prospects bright to mar. “Heavens! how my Lord will stamp and scold, And hint that Dora looks so old! And here’s another season closed, Sir Harry—gone, and _not_ proposed! I did my best—gave Sunday dinners, Though strict Sir Andrew called us sinners! I’m sure I caught three bad sore throats, With water pic-nics made in boats: Another year—and all but ruin! What ever _can_ the men be doing?”
Now fathers on their banker’s book With long and rueful visage look, Sum the small balance, curse the town, And, filled with sullen spleen, go down To country-seats—to sleep, till Spring Bids them again reluctant bring Their wares, so long on hand, for sale, And some—alas! grown _rather_ stale!
While thus the weeks went quickly o’er, His cabriolet, each morning bore Deloraine, to meet the maid, who grew Dearer the more he saw, and knew The varied treasures of her mind, By culture formed, by taste refined: He only waited just to know If but the substance equalled show— For beauty he but little rated, Unless by spirit animated; And Deloraine, wiser than his age, Must pause before he dared engage His faith to one but slightly known. But all was right!—his wooed, his own, Surpassed what fondest fancy dreamed Of pure, and good—and now he deemed The experiment had well been tried, And longed to claim her for his bride! But ere he spoke, and her fair hand From her fond parents dared demand, He longed to seek if in her heart His humble image had a part; At times depressed, at times elate, He now would dare, and meet his fate.
There came a splendid carnival, The season’s last—a costume ball; And called, as if by wizard’s wand, In garbs of many a distant land: To grace that gorgeous revel came, A host of charms—ah! who could name One half the beauty, rich and bright, That shone on that last revel night? There many a youthful matron bore Her store of gems—and sighed for more, Yon fair Sultana to eclipse With henna on her fingers’ tips; There in a snowy veil entangled Drooped pensive Nun; and next, half-strangled By garland, Perdita the fair,— And an Ophelia, with a stare Of wonder, as she queried whether ’Twas right to wear the heron feather, That nodded, with each Scottish breath, On her who stood for Queen Macbeth? In truth it was a pleasant sight To meet, in noon-tide blaze of light, The denizens of furthest lands, From Asia’s shores to Egypt’s sands: There prudes, with shrinking horror, saw The beads and blanket of a Squaw; But ere their whispered blame began } To circle round, a murmur ran, } “How very droll!—a nice young man!” }
There fair young Greeks in freedom strayed, With braided locks, and robes that played In many a light and graceful fold, And white brows bound with coins of gold; The Turkish fair unveiled were then To the promiscuous gaze of men, With such a wealth of raven hair, And cheeks so radiant, brows so fair— No wonder Sultans, passing nigh, Eyed the fair groups, and wished to buy!
One dame—a daring feat I ween, Wore the rich robes of Scotland’s Queen, And loud, and long, was heard to sigh } Whenever stately glided by, } In harsh and formal Majesty, } Her rival, with a well-starched ruff, And robe of grand brocaded stuff. There Anna Boleyn smiled elate Defying her approaching fate; So blithe she looked, the wise ones said Before her time she’d lost her head: While bluff King Harry, following after, Thought her much younger than her daughter. And she, the serious, sweet Jane Gray, Who better loved to read than play— As Ascham tells us—danced as though She took much pleasure in the show; There with mantilla, flower, and fan, And saucy page behind who ran, And sour duenna in a hoop, Came Spanish maids, a haughty group; Behind them close, with charming song, Did three Tyrolean sisters throng; And in the _chaine_, a Croat did turn A pretty black-capped maid of Berne; Three Nuns demure—pressed hard by railers, (Fresh-water though) a pair of Sailors; A Hollandaise, contrasted well With a Savoyard—his _vielle_ Slung at his back—and when he played, Ye Gods! what doleful noise he made! And Naples sent her peasants there, With sparkling eyes, and jetty hair, And dresses dight with colours gay Such as at _festas_ they display: Thus, once resistless, moved along Bright MALIBRAN, that queen of song! They little thought, who passed her by, And marvelled at her mirthful eye, So full of life and joy was she, That soon the tomb her home must be!