333J A)C6 THE CRIMQROOM TTRpPBLES - ^ ";■'■■"■ -OF. ;:-^:"-"^'":-:'' MOOBYROBINSON SSQlflRE i L L ;j sTwaiTE D. fi Y . -c rSI A . DO y i. e %^^' '//^/J::^^ •'n^/^ )r\ THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES FREDERIC THOMAS BLANCHARD ENDOWMENT FUND rin^ujm ^^Tiucrm^. THE DRAWING-ROOM TROUBLES OF MOODY EOBINSON, ESQUIEE. "V "THE SHY YOUNG MAN."— Page VM. m 0^ ILLUSTRATED BY \> INeROOM troubles" ^\<^/^ f-Vt' tj: C A- DOYLE ^>& »r Mi ". ' ~m^-- :-/^.< i^g.^ •H^^>v .x^ LOKfDON-U-lOGG. AMD-S-QHS G N T E N T S. TACF. Preface, v The Fatal Inexpressibles, ....... 1 Sentimental Moody, 7 The "Widow of Ems 15 Moody's Friend ; or, The Inadvertent Man, ... 27 Moody's First Offer, 59 A Slight Mistake, (i'<) Moody's Second Offer, 75 A Telegraphic Trouble, 91 Moody's Third Offer— A Country Visit, ... 97 The Masquerade, Ill The Shy Young Man, 125 Moody's First Marriage 115 Magic Balm, . 1^3 Moody Settled, l"-' >' / / PREFACE. Of course, the graver portion of the public will, on reading the title of this work, immediately it pass over as some frivo- lous attempt to amuse, unworthy of manly thought, or the higher elements of imagination. A '• drawing-room trouble," they imagine, must be an insignificant distress, or, at the best, feminine in its character ; forgetting that a little trouble may be a great nuisance, and therefore worthy of considera- tion. Absent shirt-buttons have caused more conjugal dis- agreement than even unfaithful flirtation itself; and how many sweet matches have been spoiled by the merest trifles, the miscarriage of a letter, or those wonderful and feminine mysteries called " misunderstandings." One would be more likely to pass an uneasy night by having a parched pea in his bed than by having the responsibility of empire on his mind. It was an invisible insect that ate up the Irish- man's potato, carried, as a consequence, the Incumbent Estates' Act, and revolutionized Ireland. It is by drawing- room troubles, in fact, that the happiness of the refined portion of English society is guided. A man can only be ruined once or twice in his life, but he may have a cold dinner every day of the week ; and so drawing-room troubles, by tlieir IVequcncy, are as important as all things that come in swarms. Their importance, too, is exaggerated by the posi- tion in which they are placed. Even the mighty golden VI PKEFACE. eagle forms but a speck in a wide-spread landscape, whereas a caged canary in a boudoir is an important element of the chamber's ornamentation, and occupies a seat in the mind. So men who would calmly view your death in the field of battle, will sincerely regret treading on your toes in the drawing-room. The flower that is trifling in the forest is gorgeous in an earthen pot. Drawing-room troubles also assert their importance, be- cause we do not expect to find trouble in the abode of peace. It is vexatious to a man retiring from the toils of life to find himself surrounded by the mosquitoes of j^olite exist- ence biting him in his tenderest aft'ections. It is in the drawing-room, too, that taste is cultivated, and refined education displayed. Think of the drawing- room troubles of those jough diamonds who have risen in society by their own merits ; — catching galling " aitches," forming secret plans to get rid of their hands, and struggling not to eat with their knives. These men would have given their fame not to have gone through the " troubles" hitherto despised by the poet as a subject for illustration. In the drawing-room is ambition gratified, and love render- ed successful or unhappy. What is the receipt of a sword of honour, or the gift of the freedom of a city in a golden snuff-box, compared to going down to dinner before a person who snubbed you in early life ; or to what purpose have you toiled at the bar, or sweltered in Indian campaigns, if you are to be preceded by a fat banker, because he is a baronet and you only a knight. The poet, carped at by his publisher, and torn to pieces by critics, seeks consolation in the laurels PRKFACE. VII that have been woven fur him by the admiring nymphs ul' the drawing-room. But it is in matters of love principally that drawing-room troubles arise, as the following pages will exemplify. Here the smallest trifles turn the current of the aflfections. Emily B., for example, makes an appointment with young- Inner Temple, at a fashionable concert. Temple has been detained by a long consultation, arrives late, and cannot get up the crowded stairs. At length, when he does so, he is wedged in between two stout serjeants-at-law. He sees Emily far off, sitting next to his rival, J. of the Guards. He sees the fond but capricious girl look anxiously around for him. He sees her; she cannot see him. He sees her grow pale, then indignant. J. is pressing his suit, and no doubt calumniating Inner Temple. At last an opening occurs, and the late lover rushes towards her. Alas ! it is too late, Emily, indignant and neglected, has accepted J. while Temple was crossing the room. Similar was the fate of my very tall friend Sir Stately Pole, the most precise and dignified man in London. He loved a very diminutive but elegant girl, who, on the night Sir Stately wished to ofi'er to her, sat on a very low prie- dieu chair. The little lady sat anxious but expectant; to- morrow she was to go to Kome with her mother. Sir Stately knew it ; and she knew that if he did not offer that evening he never would. Sir Stately was obliged to bend very low to whisper his passion : at the critical moment the unhappy man felt his braces crack with the tension. He inadvertentl}'^ stood up : had he retained his position, all VUl PREFACK. liad gone well, but when he stood he felt the commencing descent of his pantaloons. In another moment, like the first streak of dawn, would appear a white mark beneath his waistcoat. Retirement was necessary ; Sir Stately performed it with grace, and felt not the despairing heart beneath the smiling face of his love. The opportunity was lost : the lady went to Eome, and a year afterwards became Marchesa Favolanti. But many illustrations of these trials are given in the fol- lowing pages. The author knows of no poet who has previ- ously systematically attacked the subject. The " Eape of the Lock " is an isolated instance in the poetry of Pope. Some examples occur in Beppo and Don Juan ; but Byron felt too deeply for this species of poetic philosophy. Lord Brougham put forward his "Political Philosophy" as a feeler on an untouched topic. This author acts similarly, but has an advantage over Lord Brougham. His Lordship, un- happily, had too much genius, and unintentionally exhaust- ed the subject ; has consequently no followers, and so failed to found a school. The same accident, it is satisfactory to think, is not likely to happen to the author by coming before the public in this work. He undoubtedly discovered a new field of poetic philosophy ; but whether it is for his weak hands to raise it into a system, he must leave to the public to decide. C!)e Jfatal Inexpressibles. THE FATAL INEXPEESSIBLES. Not e'en the proverb of the many slips That part the beaker from the ready lips, Can mark in full the crowd of shining bubbles, Inflate with hope, that end in D. K. Troubles The slightest words the fondest hearts divide, As hairs split canes, or pebbles turn the tide. Spread the broad table with the banquet's weight. Light your salons, and lay ope your gate, G-reet the glad guests with proud contented smile, Then serve the feast — but no, we wait awhile. There's one not come ; my lord — lost comfort blight him T- Has cost two years' manoeuv'ring to invite him. Cold grows the dinner, but colder still the party. Who whisper just complaints, polite, but hearty. A note arrives, with news most sinister — His lordship is commanded to attend the minister ; Or should his lordship come — so far, no fault. The cook has boiled the fish without the salt ; And soon your pride to lower deeps is sunk ; The champagne's iceless, and the butler drunk. 4 DRAWING-ROOM TROUBLES. How oft, between tlie offer and the day The best plann'd matches fade in air away I Perchance you've won, in town, a belle, who proves A perfect Amazon in country groves ; Though loving talent, goodness, honour, pride, Would think you no one if you could n^ ride. You visit at her father's house in Wales ; Though soon your joyous heart within you fails. When seen the furious beast you're ask'd to back (Tour only practice on an old town hack). He walks at first, then trots, then bolts — and whether Losing your loved companion or your leather Troubles you most, 'tis certain, when you're blown, You'll find your carcase and your hopes o'erthrowu. One more example, told of a loving pair. The youth was clever, and the lady fair ; The latter pure, as her skin was white, But prone t' imagine unintended slight ; He quick when roused to utter words too bold. But quicker to repent them, ere his anger cold. They form'd a well-matched twain, and but for fate Might now be happy in life's holiest state. Once at a ball, as fled the merry hour. They fell discussing of their marriage tour : One was for France, the other Scotland praised, Whilst both — objections — both their accents raised ; At length, in one of his ill-fated speeches, He blurted out, " You wish to wear the breeches ; Before the wedding-day, is sure too soon To don the hymeneal pantaloon." The lady rose, and, bowing, left his side, Her colour heightened with her wounded pride ; TUR FATAL INEXPRESSIBLES. Nor let she flow the quickly-coming tears, Till with mamma, and out of sight down stairs. He, in the mode offended men complain, To supper went, and drank too much champagne. When morning brought a sober recollection, It brought, alas I some anxious, sad reflection : Oft did he mutter, "Now, depend upon it" (In vulgar phrase), " this time I've been and done it." Just as he thought this quarrel must be killin' her, His servant brought a parcel from a milliner, Which, folded out, display'd a rich brocade. In the last fashion of gay Paris made — Made at Ms order, to fit the pretty person Of his late lost one, Emily M'Pherson, " The very thing," he cried, " to join us two ; I'll send this present, with a billet-doux, Just to assure her of my constant heart ; No more shall hasty words our fortunes part. Here, John, this note and parcel you must take To the M'Phersons ; that to Mr Slake, And mind, the pair of trousers in the last Old Slake must change, their style is old and past An answer to the note you must await. And mind return, sir, in a sober state." The note thus ran : — ^' My Emmy, you are right, I was to blame in vexing you last night ; Accept the present, of which my man's the bearer. And may it, love, adorn its gentle wearer." No messenger than John could scarce be quicker. Save when he got himself (too oft) in liquor ; On this occasion Johnny got so fuzzled — " Which parcel for the lady?" John was puzzled. 6 DRAWING-ROOM tROUBLES. " The lady's this, the tailor's is the long one." So fatal John unhaply left the wrong one. Need I describe how, when the note was read, Her smiling face with happy blushes spread ; Or when the gift was seen, another tale That face related, now so deadly pale, The firm-shut mouth — the firmer clenched hand That grasp'd the heaving breast beyond command ; The burning eye, from which no tear could start. For tears rush'd backwards on the stricken heart. And all the signs, that do too clearly prove The pride that's struggling with a shatter'd love. A moment bent, she stood erect, and then Slowly re-closed the parcel, took a pen, Wrote a short note, and bade her maid deliver Both to the sot, who'd crush'd her hopes for ever : Nor need I tell the fury and surprise Of the young lover, when they met his eyes. He scarcely stands, at length he madly screeches, " Great saints above ! he's left my love the breeches." ^ :): 4= >i< 4c They met no more, though ev'ry effort made he To get an explanation from the lady : She married soon, to save a second trousseau; And, to conclude, I thought her wise to do so. Snitinuiital ^00^5, SENTIMENTAL MOODY. Each man his trouble as his taste decides ; His choice of ghadness — that of bother guides Not in the gen'ral, but the special plan Of joys that mark the individual man. All love their daughters — love the boy that thrives- Most their parents — some, I'm told, their wives ; And so to all some common troubles fall : But now of those beyond the common thrall. The sprightly lawyer finds his keenest grief Not in a failure, but a feeless brief; That patient most his doctor pain will give. Who 'spite the laws of med'cine dares to live ; The dainty gourmand makes his most ado O'er ill-baked j^aies and a spoilt ragout ; And so the buck in silent sadness grieves O'er ill-made breeches and o'er shapeless sleeves ; And, last, the sentimental Moody smiles O'er artless woman and her beauteous wiles, And finds this earth assume the gloom of Hades, Whene'er he's disappointed iu the ladies. J)c Nc * * * * * * Fresh from college, with a fresh complexion, A slender purse, a rather good connection, 10 DRAWING-ROOM TROUBLES. An upright form, a pair of pleasant eyes, Two rows of teeth, he deem'd himself a prize — Fastidious rather, as he thought his chances Depended only on his own advances. His wife should be a mould of form and beauty, Combining all things — talent, temper, beauty ; As girl romantic, as a woman steady, Eipe in ideas, in conversation ready ; With unaffected manners — warm, not hearty ; Must walk like Nisbet, polka like Kosati ; Be delicate as tulle, not slip her aitches — Not Coutts's gold could pardon such a laches ; For Moody would be frozen in a trice. Should sea-born Venus ask him for a hice. Once at this time, when past the usual season (When no one stops in town who has no reason), His mother took him to a country hop (" Not," as he coarsely said, "the upper chop ") — A town-ball in the fields, not far from Wembly ; Or, as she said, " a rather mix'd assembly." Need I describe how crowded up the stairs People of standing — from the want of chairs ; The ancient flirts who danced, the young who wouldn't ; The men who tried to dance although they could'nt ; The stumpy beauties, and the lanky beaux (Like puppets from the fantoccini shows) ; The want of light ; the benches low and mean ; The rushing waltz ; the wreck of crinoline ; The melting glances ; still more melting ices ; The freezing looks of mothers ; the devices Of old-young belles ; the smirking chaperone, Who marches down to supper all alone ; SENTIMENTAL MOODY. 11 The chilly tea, concocted by the maid ; The footman serving boiling lemonade ; The boy in buttons, rescued from the stables, Stumbling o'er dancers, rolling under tables ; The heat, the draughts, the bustle, rollick — all The genteel pleasures of a country ball. Moody reflected — " That's a beauteous head; How rich the curls o'er either shoulder spread !" All hasty judgments meet with just rebukes — The locks were one of Truefit's best perukes. Another figure caught his wandering eye ; The waist was taper, and the form was high (Sure nought but youth could mould so proud a grace). The lady turn'd — with, fifty in her face ! But now his mother brought a fere — a catch (Anxious her darling son with wealth to match). " No nonsense. Moody, and your fortune's made ; Her father's quite a Croesus, though in trade." " Oh, what a pretty girl ! — Commercial Venus, From all our prejudice of birth now wean us ! " 'Twas not the Dian' form, the features fair, Nor the round bust, the shoulders' graceful bend, The rich o'erflowing of her raven hair. Nor the small hands, that in the dance extend, That touch'd the Moody heart ; but in her eyes Some kindred sentimental feelings rise, Silent, yet speaking — in their thoughtful ray Tou found, yet found not, all they meant to say. 12 DRAWINO-EOOM TROUBLES. How to address her? — Sure no vulgar theme, Or common talk, must mar so fair a dream. The stage, th' opera season, e'en Mont Blan^ (Sic in Cockaigne), were olden grown, and rank ; Then he recall'd (that very day the date) A horticultural Inner Circle fete. " Had she heen there ?" The soft response was " No. The down-bent eyes, the cheek's endamask'd glow, The pretty accents of that silver tone, Were quite enough to break ten hearts alone. " Fond of flowers ?" " Yes"—" those in her hand." " Fond of gard'ning ?" She did not understand. Ah ! now he felt just in his proper latitude, And spake as follows— in poetic attitude : — " The garden's nurture is a lady's toil ; 'Tis more her fertile taste than fertile soil That bids the leaves unfold, the flowers blow With changing bloom, the colour'd parterre glow — Nature's embroidery ; various tints, combined By plann'd previsions of a graceful mind. Give health to heart, more pleasure to the soul Than working others' thoughts in Berlin wool. How sweet to watch, when days are bright and fair, The petals op'ning to the bracing air ! Or, when the rain descends, the vernal showers Kefresh the stamens of thy fav'rite flowers ! Or when the autumn heralds summer's death " He would have gone on, but now stopp'd — for breath; While she, with quiet scorn (oh, Moody, pard'n her!), Smiling, replied, " We keeps a reglar gard'ner !" SKNTIMENTAL MOODY. 13 " Oh!" he rejoin'd (I can't describe his tone). " Yes !— Ah !— Of course !— Oh, here's your chaperone !" ***** " Oh, Moody, lad— there's a good fellow ! do Escort some girl to supper — that in blue." The lady thus intrusted to his care Was very plain in face, though very fair, With deep-blue eyes, and high, expansive broAV, And something piquante in her very bow ; She had a smile that show'd a love of teasing. And yet, withal, 'twas something very pleasing ; The little well-form'd figure knew a grace So full of life, you soon forgot the face ; But when she spoke, remarks however slight, 'Twas like a startling change from dark to light : The face grew lovely — every line revealing The choicest beauties of poetic feeling. Moody was charm'd. Although he thought it duty Never to fall in love — except with beauty — His young companion (young — she might be twenty) Seem'd fond of supper, various and plenty ; She proved her sex can pleasant things combine ; Though sweet and feminine, she liked her wine. They ate, and drank, and laugh'd, and linger'd yet, Eegardless of the rules of etiquette — Mot upon mot, a little more champagne ; Another mot, and then they laugh'd again. Till Moody feels his swelling heart extend Eight through his shoulder, to his finger's end. 14 DRAWING-ROOM TROUBLES. He 'gan to count how much he had to offer, Or could he reckon on maternal coffer — Saying aside, " I vow upon my life. No other girl but this shall be my wife ; This is my first, my real, my manhood's love." His thought she answered — drawing off — her glove. Why does he tremble ? Dazzled ! what is this ? The golden circlet of connubial bliss ! She took his arm, and ask'd to go up stairs. And as they went, gave up her flirting airs — Saying, " My husband's here — at least he may be ; I must go home, for sake of dear baby." The husband soon was found — a sternish human, Whose looks express'd — " I'll thank you for that woman." Moody reflects — " Was ever such another Hapless young man, who wants to please his mother ? I've done my best, yet everything's miscarried ; The first one was a fool, the second married." He fled the ball-room, with a smother 'd groan. And left his mother to go home alone. She found him pacing up and down the hall. With slippers on, his dressing-gown o'er all, His head enveloped in a bright bandanna, Seeking for comfort in a mild Havannah. ^t mV\h\a d «ins. THE WIDOW OF EMS. I LIKE to start a tale with grave reflections, The more so when the story is a comic one (We all approve respectable connections), The reason is a gastronomic one — We eat our mutton first, and pastry after ; So heavy business should precede the laughter. Thus to begin : — " We less or more are slaves Of habits early taught, and young impressions (All save those lib'ral-minded men, the knaves, Who deem their escapades are not transgressions. But mere exceptions that assist the rule. And manly triumphs o'er a bigot school). These habits and impressions oft are wrong. Though well enough Avhcn in their proper season ; When in the way, their impulse is too strong, And in a moment break the use of reason ; So be you all from prejudice seceders : There — quite enough reflection for my readers." B 1 8 DRAWING-nOOM TROUBLES. Decidedly, the truth of this position Was proved with Moody, who, agreeahle, clever. And wishing to escape a bachelor's condition. Spent half his time (with strenuous endeavour) In laudable and constant searches for a wife, Yet still was tenant of a single life. Moody, from early years, had sworn devotion (As do all proper men) unto the fair. And yet was shackled with the strangest notion, That to no female ought he give a care, Nor ought he be with her one day contented, Unless she had all virtues e'er invented. Accomplishments especially — as, viz., Painting and music, crochet, poetry, reading. Dancing, walking, riding, quiet quiz. And ev'ry other point of female breeding ; Whate'er her personal or mental dower, No lady wanting these had him in power. Hence this caprice of Moody's so extended Tow'rds ev'ry lovely votary of fashion. That all his best well-wishers were offended. And scrupled not to lay the friendly lash on (All lashings now are friendly, e'en in Kansas), When seeking answers to the following stanzas. " Does she sing well, and play on the piano ? Were her teachers Anderson or Bochsa ? Speaks she Franpais, Deutsch, Italiano ? Or learnt she water-colours from old Cox, or THE WIDOW OF EMS. 19 Copley Fielding? I hope no scruples fetter her! From polk, or waltz, etcetera, etcetera." In fact, so far were those inquiries carried. And their development notorious, That, spite his well-known eiTorts to be married. E'en girls of "certain ages" grew censorious. Truly asserting (when they ceased to tease him) They found it very difficult to please him. One summer, disappointed and chagrin'd With one or two good chances he'd undone. And feeling from his countrywomen wean'd, He fled the ofi'ended demoiselles of London ; With lower 'd spirits, frowns, and mutter'd dems, He took his trunk and ennui off to Ems. The lively bustle of the table d'hote, Join'd to the change of manners, forms, and faces, Kevived his keenness for his old pursuit, Kestored his relish for the female graces ; With Moody's taste so vastly too fastidious, Could he but find the German graces hideous ? He found it very difficult to pardon The curious gout of eating prunes with meat, Discover'd by a pretty girl from Baden — And shoulders high, and hands the size of feet — Was vex'd with beauty, choosing sauer Icrout To all the pretty things he talk'd about. 2 B 20 DRAWING-KOOM TROUBLES. Another blue-eyed, interesting Saxon Provoked him, by unnatural devices Of cutlets after fruit, and taking snacks on Bavarian beer, to wash down water ices ; In short, as far asfrauleins were concern'd. There seem'd at Ems no glory to be earn'd. By chance he met a continental crony, One of those men you always meet abroad — When sick of all — wines, waters, maccaroni — A man you'd cut at home, although, when bored With isolation, deem his face propitious. Although you know him vulgar and officious. This baron (such are always counts or barons), Pitying poor Moody, said he'd introduce The youth to one of Nassau's choicest fair ones ; Although, regarding marriage, 'twas no use — The" lady had foresworn it, why ? a mystery. Whatever was the cause, this was her history : — Pledged to a husband, at an early age, Whose tenderness was equal to her own, Saving the difference — his the final stage Of years and gout, whilst hers was youth alone. Tet was he not a husband wives disparage — He died so very shortly after marriage. He left his widow all he yet had spared From youthful revelry, or gout, its brother. No doubt she mourn'd him ; often she declared She never should discover such another — THE WIDOW Olf EMS. 21 (Because she didn't look). Her youth and station Had made her quite the theme of conversation. When the good baron found that M. required An introduction to the lady, he declined To be a party to the danger he desired ; Nor, til] with Moody he had often dined — Sold him three genuine (?) Kubens and a Watteau — Did he consent to drive him to her chateau. Moody, accustom'd, in his native land, To see the fairest female forms created, Was cold to face, to form, to foot, and hand, Of ev'ry beauty and expression sated, Yet sudden felt a glow, an inspiration — • 'Twas less than love, but more than admiration. The lady's whole contour, her charming grace, Denoted youth and softness ; dark-brown hair Tastefully cluster'd round an oval face Of most transparent whiteness ; and a pair Of eyes, of deepest hazel, on the victim Turn'd, with a penetrating glance that nickt him. The lines and bondings of her form the while Appear'd as round as sculptor could desire. With something quite unusual in her style — An outward coldness 'neath an inward fire Melting — sadness yielding to hilarity — Gave to her charms the zest of singularity. 22 DRAWING-ROOM TR0UBLF8. The fair reclined upon an ottoman, Beneath a canopy of lace, and silk, and muslin, Surrounded by a luxury that not a man But (meaning "wed") would deem alittle puzzling. She moved not as they came, but, strange to say, Eetain'd her lounging posture all the day. A lively conversation then ensued, On science, literature, and history ; With which the widow seem'd so deep imbued, That to her guests it really was a mystery How she had learnt so much, without the mocking Pedantic affectation of the " stocking." Brought up at home, her " finish" was in France; She'd seen the North, Italia's sunny land ; She knew these countries' manners and romance, And spoke their language with complete command. At length had Moody found one to his notion, And gave her, mentally, complete devotion. An incidental notice of the beauty Of the surrounding scenery of Nassau Led them to painting— topic where it's duty For everybody, dilettanti, ass, or Critic, or snob, to have a biting tusk in. After the manner of Millais-making Euskin. 'Tis painful asking ladies if they paint, Because the question has a double sense ; Or natural bloom, or tendency to faint. May give response, without conceal'd pretence. TUE WIDOW OF EMS. 23 But Moody ask'd it : but upon her part, The lady pleaded ignorance of art. Unreasonably long as was this meeting, Moody did not permit it to conclude Without the lady's granting the repeating, And only parted when to stay were rude ; Nor did he fail to let the fere discover Uimself three parts, if not the whole, her lover. A day pass'd o'er — another sunny noon Saw Moody posting tow'rds the chateau's gate — A rather early visit — perhaps too soon. He didn't take the baron — Moody couldn't wait : He thinks " the conversation best alone ;" At least the baron " don't improve its tone." He found the lady on her couch reclined, In attitude of ease, with ev'ry grace Of silken robes — it almost seem'd design'd. But doubt was banish'd, when beheld the face — The smiles so sweet, her voice so charm'd to win. To doubt its nature, was itself to sin. Its tones were clear, then soft, like wind-borne chimes j. Her talk was full of wit, of sense, of news, More sparkling than the leaders in the " Times," And quite as harmless as the old reviews. One only discord in her soul-revealings Made clangour in his harmony of feelings. 24 DRAWING-ROOM TROUBLES. Her voice si;ggested music in her soul : " Might he inquire the instrument she play'd 'n ? Was hers the German or Italian school ? Weber, Mozart, Mendelssohn, or Haydn ? What was her fav'rite duet ? Would she sing ? He knew her voice would suit his by the ring." With slightly heighten'd colour, gleaming eyes, He look'd expectant admiration — A look that scarcely vanish'd in surprise, As she responded (to his consternation). With a soft laugh she vainly tried to smother, " I know no note of music from another." Moody was silenced ; yet hope is so divine. Slowly he clomb again his fancy's heaven. " What though she wants two muses of the nine, She's quite perfection with the other seven — Paintings are bought, and music can be hired ; Her very want of them's to be admired." He soon departed, and the widow's looks Encouraged him to press her lovely hand ; And then there follow'd — just as in the books, Such scenes are oft described — you understand? So o'er that parting we a veil will drop, Save that our friend the next day meant to pop. To-morrow slowly came — the counted hours Pass'd as the months that usher in the flowers. * * * :p THE WIDOW OF EMS. 25 It's difficult to start a conversation, When 'tis of such a delicate complexion, To give no clue to your investigation, And yet retain sufficient of connection To keep the point in hand, yet so to screen it. To slip it out as if you did not mean it. The smallest trifles often start the theme. It was so here : the lady still reclined, Languid and pale, as if a troubled dream Had stirred the waters of her peaceful mind. Her face was thoughtful, and her beauteous eyes Gave serious meaning to her soft replies. The conversation flagg'd. By chance the sound Of an itinerant clarionet was heard. Playing outside the house a favourite round. "Whether the air suggested what occurr'd. Or Madame's pretty feet, erst out of sight, But now quite shyly peeping into light. We know not, save that our hero cried, *' Oh, what a joyous air ! ah, what a sight, When graceful women in the polka glide ! You dance of course — devoted, am I right ?" The lady downward casts her lovely eyes. And, pale as marble, dropping tears, replies : — " I did so once, but now, alas, can not." Moody became all tenderness, romance — Drew near the couch — propriety forgot — Bent o'er his lovely friend as in a trance, 26 DRAWING-ROOM TROUBLES. To hear her tale of sorrows — quite transported To be so blest, before so often thwarted. " Listen, my friend," she said, " my dear friend " (He bow'd and blush'd — his blushes almost burn'd), " I fear that our acquaintance will now end. Three years ago my carriage was o'erturn'd ; Much hurt, I suffer'd — it's o'er, why need I talk ? You see I have two legs — hut one is cork !" ^o"- Then follow'd silence — 'twas an awful pause ! The lady downcast — Moody almost stupid, Like the garotted, ere they know the cause. " A cork leg ! a cork leg ! — by lovely Cupid !" He scream'd aloud, then darted from the chateau, Almost insane — I'm told, without his hat, oh ! Hloobn's Jfricnir ; 01; %\t limiibciltnt Pan. MOODY^S FEIEND ; OR, THE INADYEETENT MAN. PART I. Some men are like bad watches — false Genevas, Sold by the Jews to dupes as " patent levers," Eejewell'd in five holes, the cases strong, With only this small drawback — always wrong. No doubt the things are watches — that we know ; And yet, with all perfection, never go ; The proper wheels are group'd within the ring ; The balance trembles on its fairy spring ; The fusee turns obedient to the power ; They've all the qualities of watches, save the hour. But where's the fault ? You can't detect the sin. But know the article's a great " take in." I do not mean such men are knaves, or fools — Guileless as lambs, and prizemen in the schools ; They stand peculiar in their various stations — The pride, the promise, sorrow, of relations. Save but for something, that we can't find out, They all would climb the ladder, not a doubt ; And yet they all, on unexpected grounds, When half-way up, slip down between the rounds. They might be statesmen, but are too ideal. Then why not poets ?— just an ounce too real. 30 DRAWING-ROOM TROUBLES. The law would suit tliem, p'raps ; — for that unfitted, The knaves they prosecute are e'er acquitted ; Some tiny hitch — unconscious dereliction, Turns their defences into sure conviction. As priests, enthusiastic, earnest, clever. From hot to hotter water plunge they ever ; Against them all united — save in opinions — Whether they're Jews, Dissenters, Mormons, or Socinians. And like the sage who, prophesying London Would by the Thames be swallow'd up and undone, Was disappointed in the visitation — A cypher wanting in the calculation. Which made (besides the hubbub and the fears) The trifling diflf'rence of a hundred years — These men, when in the very worst of mess, Are always just a cypher from success. I call them " inadvertent men" — a class That dull utility writes down as " ass ;" Or praise they merit ; or deserve abusing ; — Not mine to ask — I seek for the amusing. And such a man had Moody 'mongst his friends, Whose inadvertence brought him troubled ends. This gentleman was learned, clever, witty, Polish'd in manners, yet — the more the pity — An inadvertent man — from want of tact — From impulse, haste — ignoring every fact Of past and future,; so his daily life Was, 'twixt his acts and intents, constant strife. His means were slender, yet enough to spo,re Much for enjoyment, with a proper care ; Moody's triend; or, the inadvertent man. 31 He boasted of economy, — 'twas such That might be perfect, save it cost too much — He squander'd guineas, when for shillings craving, And spent a fortune in the art of saving ; His conversation lively, but not happy, He brought unfitting topics on the tapis; Was there one present with a part unsound, His aimless talk was sure to probe the wound ; When sharply answer'd, placed on the defensive, His smiling pardons made it more offensive. He'd talk of politics to some fair girl, And soon would set her brains into a whirl ; Ask her opinion — get it — calmly thank her — Then chat on failures to a shaky banker ; On late divorces with a recent bride ; Then with a duchess on the sins of pride ; To nervous dames he'd often talk of arson ; Tell naughty stories to a serious parson. Was there a youth his parents' hearts distressing, He'd ask the mother, " Was her son progressing ?" Or to a girl whom love in secret gnaw'd, He'd scandalize the man her soul adored. Nor note the grief of which he'd sown the seeds. He'd ask a widow, just escaped her weeds, " My lady, how's Sir John ?" She hangs her head ; Some friend would pull him back — " You fool, he's dead ! Really, I wonder ! 'Pon my soul it's cruel I Do you not know, she lost him in a duel?" Though thus perverse, as if pursued by fate, He yet was pleasant in a tete-d-tcte. 32 DRAWING-ROOM TROUBLES. When ask'd to dinner, always went astray, Forgot the number of the house, or lost his way ; Though striving to be punctual, always late ; And oft mistook the hour — oft the date ; Or erst in time, whilst ranging round the covers, He'd take his place between a pair of lovers. We all have friends, whate'er may be their railings, That find some virtues shelter'd by our failings. As flow'rets blow 'neath winter-wither'd heather. The growth that hides, protecting from the weather, So those that know, however dark the whole. Seek 'neath our worn-out faults the flow'rets of the soul. Still more when good is hidden from the eye Only by inadvertent faults, or by Those careless acts that make more bitter foes Even than wrongs, that raise undoubted woes, Do friends befriend us — not so much as lovers, As proud to know what no one else discovers : It comforts much to think the world is blind To see a gem that they alone can find. And so this gentleman had warm defenders — Self-constituted, too — his manners' menders ; An inconvenience always found a-hid in The zeal of those who take your part unbidden ; So that you ask, " Is't best without defender To face your foes, or to your friends surrender?" The gentleman in hand had noble traits Hid from the world by inconsiderate ways, Moody's friend ; or, tue inadvertent man. 33 That gain'd him praise from those that knew their springs, At the small price to him — of leading-strings. So when they found his best intents miscarried, They secret counsel took to get him married. And urged that dose for every moral ill Of fools, or rakes — the matrimonial pill. I know not why it is — the ladies ever Advise this course for those not good or clever ; As if they thought that man gets right the faster, By having one of them to swell disaster. Amongst these earnest friends existed one Whose friendship took a very eager tone ; No doubt he wish'd his crony settled, cosy, As he proposed his sister for the sposy — His only sister, unaffected, meek (Was that the cause his tea was always weak ?), So fond of him, attentive to her duties (That made her fear his seeing other beauties) ; So thoughtful for his health — in that so good (She served his dinner of the plainest food) ; Her constant guard, too, on his moral state (She watch'd to chide him when he came home late) ; Dreading his social buoyant spirit, she Took special keeping of the cellar-key. Could she do more ? — yet so much care she took, She once proposed to keep his banker's book. Yet, strange to say, this loving circumspection Oft met ingratitude, and oft rejection. Her brother's friands, besides, were almost rude — Some whisper'd "passe," others muttei'd "prude." 34 DRAWING-ROOM TROUBLES. Of course some faults she had, with such perfection, Yet these were balanced in their nice connection : A little apt on others' faults to harp, Yet, though her speech was blunt, her temper sharp ; 'Tis true her mouth was large — but small her eye ; Her form was low — but then her nose was high ; And yet her brother oflfer'd Ned fair Anna In quite the most disinterested manner. Grood soul ! at once to get (his own expense) His sister wed, his friend a better sense. The matter was arranged — the youth was willing, And quite prepared for courting, cooing, billing ; Humbly submissive, as his best friends press'd it, He yet had hope some error might arrest it. Now, as the day was old, and evening near, He was impress'd to join the brother's cheer : To pass the time, as tow'rds the house they wended. The latter thus described the fair intended : — " My sister's deeply read — indeed, her blueness Has rather hurried off her premiere jeunesse. Perhaps she's shy, of words a little chary ; Though small in figure — perfect — quite a fairy ; Capital temper ! — unless you try to joke her 'Bout what she doesn't like, or else provoke her ; I think her plain, but you know, always brothers Differ in that particular from others. To rule a house (a rather queer grimace Came with a twinge upon the speaker's face). Why, no one can, if sister Anna can't : In fact, she's just the kind of wife you want. " Who's this ? " she cried, with rage ; " Who brought him here ? " The brother meekly sighed, " 'Twas I, my dear." Moody's friend ; or, the inadvertent man. 35 I'll trust bar with you — but, unless you choose her, P-e-r-h-a-p-s, poor thing, I shouldn't care to lose her. His mouth said that — his left half-closed peeper Seem'd to express, ' I shouldn't care to keep her.' " So on they trotted to the brother's dwelling : The future bridegroom felt a kind of swelling Eise in his throat, and in bis chest a banging. Such as is felt, 'tis said, before a banging. The pair arrived — the summons made — the oak Yields to their entrance ; then the brother spoke — " Pray seek that room awhile, just up the flight. While I seek Anna, and make things all right." It was the drawing-room. The eve was near. And deep the twilight, though the sky was clear. Down by the hearth he saw a figure sitting — A female figure, by the fire, knitting — " A little girl," he thought — " fair Anna's sister" — And so he drew her on his knee, and kiss'd her. The figure struggled from the stolen salute; A shrill voice scream'd, " What's this ? Unhand me, brute !" " A woman's voice, by Jove !" — a sudden blaze Eeveal'd a very tiny lady to his gaze — Her eyes on fire, the poker by the handle. Just then the brother enter'd with a candle ; He look'd from one to one in silent wonder : The lady spoke the first — in would-be thunder. " Who's this?" she cried, with rage; "who brought him here?" The brotheij meekly sigh'd, " 'Twas I, my dear." — • " How dare you, sir? — so rude a man — you calf." — " Why, Anna, love, it was on your behalf." — c2 36 DRAWING-ROOM TROUBLES. " On my behalf, and I not once consulted ? This is indeed to be by both insulted." So, with an angry, full-sized woman air, The tiny form swept proudly past the pair. The friends stood quite aghast,, in mute tableau, Like persons in a play, who, when the throe Of grief or fun attains a crisis fit, Eest in a group for plaudits from the pit. When they had stood awhile, with strange grimaces, They took their breath, and also natural faces; Then followed question and reply, producing Some laughter at this mode of introducing. " Cheer up, my boy," the brother said ; " for Anna, For what I know, may rather like the manner. At least, I'm sure she will excuse the error." — " Oh ! don't — oh ! pray," the other cried, with terror; " My chance is fled — 'twere insult to address her. Spare me, indeed, I could no more distress her." " I fear," the other said, " she does not please." — '' Oh, charming! — pleasant." But again at ease — " Her very thingumbobs, you know, all that Would stop my being." He put on his hat, Oped the room-door, down the staircase prances, And fled as fast as all his better chances ; Nor did the brother deem himself then able To cheer his system at the fam'ly table ; • And so, with sadden'd looks, the timid sinner In fear slipp'd out, and went to club to dinner. THE INADVERTENT MAN. PART II. The Inadvertent Man was one of those Whose worst disasters hold a happy close ; His strange mistalces, in all their various shapes, The sequel show'd to be but near escapes, As if dame Nature, when she made him gauche, Had left good-luck to guard him from reproach. The troubled " ends" and blunders that he grew in, And left him sound, would prove another's ruin ; His fate was like those sea-weeds, whose frail forms Are but more finely fashion'd by the storms ; Or plants unwished — uncared for — set aside. By some strange fortune grow the garden's pride. Whilst those rear'd up in prudence and delight, Fade like the woodbine, 'neath the dews of night ; Or like those scenes we undergo in dreams, When hurl'd from lofty cliffs, 'midst prayers and screams, To fall through space, all horror, sick with dread, And wake to find we've tumbled into bed : And thus we saw his very last reverse. Though it brought no better luck — it saved him worse. But still, his friends were anxious he shonld wed ; They thought how little guides aright the head, 38 DRAWING-ROOM TROUBLES. When the man's heart is right ; how much affection Can give an erring judgment right direction. They knew a lady with a nest of nieces, Who all were pretty, some with golden fleeces, All at that age — girls weary of their brothers, And 'gin to wish, somehow, " they were another's." One was each season fitted out for London, With a strong hint, her duty would be undone. If she regain'd the mansion patrimonial. Without her prospects being matrimonial ! So more than one, who waited " till the last" For something "best," when time was nearly past, Accepted quick, as if she were a glutton, for A man she really didn't care a button for ; Fearing, indeed, the stern, paternal frown, If disengaged she dared to quit the town. You'll say these marriages were ill assorted : '" One had his choice, although the wife was thwarted. Then women bend so to the mast they're triced to, It scarcely seems to matter who they're spliced to. It's different with a man ; unless he takes The proper one, his life is all mistakes ; His wife may wind about him more and more, And yet, like ivy, rot him at the core ; May loving yield, without provoking him, The parasite may yet be choking him. :): :{: :(c 4: 4: This aunt had made much sacrifice for nieces, Not that their coming her expense increases : When she invited — if taken at her word — She (fairly) ask'd some trifle for their board ; THE INADVERTENT MAN. 39 But then, good thing, lier house was rather small, And so she gave up her companion — all Her comforts — to clear out in the gallery For the sweet comer (whom she paid no salary) ; She look'd so to their morals and their duty. Taught them obedience, and the use of beauty ; Not to be lazy — her wants to look about — To keep their tempers when her own was out — To be good correspondents — write her letters — And be attentive to their aunts and betters. Wishing to form them for their future lives As humble spinsters, or as pattern wives, So could these girls with any proper grace Decline to fill the lost companion's place? Some did it well, but some quite faded got ; But all ('tis true), e'en those that wedded not, The first time that they came (d'ye guess the reason?), Ne'er seem'd to wish a second London season. This good aunt gave up comforts ; the late hours Her nieces kept, much tried her waning powers : 'Twas all for nieces ; good old chaperone, She never had an invitation, when alone ; I'm glad, poor thing, to say she had rewards. She sometimes made a pocketful — at cards ; The ball-rooms were so hot, to save her bloom, She spent the ev'ning in the supper-room ; Late in the ev'ning, oft her ancient flushes Were far more rosy than her nieces' blushes. Perhaps you'll think it wasn't quite her part Not to keep more watch on niece's heart : She'd grinning say, " Well, now-a-days, the bye, A girl can scent a fortune more than I." 40 DRAWING-ROOM TROUBLES. And chose they ill or well, to her the same : If well, she got the credit — ill, the hlame Was somehow cast upon the hapless bride, Who could not choose for aunt and self beside. This good aunt gave up comforts ; the young men, Oft calling — lounging — teased her now and then ('Tis true, they presents gave the maids and pages, That were accounted in the dole of wages) : For then her niece was happy in love's passages, When much required in some domestic messages. Then on her fell (when all was fix'd) beside The choosing of the outfit for the bride ; For her fair nieces — merely country elves — Were quite incapable to choose themselves. I've heard it said, I'm sure she would do so, She took a good commission on the trousseau. 'Twas trying, too, instead of getting hearty At the seaside, to join a wedding party Down in the provinces, when retired rest Would suit the health, a season's toil opprest. Poor thing I when to a wedding she went down. She thought it best to close her house in town ; And could these married nieces offer less Than welcome to the cause of their success ? Besides, she loved these nieces (and their houses, A passion undervalued by their spouses). The niece-in-waiting, when was plann'd this match, Was said to be a beauty, and a catch. THE INADVERTENT MAN. 41 We will pass o'er the trite old-world manoeuvres By which the pair became, first friends, then lovers. She was the kind of woman that a youth Of intellect would readily admire : Fair face that smiled a woman's native truth, Fine eyes that shone with more than common fire, Secretly rich in laughter, and those glances That set the heart of man eccentric dances. Her fair-limn'd fancy open'd like a fan, Not ever fully spread before the view, But set us longing, with its half-seen plan. To see the finish'd picture fresh and new ; Then disappointing closed, then open'd wide, To show the graver yet the richer side. Nought but field flowers were presented there — Not the bright blossoms that the hothouse yields. But such wild beauties as poetic care Would gather from the freedom of the fields ; Such buds as children pluck without offence. But loveliest bloom with full-grown innocence. The lady so had smiled, so blush'd, and all, The swain intended his true love to proifer. But Inadvertence with intruding call Again, and yet again, delay'd the off'er. Oft, when at home, she had a morning waited. He let his watch go wrong, and so belated, He went in time to see her park-wards driven. Not in a humour quite prepared for heaven. 4^ DRAWING-ROOM TROUBLES. So, when in polkas they would tappy glide, His eyes met hers, he nothing saw beside, And hers would laugh — their sparkles quite divine. Then was the moment for the wish'd design — The dance, the music were so many heart'ners ; "When thump ! they met another pair of partners. She'd stop, and thank him in an undertone, In well-feign'd dudgeon, seek her chaperone. Again, when after dinner they were met, The piano open, and the music set — This pair would find themselves (nor why ! could guess) Apart from all, enjoying silent chess. Or in the farthest room, 'midst jokes and hints, Seated together o'er a book of prints. Not that their conversation enter'd into The topics of the "line" or mezzotinto, But something else ; and as that doth suggest This was the moment that they might be blest. She'd hear the painful sound, that sure announces His foot was rending off her lower flounces. Much as she loved, she couldn't bear the shock Of feeling slowly torn her best silk frock. His lips had form'd the words — as in distress. She softly said, " I think you're on my dress." With such a bashful man that was enough To send him off confused — if not in huff. And thus when walking, after some light chaffering, To lead her gently to the fate he's offering, He'd inadvertently (with much doubt tossing) Begin to pop the question on a crossing. THE INADVERTENT MAN. 4^ What startles him ? A voice exclaims, " You cove 'ere Can't you move on, sir, or you'll get runn'd over." The chance is lost — they run — she in alarm Leans all her weight upon his arm. It form'd occasion for much blush and laughter, But spoil'd the serious business he was after. And thus 'twas ever (his gaucherie the cause), Between his lip and hers was still a gauze. Until she saw (such things do oft occur) The opportunity must come from her ; And so she managed he should make a call When aunt was shopping, far away from all. Such was his fear and joy, when tete-d-Ute He found himself with her, his mental state Scarce left him in a suitable condition To end with grace the object of his mission ; They talk'd and talk'd, time was flying fast. She sigh'd in thought, " I fear again 'tis past." She changed seats to the sofa, took her knitting : " Gro in and win, was ever time more fitting ?" Thus mutter'd he unto himself aside ; And as he felt " all-overish," he tried To be at ease : examined well the room. The chairs, the tables, and the fender-broom, He closely look'd at all, as if near-sighted, And with the carpet's colours seem'd delighted, She mutter'd to herself, almost annoy'd, *' Is this the way his time should be employ'd?" When suddenly he placed beneath her nose A bouquet, gather'd from her fav'ritc rose. 44 DRAWING-ROOM TROUBLES. She never smelt before so sweet a posy, 'Twas healthy scent, it made her cheeks qnite rosy ; She smelt again, he standing, and she sitting, At last she quite forgot about her knitting. And ev'ry time he gave the perfumed dose He nearer drew to her ; at last, when close (The rosy flowers her rosier blushes hide), He plump'd him down quite natural at her side. Dropping the glowing blossom in her dress. His franchised hand her snowy fingers press ; Whilst hers begin to knit, as if the purse Were some fell destiny or fatal curse. His other hand, nervous witb joy and bope, Play'd with the tassel of the silken rope Attach'd to the sonnette ; while far away His discourse stroll'd from what he meant to say ; And yet 'twas strange, how quickly by a turn He came to that, that made her cheeks to burn. Her hand retreated, yet it seem'd to cling ; He softly whispered " Please, ma'am, did you ring?' They started far apart, with all confusion ; 'Twas household Buttons that had made intrusion. And then the bafiied man, with grief and ire. Perceived his inadvertent hand had pull'd the wire. " No," said the lady—" Yes ; is aunt within ?" "No, ma'am, she hain't;" and exit with a grin. Such situations, with issues so obstructed. Cannot be mended, must be reconstructed ; So difficult to build in all regards. They rise as fragile as a house of cards ; THE INADVERTENT MAN. So the young lady, with a modest bearing, Left her poor friend despairing pardon — swearing. He had not long been chafing in this flurry, Before a lady's-maid came in, in hurry. To see if missus' parasol was there. It could not be so, was completely clear. " Where was the lady ?" asked he. — " Groing out, To walk the gardens of the square about." " What a neat hint," he thought, for yet unfound The parasol remain'd, though sought around. Giving her time to gain her walking ground. He sought the leafy square, with heart on bound, And soon he gain'd the place, and found that he Had quite forgot that needful thing the key. While from without he saw her walking round, Like a fair palfrey in a parish pound. Pshaw ! 'twas not much for youth unailing Quickly to mount the surly iron railing ; With ease and speed he gain'd the bristling top, When a deep voice call'd out, " You, sir, you, stop The keeper of the square had grasp'd his foot. In struggling to be free, he lost a boot. Just then she came in sight ; in heat of blood His hold gave way, he tumbled in the mud. He rose in rage, to fall so 'fore her eyes, But the stout keeper wouldn't quit his prize. The youth explain'd ; the keeper call'd it chaffing ; The youth beheld his lady-love was laughing, 46 DRAWING-ROOM TROUBLES, Though not unkindly, but without control, Though half conceal'd, with all her heart and soul. The sign was good, and yet again was gone Another chance, and he was still forlorn. We quickly pass the rest (besides the shilling That made the keeper humble, ready, willing), To view the next event, his last invention, T' apprise the gentle girl of his intention. This was to write, and so he wrote next day, In manly tone, the all he had to say. The letter was to post to Berkeley Square, Alas ! the latter word was wanting there ; And so to Berkeley was it duly sent. But not exactly to the person meant. He long impatient waited for reply. None came, and yet he hoped ; yet with a sigh His reason said her silence meant refusal. But still his thoughts were constant re-perusal Of all the happy past. She on her part Question 'd the cause of absence in her heart ; So, with their loving intercourse disjointed, Both longing parties sigh'd on, disappointed. THE INADVEETENT MAN. PART III. The " Inadvertent Man" shall claim another sheet, To show how well he tumbled on his feet. One morn from weary restlessness he rose, To find two letters on his breakfast table ; On viewing one, his very heartstrings froze. Nor to believe his error was he able. It was inscribed " Dead letter." With a groan, He read that " None such is at Berkley known." Here was the mystery, and its proper meaning. Good heavens ! all this weary length of time. That had with so much pain been intervening. He had been proud, disdainful, quite sublime, Calling his love " coquette" — a flirt — a snare — And she unconscious of the whole affair. Fool that he was — it left him room for hope. He cast his eyes upon the envelope ; Oh ! anger, indignation — there he found His hapless note had gone an ample round. All the young maids round Berkley's ancient hold. Of names like hers, had with the note been bold ; 48 DRAWING-ROOM TROUBLES. With various answers was the letter cross'd, Or with critiques and sentiments endorsed. Some criticised his style, and some his means ; Ask'd if towards a cottage love he leans ; Or, Avas the lady modest, or a beauty ; What were his notions of a woman's duty ? Some thought the note too warm — the lady wrong If she accepted. One, more frank and strong. Wrote thus : " You're just the kind of man I'd like to choose, And I am willing, should your love refuse." No wonder, with some bitterness and ire, He threw his love-epistle in the fire ! The other missive was a perfumed note (Neatly directed in a lady's hand — • A hand he ought to know — he didn't know't), Came through the fingers that he would command. It invitation was to view a private play In the aunt's house, and thus run on to say — " My dear sir, I've lately lent my house To an old friend, who's writ a pretty farce ; I hope you will your olden friendship rouse, For of young beaux our audience will be sparse ; Your lengthen'd absence puts me in despair — • Even my niece is wondering where you ai-e. " Emmy, indeed, will take the lady's part — The walking lady — heroine, I suppose ; We wish'd your aid in histrionic art. To be my niece's lover, but now we've chose THE INADVERTENT MAN. 49 (Not finding you) another, who's consented To act to her — it couldn't be prevented. " Only last night, we tried a dress rehearsal, The lovers look'd most charming — quite a match — And warbled duets from the works of Pearsal In such delicious style — we hope to catch Double encores — to make the play go fairly. We shall be very crowded — pray, come early." The young man tore the note in bits asunder ; Here was an issue to his foolish blunder. Not only did he now good chances miss Of being the actor of his future bliss ; But worse his luck, another had his part To play the lover — p'raps with all his heart ; What right had she — yes, after what we know — To look so charming with another beau ? " Quite a match" — what kind of match, begad ! " Singing duets" — I think I shall go mad ; My Emmy thus^ I think my brain will burst ; At any rate, I'll have my breakfast first. The breakfast brought the " Times," — and then a smoke, Which calm'd him down to think it quite a joke. Such fun to have a rival — really jolly To know it was his own consummate folly. We'll leave his fancies to their own devices. And hurry forward to this story's crisis. * * * * The theatre was domestic, by the making The larger of two drawing-rooms a hall 50 DRAWING-ROOM TROUBLES. For the kind audience (who were almost baking) As pit and boxes, gallery and stall. The rear saloon was hidden from the gaze By a green curtain of the Thespian baize. The author was a lady — silent sitting , Close to the glare thrown by the lower lights, Trying to smile (her brows unconscious knitting), As if quite careless of her fame's delights ; The fame to come, for nothing well could harm her The audience too polite to damn the drama. Around her group'd her nearest, dearest friends, All complimenting, very much surprised To think she had such gifts — a thought that tends To hint of her — they couldn't be surmised : The more they praised, the more they seem'd to say " We thought you were a fool until to-day." The play was written as a melo-drama ; Part in farce, and partly sentimental. Something about the daughter of a farmer, Who loved, of course, a man without a rental. The farmer stopp'd (of course) his daughter's marriage Until the rentless man could keep a carriage. This was the plot.-r-Then in the op'ning scenes The comedy of low life was presented ; . Not as she wrote it — but by other means Her sons, who acted, had themselves invented : Their speeches' heads and cues they learn 'd perforce, But fill'd the spaces with their own discourte. THE INADVERTENT MAN. 51 Now their dramatic parent had been proud, When bringing low-life on to this pure stage, To make it quite genteel, and said aloud, " The comic pai'ts could hurt no sex or age." Her humbler dramatis personce were a bevy Of proper fools, indeed, and dull and heavy. Well may you guess the lady's pale dismay. To hear the mighty alterations in her play ; Her proper scenes become a long harangue Of broadest fun, fat jokes, and common slang ; As if on purpose, too, no little swearing : They not one twopence for the author caring. The audience laugh'd at first, and then around A proper gravity was gaining ground. Not that the jokes themselves were bad — but then They were too colour'd for a lady's pen. To the poor author soon it did occur, This dialogue was all ascribed to her. Then she felt faint — but quickly found her speech. And turn'd defensive round from each to each. With, "Oh! Sir John, believe me,'that's not mine;" Or, " Oh ! my lord, I never wrote that line." Her dear friends all around with doubtful smile Eeceived this strong assurance — she the while Bitterly crying — " Oh ! you shameful boys" (She almost damn'd her drama with her noise). " Peter ! to put such jokes upon your mother !" But Peter only answer'd with another. Thus it went on, until it was not certain Whether the farce was 'fore or 'hind the curtain. The play could have no doubt about success, If half as comic as its authoress. d2 52 DRAWING-ROOM TROUBLES. After the comic came the lover scenes, Presented in a mass of evergreens, Hastily placed as arbour garniture ; And strangely mingled with domestic furniture. Which, with some pots of flowers, made a bower Supposed to be the place for Love's sweet hour. The " Inadvertent Man," with panting ears, Gazes from off the hindmost row of chairs, Restless to see how his unquestion'd dear Will bear herself towards her cavalier. At last she comes, and treads towards the light. Tastefully dressed — a very pretty sight. She sings a little song — and speaks her part ; Now she stands list'ning — then a graceful start. "He comes!" she cries — "he's coming to my heart!" She smiles a glorious smile — and then her charms Are close enfolded in the hero's arms. " The d — 1 !" bursts a voice from out the crowd. " Hush ! hush ! " the audience cry, as now aloud The lovers speak, and slow unwind the plot. A man behind the chairs feels very hot — Then cold — and then a novel kind of pain. As hero clasps the heroine again. Just then a lady very fond of chatter Teased the poor fuming lover with her clatter. Saying to him, " How prettily they do it !" Then would be archly added, " If you knew it. It's very true to nature." Tossing his head, " A deuced deal too true," he fiercely said. The lady turned offended ; left alone. He 'gan to mutter in an undertone, THE INADVERTENT MAN. 53 *' True to nature ; yes, no doubt attracting. I know that shallow puppy isn't acting ; To pull his nose I deem my special mission ; He takes a mean advantage of position. I wonder she allows it. Modest Emmy 1 I really couldn't think it — not I, demmy ; By Jove, she's clasping him ! Grood lack ! so zealous. Ah ! well, it doesn't matter : I'm not jealous ; And that as well — I cannot stomach this." The last remark was call'd up by a kiss, A sounding kiss, with loud decided crack ; No stage deceit, a most undoubted smack. The shock'd spectator madly took to flight, And sought the nearest chamber with a light. It proved to be the supper-room, where merry Were some few spirits, swilling port and sherry. He loathed the sight of supper ; but, alas ! Sharp mis'ry offers oft the dang'rous glass. He drank the copious draught, until his brain Was mad with jealous thought and iced champagne. The play was ended soon, he fled the crowd. Who now descended tow'rds him, laughing loud, And sought elsewhere to cool his heated rage, He found himself on what had been the stage ; There coolly sat, looking most happy, gay, The gallant spark who'd stolen his love away. " Aha !" the other thought ; " I must not drub him ; At least not here — at any rate I'll snub him. You acted well." 54 DRAWING-ROOM TROUBLES. He watch'd the other raise His eyes to say, " I thank you for your praise," But with the manner of a haughty she. When she would say, " How dare you speak to me ?" But nothing daunted, our friend proceeded : " You did some things a little more than needed." The other still was quiet. " For example, I thought your bold embraces more than ample." The other strangely stared. " Not to intrude, I thought your manner to her very rude. No gentleman, I say, of good condition Would take such mean advantage of position." The other look'd confounded, and his eyes, Hazel and large, grew almost double size. He bit his lips, as if to cage a smile, And mutter'd, " Who'd have thought it ?" ail the while. At last the smile broke loose — a moment after. Burst from his mouth a peal of ringing laughter. His rival stamp'd, and bawl'd amidst the pealings, " How dare you, sir, so hurt another's feelings ? Give me your card, we cannot quarrel here." The other gasp'd and smother'd, cried, " Oh dear I" And panting said, " Oh, pardon, I'll explain 1" But then his laughter rose again, again. Just then, young Emmy enter'd to the room, Bright in her beauty and her ball costume ; And as she came, the laughing cavalier Whisper'd some secret in the fair one's ear. THE INADVERTENT MAN. 55 "Whate'er it was, she answer'd with a "Hush." . It made her laugh, but also made her blush. This was too much for flesh and blood to stand. " Madam," the wrong'd one said, " I can command My feelings in your presence ; you away, I fear my righteous indignation would not stay " Froin some strong act — it could not well be blamed — " He had gone on, but Emmy, now afraid he Would do some violence, in haste exclaim'd, " Edward, be calm — this gentleman's a lady. The play-bills could have shown you, in a moment, This character enacted by Miss Beaumont." Edward stood bound, with open mouth and eyes, A very portraiture of great surprise — Breath quick and hard ; at length recovered, cool, He softly mutter'd, " Well, I am a fool." A single glance convinced him of the truth As to the sex belonging to the youth ; Though largely form'd, and "more than common tall," The points were woman's — she possess'd them all. The mincing walk was there, the arms were thrust To suit the mark'd enlargement of the bust. And then she forward came, and archly said, " Your conduct to poor Emmy was ill-bred, A moment to suppose her not correct. Know, sir, it wholly rose from your neglect. 56 DRAWING-EOOM TROUBLES. For you away, to act, our pet declined, Witli aught but something of the female kind. Then lots we drew — to me it fell by lot To take your part, — and don the — you know xvhat. " My pardon take for praising my humanity ;" Then with a little piquante touch of vanity. She smiling said, " I'll go exchange my dress. Or p'raps some other doves I may distress. So now adieu ; indeed, it's time to go, For whether man or woman, I'm de trojo." The lovers, left together, were not long In making that all right, so often wrong. For now the ice was so completely broken, Not much was left between them to be spoken. But still the lady thought it only right. Now to resent the blunders of the night. Or really vex'd, or with it in her mind To make the explanation still more kind. Those who know women, surely tell, That if a woman loves you passing well, You've ne'er a better chance of her good graces. Than when she's vex'd, and pulling pouting faces ; And so the "Inadvertent Man" succeeded In raising smiles, and saying what was needed. It was but nat'ral, when so near the close, This happy couple should adopt a pose ; And so they form'd a group, nor was it curious ; It was a like arrangement made him furious, THE INADVERTENT MAN. 57 When jealous-blind, love-sick, and stupid, He thought his Psyche loved another Cupid. Their platform was the stage behind the baize, Where one small taper gave a doubtful blaze, That shone sufficient for their young delight ; Nor quell'd the lady's blushes in its light. While thus engroup'd, still, breathless, happy there. They were astonish'd by a sudden glare. They started up ; before they knew the cause. Their tableau was acknowledged with applause From the whole party, who, to their dismay. The curtain raised, were viewing this new play. I need not say the pair took headlong flight, Nor beau nor belle again appear'd that night. The trickster is unknown, though some have said it. That fast Miss Beaumont ought to have the credit Of bringing back the guests ; at least, 'tis certain She had a hand in pulling up the curtain. The guests declared, that, Avhen at feast down-stairs. They were advised to seek their former chairs, As tableaux vivants were about to show, Though not, they thought, with such a living glow. Of course, it needs one meeting yet again To place all straight between the thwarted twain. Then suddenly the gallant found his marriage Had all along been founded on miscarriage. When introduced to Emmy, he'd been told Her beauty was but equal to her gold. 58 DRAWING-ROOM TROUBLES. But now he learnt (his strange mishaps to crown) The heiress-niece had never come to town. Her name was Emmy, too, so rose the error. This was a hlow, because he felt a terror Her father might refuse consent, on learning His income small, his fortune yet an-earning Not so at all ; for, now he'd caught her, He found his Emily a thirteenth daughter. With her he found his all — a happy life. Nor want of fortune in a prudent wife. liuobjj's Jfirst ©ffer. MOODY'S EIEST OFFER. The Season over, and the Houses risen, All London rushes from its brick-built prison, To seek the hotels of romantic Ehine, Or the gay streets of Paris, the divine ; And some to re-enact in country places The genteel comedy of London graces. So Moody, like the rest of all the world Bethought it time to take a little change. To seek some country place, where life unfurl'd Its roll of future days — without the strange Unnatural scheme of wasting life and leisure, In London tongue denominated "pleasure." Now Moody, like all bachelor young men With decent ways and decent expectations, Was always welcome in a country glen, Where Highland Maries languish'd for flirtations. One invitation from a farmer. Who ploiigh'd in land his gains from ploughing ocean, Caught Moody's eye, as being all the warmer. Because there were two daughters on promotion. So off he started to regain his might. By the fresh light of country fields and scenes ; 62 DRAWINQ-ROOxM TROUBLES. By using day as day, and night as night, By all the health a country visit means ; But most he hoped to freshen up his mind By leaving London feelings far behind. It was not likely, in these country places, That he would meet with anything resembling Town's trite manoeuvres, or the smiling faces That smile for fashion, or to hide dissembling. At least, the ladies he's about to meet, TJntutor'd creatures in the ways of art. However warm their natures, must but greet Him with a natural smile, and modest heart. And not, the moment that they meet, contrive The " how" to make him flirt — perhaps to wive. He met a welcome in this chateau-farm, Hearty and boisterous from the ancient mariner, And kindly from the girls, without th' alarm He thought he should create on his appearing there. In fact, he felt aggrieved as they refused To meet him shyly — or to be confused. So Moody 'gan to fear his country belles Were but another species of the genus. Only the daughters, with a change of spells, Of our respectable and British Venus. * * * * The younger, very young, and very pretty (And in a quiet way, piquante and witty), Possess'd, without attracting observation, A tempting mode of practising flirtation. Moody's first offeb. 63 Her tete-d-tele 'vvith any one alone Was archly utter'd in an nnder-tone. With shrouded eyes, and lips for ever smiling, A laugh half-hush'd, or, what was more beguiling Than all her pretty points (though all adorn her), A cosy trick of crushing in a corner. And thus, with half a smile she made more way Than her loud-talking sister in a day. The elder girl (we deem it very dirty To tell a lady's age, we'll call it thirty) — The elder girl was quite a different party : Jovial, good-natured, boisterous, and hearty. Though large in figure, rather high in feature, With too much red, she was a handsome creature. The hunting cubs around agreed that " Bella" " Was an uncommon jolly, stunning feller." She hunted, fish'd, and shot besides ; — of course No girl around, like her, could back a horse. And so she fish'd for lovers, not with flies, But tried to hook them with her tongue and eyes. Crimean hero-like, her fame resounds For desperate engagements and her wounds ; Like him (although defeated in a catch). In no engagement had she met her match. Some half-a-dozen previous had miscarried, Which made her very anxious to be married ; And as she found attentions not so paid As those that in her former days were made (Perhaps indeed to save the age from falling), She made attentions of her own, her calling. 6.4 DRAWING-EOOM TROUBLES. She open'd like a battle — with a skirmish Of bottomless disputes, and rather warmish, With feign'd attacks, and never with conclusions, Except in flirtish, personal allusions. Back'd with a dropping fire of killing smiles. Of archest looks, and most artistic wiles ; And when she felt prepared by such transactions. Charged with a whole battalion of attractions. A most decisive charge, it must be said : She gain'd the day, because the foemen fled. Moody was sadly disappointed. Here Was London out of town — with all its passions. With all their lines, exaggerated — queer, Like a coat cut from out a book of fashions. Or, like a wretched daub from some old master. Or marble palace built in lath and plaster. Besides, 'twas hard, when he had come for peace, Only to live a short time quite unguarded To find his vigilance must never cease, Unless to " Bella" he would be awarded. Ever to resist, and that in all directions, These constant forays on his best affections. To take to Minnie was a great relief, 'Twas like smooth water after Dover Straits ; Or like contentment after teasing grief. Or gentle slumber after Christmas waits. And Minnie knew it well — and so design 'd That while her sister storm'd, she undermined. Moody's first offer. 65 And so the siege went on, until he seeks To study nature in fair Minnie's face : The sunset glow was in her rosy cheeks ; The wave of waters in her easy grace. And would he know the colour of the sky, He sought the proper hue in Minnie's eye. And thus our hero, though he quitted town, Not for a love-scene, but for verdant swards, To breathe the freshness of the breezy down, Was soon, unconscious, seeking her regards, Playing at eyes, until he felt assured The heart of pretty Minnie was secured. So, step by step, poor Moody was enchanted, And found, again, the very wife he wanted ; Then only waited till a time should proffer Completelj' suitable to make the offer. A month pass'd o'er, before the opportunity Of time and place were present, both in unity. * * * * 'Twas evening, on the sloping lawn The deep'ning shadows long were drawn, AVhile softly the dew-laden breeze Sang its night-song through the trees. Still longer grow the twilight shades aslant I wish to be poetical, but can't. Well ! 'twas the time when footmen light the lamj), Nature still visible, but growing damp ; When tender ladies from the garden turn. And show their graces round the hissing urn. 66 DRAWING-ROOM TROUBLES. Our friend and liis host in the parlour sat, In the silence that follows a lively chat, And Moody began on a plan to muse, Without ofifence more wine to refuse. As thus he sat on the twilight poring, He suddenly found that his host was snoring. There is a tide in the affairs of men, That, once gone by, ne'er comes again. So Moody thought — so Shakspere taught — He could offer now — he would — he ought ; Could he only meet with his own sweet gipsy (When her father was fix'd — and slightly tipsy). So he pass'd from the house to the sunlit green, And gazed around on the lovely scene. Whilst thus he gazed, he saw from where he stood A form in female drapery near the wood. One of the sisters ? Which ? was now the doubt, For both of equal stature were about, And, distant, much alike — except in that They wore a diff'rent colour in the hat. The yellow " Bella" wore — and Minnie blue ; The form he saw had graced the latter hue. 'Twas Minnie, then — her path towards the vale ; The very time and place for love's young tale. Slowly advancing — his uncertain foot Betray'd his presence by a creaking boot ; The form glanced round, but not again look'd back, As if she knew the spectre on her track. Moody's first offer. 6 Her form was shawl'd — the hat was deeply veil'd — He wish'd to look beneath — his courage faii'd ; But as his breath came quick, in painful tone Her bosom heav'd responsive to his own ; Forth from the shawl peep'd shy a tender hand, A sign that broke reserve from all command. He gently took the gift — the fingers burn'd ; But still he felt his pressure was return'd. Then they walk'd on, not slowly, but in haste, And as a guide, his arm enzoned her waist : He felt that thrill he ne'er might feel as-ain, Joy strung delirious to the verge of pain — That first, sole, last unmingled cup of bliss, When love claims other love, in love's first kiss. He bent his face — he paused — he could not speak. So made short struggle for her rosy cheek ; And as he conquer'd, rais'd the veil and kiss'd her Oh ! hapless lover, Htuas the other sister. Poor Moody started back, aghast, afi'righted. But pertinacious " Bella" looked delighted. Laying her head on him, she bade him stay ; So, come what might, he scarce could burst away. An explanation 7ioiu were better, he surmised. And so he ask'd her, " Was she much surprised?" " Oh ! not at all " (she pouted for a kiss). " Indeed, my love, I've long expected this." Poor Moody's cheek grew pale — but yet he thought, " She must see what I mean when home it's brought." 68 DRAWING-ROOM TROUBLES. He said " I've made an error — don't you guess ? Of course you understand !" She whisper'd, " Yes ; You think the love you offer rests with you." She hid her face and sigh'd, " I love you too. Oh ! dearest Moody, don't you think me foolish?" ("Indeed, I do," thought he, " and deuced coolish.") What should he do ? — her head was on his heart, And, what was worse, his arm was round her waist ; 'Twas not the pose in which t' explain his part And all his errors, while they still embraced. Besides, 'twas clear she thought, in her inventions, This offer now the crown of his attentions. Attentions ! thus his efforts to repel her Had cruelly been interpreted by " Bella." Whilst thus he stood embarrass'd, on his ear Fell the light trip of female feet — oh ! fear. He tried to loose her arms — oh ! more disaster ; Enchanted " Bella " only clung the faster. " Here's Minnie coming — oh ! unloose me, ' Bella " My own fond sister — do, dear Moody, tell her." Ere they could start away from each a stride, Poor cheated Minnie stood the pair beside. She saw it all — a moment seem'd to stoop — Then stood erect — then vanish'd from the group. There's little more to tell : he gave the slip, Eor fear of Minnie — and her father's whip. As for poor "Bella," now her grief's assuaged. She's proud of being once so near engaged. T M KfBfe THE CRUEL SISTER. % S%Ijt Itistalif. A SLIGHT MISTAKE. I HAD once an acquaintance (whose unmarried life No doubt had prepar'd him for taking a wife ; For when become husbands, the worst single sinners Make very respectable — givers of dinners), Who had wedded and settled — a lady from Devon — In Manchester Square, or, as he called it — heaven (An extravagant term of his honeymoon days ; I have never since heard him make use of the phrase). Now he ask'd me to dinner, exactly at six ; With a smile, adding, archly, " No bachelor tricks ; Be punctual ; my wife, though a charming sweet creature, Keeps us all to a minute — her only strong feature." So to honour his welcome with bravest of duds, I donn'd a white satin, and diamond studs. And arriving, was marshall'd by tall powder'd wights (What a change from the tiger in neat tops and tights !) ; Then, ascending, found everything changed and amiss, And exclaim'd, in vexation, " The woman's done this." Those sweet sporting prints, and those great easy-chairs. Had been sold or exchanged, or were banish 'd down-stairs ; In their place, there was something, so low in the crown. That you never got up, if you ever sat down ; And instead of the grate, where huge coals used to burn, And a half- frozen mortal was done to a turn, 72 DRAWING-ROpM TROUBLES. And those hobs, where the mull of rich claret would simmer, Was a miniature "patent," all metal and glimmer. That you could not get near, nor console with the looker. But was touch'd up behind by invisible stoker. The old comfort was flown, and, on gazing around. My glances w^ere met by looks cold and profound, From two or three persons Avith city-like faces. What had studied their tailors much more than their graces. Oh ! where were the lads, with the laugh and the hand, ~ Who would stand by each other, that is, if they could stand ? Where, too, was my host ? — he at least had my blessing. Not dress'd ? dared I trust, not receiving a dressing ? Eut stay — who is this — there, a little apart ? The heiress, his cousin. Alas ! my poor heart ! Both pretty and young — though it pleased me the most To recall an old partner and favourite toast. " I will speak— if I can with complete self-possession — For this is the moment to make an impression." I advanced with a bow, in the confident style Of a favourite friend. She replied with a smile. ■J'he underbred youths were completely struck dumb,' And sat twirling their whiskers with finger and thumb ; Whilst I, with delight at the change of my fate. In a moment was buried in sweet tete-a-tete. I was lost. Oh ! that face ! the deep glance of those eyes ! The fair grace of that form ! those undoubting replies ! Oh ! then visions arose of a conquest and love : I chatted so well, and she seem'd to approve. Romance fed my thoughts, and they wider range took — " At last I've a wife, and my own banker's book." The thought was p'raps wild, but the change was so simple, To the Temple of Hymen, from rooms in the Temple. " Why tliis uncalled-for intrusion ?" A SLIGHT MISTAKE. I might have soar'd higher, hut was hronght hack to earth By a touch on the arm, and those snohs' stifled mirth. An eklerly man, with a puckering hrow, Wish'd to draw my attention, and made me a how ; And accentedly said, " Sir, I have not the pleasun " Why shouki he, indeed ? But I — not the leisure To follow the rules that conventions enforce ; So, returning his bow, I resumed my discourse ; When I heard his harsh voice, to my utter confusion, Exclaim, " Sir, explain this uncall'd for intrusion." " Intrusion !" I cried ; " explanation's from you. I came — hut — aheu !— is not this thirty-two?" Those youths saw me blush, and I witness'd their glee. As he coldly replied, " No, sir, no — twenty-three." I rose with a look full of daggers and kicks, And muttering something of dinner at six, Confusedly bow'd, and was moving off fast, When the host added, mildly, " 'Tis nearly half-past," With a smile, that at once relieved all palpitation, And induced me to turn for a kind invitation. " Though late for the soup," he continued more hoarse, " You will just be in time for the third or fourth course." Once more I bow'd awkwardly, crushing a sigh. As I caught, o'er his shoulder, the glance of her eye. I hurried down -stairs in a petr— nay, I swore. As some cold-blooded footman unfasten'd the door. A few minutes, pass'd in contentment and pride, I had sat in that house, and I now stood— outside. We might moralise well But my story is told : The young lady Avas lost— and my dinner was cold. oabj^s Su0itb ®ffer» MOODY'S SECOND OFFER. No gull so gullible as lie that gulls, The truth is quite enough to take him in, Its simpleness his craftiness annuls, Or, all suspicious, when he thinks to win By acting as 'twere falsehoods that you told him, He finds that by his very craft you've sold him. And similar it is with those old beaux Who've spent a life of lounging and flirtation ; For none more quick by woman are laid low, Or plunge in danger with less hesitation. Where on themselves is turn'd their ancient battery Of sham advances, and false empty flattery. Thus 'twas with Moody, as hereafter seen ; Meantime his reputation had recover'd From the bad name in which it long had been When erst from fere to fere he weakly hover'd. But now to all, indifferent, — a Plato, Fach woman thought that she could fix his fate, oh ! And so when Moody, after London's season, Where he had lounged about with silent eyes, Went o'er to Paris, not with any reason Save his ennui, discover'd in surprise, 78 DRAWING-ROOM TROUBLES. Now that he'd pass'd the limits of all passion, That all the women loved him from compassion. I know not why, but when a man is hipp'd From sickness of the world, or chances slipt, Looks grimly sad and stiff as any poker — Sallow in features as a constant smoker. Still neat in dress, but seemingly half-fed. The ladies always vote him thoroughbred. But so it is, — at every ball you'll see Some tall, grave figure, like a spectral tree Or " ancient mariner" congeal'd in ice ; Just ask your fav'rite flirt — she'll say " he's nice." And then he stands grim, silent, stately, tall. Between the two saloons, or 'gainst the wall, With hat in hand, as if his time were past, Although he ever stays until the last. A ripple of a smile, whene'er address'd, He faintly lifts, as if his smiles were bless'd ; Or down at supper talks a fun'ral chat. But takes no supper — far too sad for that ; His promenade, the streets 'twixt light and dark, He cannot condescend " to do the park." Meet him at dinner, — as it would be rude Not to reply — he'll talk if you'll intrude Your conversation first, although awhile He'll answer only with that death-like smile. Be bold, talk on, — and then he'll condescend To guile you on your way, until you end ; Moody's second offer. 79 He'll slowly answer, all inflection scorning, Dreary as city-bell on Sunday morning. And then his views about those common matters, Concerning which a dinner-party chatters, Will quite upset your mind, — in short or long Both you and all the world besides are wrong ; Tour cherish'd heroes from their places tumbled "With such a quiet firmness that you're humbled, You dare not answer, for you feel admonish'd, He's won a point in seeing you astonish'd — You give polite consent, — then hear with groans His setting up of pigmies on those stones Where once stood giants you were ever taught From early youth to honour, — now they're nought ; Perhaps his views exhibit copious reading, But, though the meal is full, unwholesome feeding ; Andthoughhe'sseen the world, known man,andtraYeird, The art of finding fault has sole unravell'd. As thus the world's applauded are o'erthrown, He's forced to raise some dwarflings of his own, Yet all so languid — it's not here nor there What the world thinks, indeed, he dosn't care, He talks and talks (although he sees your fright), As if it were absurd that he's not right ; And yet in truth it's all a clever blind To hide undoubted shallowness of mind ; That stifi'en'd air, that silent, sadden'd smile (As if he bore with this world for a while), That public way, — to be from all a shrinker. Are all the liv'ry of the would-be thinker ; And open-hearted women, in their haste, Adore as real gems this common paste. 80 DRAWING-ROOM TROUBLES. And Moody, who'd found a natural part Had ceased to be his, when ceased the heart To beat with the pulse of unblemish'd youth, And the cheek's bloom had fled with the bloom of truth. Determined to don this solemn guise. As the easiest to learn of all fashion's lies, He closely watched, and he studied long, But he wouldn't come out till he felt quite strong In the solemn part, which should win his way "With the belles from whose favour he'd fallen away ; And as in this town he was too well known. He commenced in Paris, where all alone He could act his part, for there to be gay Is the effort of all from over the way ; And savans there (if they own a shirt) Attend the saloons in a suit of dirt, And a real thinking man, who's perfectly clean, And not to be smelt, is a thing to be seen ; So working his role, to suit his age, Our hero soon was quite the rage. Many the efforts to pierce the mystery Of humbug Moody's common history ; Some said that, in some other clime, He must have committed some horrid crime, — An awkward rumour he wish'd to cease, As it brought two calls from the French police. Which almost caused his eclat to fall. As it nearly came out he was nothing at all. The middle-aged ladies in gross opined That his soul was bow'd with his mighty mind ; While the younger express'd their firm belief That his heart had been sear'd with some fearful grief. Moody's second offer. 81 His mournful air, and his low replies, The mysterious look of his dreamy eyes, Convinced each one 'twas her special mission To find some balm for his sad condition. Amongst these latter (and there were plenty) Was a fair young widow of eight-and-twenty ; She had married young to this pious end, To console the age of her father's friend ; At least so 'twas said, but 'twas also clear, That the lonely friend had ten thousand a-yeat^ It was agreed that his married nurse Should, after his death, possess his purse ; But the sly old man bequeathed his Katie His whole ; but, ^' durante viduitate^' — A jealous proviso, by which his " tin" Would go, if she wed, to the next of kin. Now, by ill-luck, the next of kin was wedded, So that no hopes could hold in that direction ; Thus forced to yield to that by widows dreaded. And being too full of life to court dejection. She took the all that in her power lay, And gave full vein to follies of the day. At first she revell'd in her love of dress, Her opera-box, society, her carriage ; She liked them all, but found to her distress They soon grew stale without the hope of marriage, And early found her constitution failing. But took to quacks instead of useless wailing. G 82 DRAWING-ROOM TROUBLES. At first she tried the "pathies," then the waters Of all the baths of every kind and nation, Insured to wash from pleasure's sons and daughters, The tender'st ailments of their own creation ; But not, alas ! she found, as on she went. From sicken'd hearts the canker discontent. The mind must work to raise the constitution, And so she took to science and geology ; And full-dress lectures at the Institution, That give to idle folks a new apology For talking large, unconscious of their parody, On all they hear from glib Professor Faraday. At length she went to Paris, where she made The best of her fine fortune, and her figure, And spun out folly, not at all afraid Of being talk'd of with an over-rigour ; Not that French morals are so very hazy, But that the French consider us half crazy. But such her curiosity and zeal, She soon used up what Paris had to show ; Amidst the blaze of art, she felt the real Alone could keep her life from being slow ; So, having tried life's vulgarer solutions, She took to politics and revolutions. Now, politics in France are quite unlike The thing so christen'd in this foggy land ; Our patriots' fancies it did never strike, In ladies' drawing-rooms to take their stand. Moody's second offer. 83 To mix their patriot loves with lighter loves, And crush a dynasty in white kid gloves. We work reform in journals, public meetings, In long debates, committees, and societies, In speechifying-dinners, hustings'-greetings,: — All with much labour and sobrieties ; But politics in France are lively — no fatigue, — All murder, love, society, intrigue. And so the widow fill'd her bright saloons With dark mysterious foreigners, and men Who brought long sorrows, and much longer spoons ; The former for her pity, the latter, when The groaning board was crown'd with plenteous supper. And the long sorrows of their stomachs upper. All kinds of patriots were assembled there, From Spain, and Portugal, and Catalonia, From Greece, Corfu, from Erin, and Eag-fair, From all the lands far north to Patagonia ; E'en one there was, who came express to urge on A primal revolution in Spitzbergen. But still they nothing did, except devour. And drive the long narration of their cares ; Whilst she would wonder on from hour to hi Mir, And think herself the centre of affairs, And fancy that these soirees in her bowers Had influence o'er the acts of higher powers. 84 DRAWING-ROOM TROUBLES. She'd act Herself, her patriotic friends Talk'd as they ate, to do was p'raps a bother ; She tried to rouse — for so they work'd their ends, That each re-union only brought another ; She would, I fear, have plotted something bloody, Had she not haply met with mournful Moody. She almost started when she saw him — here Was the one being that her soul had craved for, — A man to be approach'd with silent fear ; Here was the bottled interest that she raved for, At once each patriot seem'd a very ninny, — She scorn'd them all, from Kossuth to Mazzini, I'll not pursue their course of introduction, "Which much resembled all such tender cases, Something grew up, — was love the blest production ? 'Twas pseudo-passion, with its painted faces. An artificial love, whose fountains quickly falter, Unless the pumps of fortune drive the water. And then they spring aloft with gaudy show, More grand than true love's modest constant flowing, Though economic couples set, you know, Only on gala days, such pumps a-going ; But here the fere, with worship and urbanity. Baited her friend, and hook'd him by his vanity. The matter soon was settled, though the lady Display'd a decent portion of reluctance To name the happy day, though effort made he Towards that end to make his pretty duck dance \ Moody's second offer. 86' She was, in fact, in treaty for lier tin, To save a portion from the next of kin. She swore, unless he'd let her be a wife. She'd he a widow all her coming life ; Let him take half, and after her decease, ' His family should have a large increase. The kinsman soon agreed ; she, happy, gay. Met her fond Moody, and bespoke the day ; Moody had, too, his own inferior bother T' obtain a larger penny from his mother. At length it all was right ; they met one eve To take, in love and hope, the final leave That couples do, before they meet again To close the rivets of the wedding chain. To use my verse to tell it, were to waste it. Sugar to you's not sweet until you taste it ; I'll say 'twas vows, sighs, blushes, kisses, Armful embraces, and such other blisses. At last her lips express'd her latest warning, And so he went, 'twas getting tow'rds the morning, Kiss'd her white hand, smiled fondly, shut the door ; Alas ! poor Moody never saw her more. Our hero slowly paced towards hi« lodging Buried in thought, but sudden was alarm'd To find two persons were his footsteps dodging, And then he saw they were both fully arm'd ; He hurried on, then ran. As on he bounded He saw four more in front, — he was surrounde'd. 86 DRAWING-ROOM TROUBLES. Thinking them thieves, for " help" he call'd aloud, But then was told, in English, to be quiet Or fear his safety ; should a gather'd crowd Oppose the arrest, or else create a riot. That he was prisoner ; 'twas the Emperor's order To see him safely over Gallia's border. "And why is that?" the answer, "I not know," " My clothes and papers?" "All are on the train j And vhen you on de paquebot steamer go, Ve gif your choses and papiers back again." Soon the affair and Channel both were over. And saw our hapless friend safe housed in Dover. They disembark'd him like a bale of goods, Or pass'd-on pauper, or exparish'd juggler; His countrymen received him with cool bloods, And handsomely suspected him a smuggler, So that the " Customs " had his boxes ripp'd. Nor were contented till they saw him stripp'd. Meantime the lady also was arrested, But that was managed in a courteous mode ; With smiles and bows, the officer requested Her stay at home ; he could not incommode Madame with show of force, — 'twas but for form He left the house half-crowded with gens-d'armes. The cause of all this hubbub was the fact. That bride and bridegroom, and the patriot lot, Had been discover'd in the very act Of Bringing to a head a dang'rous plot ; — Moody's second offer. 87 So said the French police, though 'tis no doubt The plot's intent was never quite made out. It seem'd that when the lady first assumed The line of politics (and, by her patriot friends. Her mind develop'd and her rooms perfumed), The Paris spies had watch'd the question'd ends ; But when the patriots jolly grew, and greasy, E'en their police suspicions wax'd more easy. However, when our Moody paced the stage, A quick reaction roused their lull'd suspicions. Those least to be deceived their honour 'gaged ; This was a plotter on the worst of missions, His silence, manners, dress, and facial lines, All mark'd the leader of the worst designs. It is a rule of French policeman's art, That when a man conspires, hush'd and blind He always looks, and dresses to the part. But why is quite a myst'ry to mankind ; Our rogues at home would think such men were fools, But even rogues in France must follow rules. The case was one the ministry would please.; A plot was wanted much, if good and sure. The emperor's life had been too much at ease, For only danger makes his throne secure ; Their orders were to make the plot extensive, Provided that it wasn't too expensive. 88 DilAWINQ-ROOM TROUBLES. And so, wlien Moody was from home away, The spies went in and overhaul'd his papers, Chiefly love-letters ; but is't not ev'ry day "We see great fires from the smallest tapers ? With such small lights the Frenchmen made their game, And soon found stuff to set the world in flame. My reader, if you've had a first epistle Of love — deep-burning love, in ample pile. That made your heart beat and your whiskers bristle, You'll understand — the widow's loftiest style Eead by the aid of French bureau translation, Might be involved enough — to shake a nation. They also read the letters Moody sent, But as they only utter'd what they meant, Complicity in him could not be proved. And thus it was he simply was removed. The lady still was 'neath the eye of power, And though she wrote to Moody hour by hour. To all appearance, as might be expected. Her summonses continued all neglected. She little knew her letters, so despairing. Were added to the proces then preparing : ,► She sent them by her faithful maUre-(V hotel, Faithful to her, and the police as well. The Emp'ror and the wealthy Albionnaise Clash 'd in their interests on his humble ways. What could he do ? He couldn't serve them both. And yet to split with either he was loath. Moody's second offer. 89 Of the police he was indeed afraid, But then, to balance that, the other paid. Perplex'd, he served the minions of the law. But seem'd to serve his mistress more and more. He swore he always took the billet-doux, And gave them to the hand intended true ; So that she waited long without response, And thought herself deserted all at once. She thought her love poltroon — it raised her anger — To think he left her in the time of danger. Now she despised and scorn'd, until her state Of love was curdled to a kind of hate. Just then, when Moody thus seemed to reject her, The next of kin arrived as her protector. To make his terms (and in his favour rather), And then to act the condescending father ; But now at once his efforts were addrest To get his cousin freed from the arrest : He went to see the pujipies of legation, And half the hureaux of the Gallic nation — And work'd so hard, his cousin 'gan to feel He was, indeed, a dear man for zeal. At last her chains were oif, and then perforce Arose the question of her future course. Xow, since the opening of this painful story, The zealous cousin's wife had gone to glory. His grief was o'er, although the death was recent — He'd hit the very mean to make it decent ; For though some fools to sorrow are addicted. It isn't mannerly to be afflicted. u •90 DBATVING-ROOM TROUBLES. Weep just enough for each departed sinner, More isn't proper, and may spoil your dinner. So when the next of kindred made discovery, His pretty friend had lost her recent lover, he Proposed himself to be a certain cure, To make her future, and her fortune sure. The grief-struck widow yielded to the plan — The next of kindred was a proper man. If not himself, one trifle did console — The thought that she should keep her fortune whole. Although her heart was dead, for nought she cared. But then the wedding garments were prepared. Meantime had Moody writ, and writ, and writ. Apparently the widow answer'd not a bit. The more he pray'd pathetical, beseeching her. The lesser chance his letters had of reaching her. He thought on France to make a new invasion, But from that plan he yielded to persuasion. At last he knew the blow, — the Morning Post Eeported in full style that all was lost, — The accomplish'd bride, her beauty, and her coiTcrs, And thus was baulk'd the second of his offers. % CeltgrHgjjic Croubk A TELEGEAPHIC TEOUBLE. The railway and the telegraph are lauded, As doing more for us than ever war did ; And yet, a;las, like other institutions. They bring their own peculiar retributions. To take the simplest case, — we travel faster, But go to double smash, when comes disaster ; We save our time, but then the higher powers Look out for double work in half the hours ; It takes the cramp'd inhabitants from town, Down to the flower'd meads and grassy down : I know it well, — my own wild Surrey hills Are now a fumey crowd of cockney vills. The Continent is op'd to better classes, To visit mountains, lakes, hotels, and passes ; But then your tyranny is much deplor'd. Unless you take your womankind abroad. It is not meant that works us many ills. Except a want when come the Christmas bills. Such flights from town are not at all derided, Because the pleasure is not all one-sided ; The train brings up in season many dozens Of good, but most adhesive country cousins. It's true your London house is very small, Yet all expect it's large enough for all.. 94 DRAWINQ-KOOM TROUBLES, Next note a progress of a diflferent species (The fav'rite topic of the platform speeches), The good deriv'd from intercourse of classes (A wholesome pasture mingles many grasses). My nephew, Tom, takes home a deputation Of train-made friends of doubtful reputation ; My niece, Maria — lib'ral more than hop'd — There met a handsome bagman, and elop'd. I know, myself, in many little journeys, I tumble over turfmen and attorneys. Of course, 'tis then I find the train improving, And feel their talk much prejudice removing. Implanted in my bosom by my mother, Who said it was religion. Then another Has brought me in with Snobs, whose talk has bor'd : None ever introduc'd me to a lord. The railway thus, whatever else it doubles. Has link'd a lengthen'd train of first-class troubles. Perhaps 'twere better, as an illustration. To tell a little anecdote or two ; — How well-plann'd schemes were thwarted to frustration. By schemes invented purposely to do All things required for their nice connection, And bring success or ruin to perfection. We will not name those common counter-blows Of tickets lost, or baggages exchanged, From which so much bad blood or swearing flows. Though acquiesced in, all would be estranged. As when a dame finds trousers, razors, straps. Instead of laces, stays, stiff petticoats, and caps. A TELEGRAPniC TROUBLE. 95 But such a thing as this : — As when you're married, You take a coupe for yourself and bride, Tour privacy is broken, and you're harried By a bland " guard," who, facing, sits outside The carriage just before you, — with a smile, But cutting up your pleasure all the while. Or such a case as this : — A youth confided In a young friend (director of a line), That Emily no more his hopes derided, And with her Pa he was that day to dine ; That he'd arrang'd by th' next train to go, And ere the dinner-time his fate to know. By luck, it chanc'd the jovial young director Himself was deeply smitten by the lady ; He heard the news a little like a spectre, But saw at once, that were the thing delay'd, lie Had yet a chance. If telegraphic wires Can do their work, he'll have his whole desires. He shook the other warmly by the hand, Said he was glad to hear it, — as was true, To hear the thing in time for all he plann'd. He watch'd him mount the train, — then on it fled ; Then down the line two telegrams were sent, That to a constable and the lady went. The trav'lling youth was in an am'rous glow. When, at an intermediate station, A bearded policeman let him know His liberty was hurtful to the nation : 96 DRAWING-ROOM TROUBLES. He'd got the word to stop liis going further, Suspected joining in a recent murther. The frighten'd youth was just regaining breatli, Still feeling faint, and almost pale as death, When lo ! a special train came rattling by. But not so fast, but gave him time to spy The young director rampant on the tender. With looks triumphant on the poor offender, And Em'ly's name Was midst the rattle waft. The dup'd one looked again, and saw he laugh 'd ; He would have rais'd his hands in wild defiance, But painful handcuffs kept them from compliance. Some hours pass'd in agony and terror, A message came to say it all was error ; That the young man at once must have discharge, And one from the director, thus, at large : — " Take my advice, sir, choose another ' line,' Miss E. will form a ' junction' soon with mine ; Love, you well know, is one of those affairs In which ' promoters' are forbidden * shares ;' My ' scheme's preamble' she had long approv'd, — I've only now for ' formal clauses moved ;' For my ' direction' months she's made decision, So why should you and I come in ' collision.' Her ' preference' is mine, — I feel distress For you, but this ' report' must be ' express ;' Her ' governor's concession' also gain'd, The ' terminus' of all is now attain'd. Farewell, — believe not that a wrong my heart meant. Or oi^ght but duty to my own department." 1100^3 ®IjW'^ Mtx—% €m\\ix^ Wml MOODY'S THIRD OFFER— A COUNTRY VISIT. The mighty town is void. I'm well aware That some genteelest persons yet are there ; Although ihey're out of town, I should be grieved Were the old cook's assurance disbelieved. We have the woman's word — what else supposed, When all the blinds are down, the shutters closed ; Eidiculous ! What ? Espinasse M'Grarler Spend all the autumn in the second parlour ? Yet it is true ; indeed, I must confess, The butcher's boy is never there the less ; I watch the grocer, mark the baker's man, From the next tap still comes the frothy can ; And were that lonely cook a monthly nurse, I deem she ate it all — and none the worse ; She is not so — then there's one shall unravel. That Espinasse the bland is not on travel ; It's something like a lie — but then we feel It is a mighty thing to be genteel. The town is void, although its streets and rows and Places contain as yet two thousand thousand ; But as we deem that market ill supplied, Where nought but sprats are plunder from the tide, 100 DRAWING-ROOM TROUBLES. So do the great ones of the town declare That place deserted when they are not there. The season's over : Moody now reposes, Smokes his cigar, and as he smokes uncloses The sacred coffer where his past flirtations Kecline embalm'd in self-congratulations. He counts the waste of feeling, conquest's cost, The hearts attracted, and the fortunes lost ; Smiling recals his juvenile advances, When once entangled in a widow's glanfces ; Draws a deep breath, recounts the smirking belles, Whose princely fortunes always turn'd out " sells ;" Freely forgives the blushing debutante. Whose innocence referred him to her aunt. Complacent, muses o'er his many scrapes. Content to call them now " hairbreadth escapes," Yet thinks his destiny perversely plann'd, To gain so many hearts, but not a hand. He feels cold time creep slowly o'er his brow. Crushing the fragile blossoms of his youth ; It must be never, or it must be now. That he must court to win, and that's the truth ; His next advances, of a serious nature, Must be express'd in Hymen's nomenclature. Unhapp'ly he'd exhausted all the round Of his fair friends with marriageable portions. With all had cut from under foot the ground. By heartless flirtings in such vast proportions ; Moody's third offer. 101 So now he wrote to his adoring mother, To find him yet a last one and another. His fondest parent was indeed delighted, To hear at last of serious intentions ; Eeplied at once all fluttering, excited. Praising the lady that her letter mentions. To whom she said (so much her heart invented) Could she but see him wed, she'd die contented. In fact, she felt she hadn't long to live. Before she went she'd like to see him settled ; Moody no heed to this strange fear did give. Which made the ancient lady rather nettled ; But then he knew she never talk'd of health. Except when right in body, thought, and wealth. So soon through her intrigued contrivance, Came invitation from the lady's friends ; Who gave, indeed, their own conceal'd connivance To Moody's and his mother's plotted ends ; Once more he took the train to country quarters, To try again his fortune with earth's daughters. The lady chosen was a sweet young person, Pretty enough, and scarcely warm eighteen (Indeed, he'd often flirted with a worse 'un); Fresh as a flower, or as a May-day queen ; Just such a rosy, laughing, little party, As makes the household circle glad and hearty. 102 DRAWING-ROOM TROUBLES. Yet was this last love not a high-flown she, With soul of power or fancies of the fleetest, But like the last cup from a dish of tea, If not the strongest, yet might be the sweetest ; And Moody felt, when choosing for all life. Perhaps the last were better for a wife. So Moody thought of marriage, not romance. Of conjugal aff"ection and soft ease ; A scene of comfort fill'd his fancy's glance, Houses (then bills) — then coming round his knees Troops of young children — then, alas ! those cursea That dog these blessings in the form of nurses. And fair young Lydia, though secluded bred. With female instinct knew what he was sent for ; His commonplace seem'd riddles archly said. Somehow her feelings guess'd what they were meant for, So that she fell in love. The little beauty Thought it was all obedience and her duty. Her mother was a motherly, kind creature, Gentle and pious, yet in reason jolly. With bright good-nature' in each healthy feature. Loving her daughter to the verge of folly. Though her friend's son, as son-in-law she'd prize. She watch'd him closely with suspicious eyes. The father, who had years long gone retired From business with a fortune, bore the traces Of one who had in Pleasure's kiln been fired, And play'd the deuce within a pair of aces ; MOODY S THIRD OFFER. 10.3 His once red face was red and tawny pied, Like ill-wash'd muslin that's been badly dyed. His once gross form was spare-wan, yet not thin, His lost rotundity had not renew'd Youth's finer roundness and close-fittins: skin : O 7 Though the full bottle he had long eschew'd — Not that he was for temperance a sticker, But that his wife allowanc'd him his liquor. All things in favour, 'twasn't very long Ere Moody saw the tone of Lydia's feelings ; But still he paused before he courted strong. Knowing the risk of evil-tuned revealings — In fact, he fear'd Boy Cupid's steps and traps By sad experience from his past mishaps. Their party dined at iive, and, when The ladies had retired, then The franchised husband, with a grin, Call'd for a bottle from a fav'rite bin With jolly welcome, which was half excuse, And had, I fear, been many years in use. Exclaiming, " Moody, 'tisn't ev'ry day We see you here, — let's crack another — aye?" A new found fact — alas ! it wasn't news ; And yet what guest could dare refuse. For that would put his host quite in the blues — Partly from pride, but more, that was his line. To make his youthful friend a plea for wine. 104 DRAWING-ROOM TROUBLES. There are some ancient boys, as all must know, Whose jolly hearts with warmest welcome glow, Who're glad to make your presence at the table The cause for taking more than leaves them stable ; Who're quite your friends before you scarcely know them. Tour coming gets them more than wives allow them ; They go up stairs unsteady, oh ! the shame, They hiccup it in secret you're to blame, And so your gentle hostess, such the plan, Quickly decides " that you're a bad young man ;" Thus both to tea each night went rather fuzzled, How to escape the flask our Moody puzzled ; Kestless with love and wine, he roll'd in bed, And rose each morning with a splitting head ; So, spite the verdant turf and breezy down, He felt much worse than when he quitted town. It was a pose replete with dread suggestion. Thus to be caught at once in love and drinking ; To lose at once his heart and his digestion ; To be observed by Lydia, whose soft shrinking Hopes grew on apace, — could she dissemble. She always found poor Moody in a tremble. Alas ! poor creature, she was much mistaken — 'Twas by her father's port his nerves were shaken. The offer must be made, — he felt a dread His health might fail, — at least his nose get red ; Moody made efforts to escape the system. And tried excuses, but the old boy pished-'em, Saying, " It's nonsense for a youth like you To be so fearful of a glass or two ; Why, look at me, sir ! — years I've had my quantum, And as for doctors ! why, I never want 'em." Moody's third offer. 105 Poor Moody was the soberest of mortals, And soon unusual port laid ope the portals Of his politeness, — so that rather quick He said rude things, and spoke them rather thick, So that each evening when the tea was ready He sought the tea-room, — as he thought steady. His fascinations found he, with surprise, Eaised strange displeasure in the ladies' eyes ; He could not fancy what it was about, He thought he was agreeable out and out. The gentle Lj^dia sought her mother's wing. And wouldn't laugh, nor talk, nor play, nor sing ; She changed, besides, the line of her behaviour, And grew from day to day more sad and graver ; And when he tried the tale of love to broach. She gently waved it off with sad reproach. Moody would half opine, — he knew the reason, And yet to accuse her father seem'd like treason. He struggled to be free, but in that act Found that he'd been too forward to retract ; In truth, his love affair was nearly ended, The Senior was so mortally offended, The moment that he found 'twas Moody's game To hint their revels were alone liis blame. " At least," he thought ; " oh ! not the ladies surely, Can think that I'm in fault alone and purely; They must be well aware their lord and father Loves the full bottle, not a trifle, rather ! Oh ! it's all nonsense, — Lydia is displeased Because I have not oflfer'd, — so she's teazed." 106 DRAWING-ROOM TROUBLES. Well ! the time came, — when there was no escape From list'ning to his tale, — she liked the scrape ; He told her all^ — he'd others told before, On this occasion vow'd a little more. He swore he loved her, — ^loved her more than any. He very wisely didn't say how many. She smiled, she blush'd, she trembled, sigh'd, Then yielded to her destiny, and cried. " Why should she weep," he said; " this hour of bliss Look up my heart's delight," — then gave a kiss. She said, " I — I" — her words no further went, Then trembling, whisper'd, " Ask mamma's consent." " I will, my love, — to them this is not news, I know their wishes, and they won't refuse." She tearful spoke, witb air of deep dejection, " I fear, my friend, you'll find there's one objection." Next morning found our friend in tete-d-tete With the good mother, — to be told his fate. He made the case out, stated all his means, How on her lips her daughter's future leans ; The family friendship, — rank, — estate, — condition ; He did his best to build a good position. The lady silent sat, within her lap Eested her hands, and still, as if she'd wrap Her thoughts within herself — yet all the while She noted her attention with a smile. Moody's third offer. 107 Quiet, yet stern, while Moody onward hammer'd With his old tale, then nervous grew, and stammer'd; Indeed, it was a delicate aflfair To tell it while she wore that silent air ; At length he finish'd — then she softly spoke. Her silence into agitation broke ; She essay'd for a moment, paused, then paused again, Then said, — "My friend, it is indeed with pain, Both for my daughter's sake, perhaps yours too, To have to veto what you wish to do." This was a blow to Moody, but he bow'd, Mutter'd a secret something — not aloud ; Then both were silent — then he found a tongue, Saying, " I am surprised ; in truth among The many reasons, with me certain went. To urge my suit was hope of your consent ; Thinking, when giving rein to all my longings, That you approved myself, and my belongings." " Indeed, sir, all the matters meet approval, Except one bar — I fear without removal. " I had a letter when you first came here, Praising your character and morals ; It call'd you pious, generous, dear. Of gentle manners, and unknown to quarrels ; And though still young, — in flirting only wild, In fact the man I'd wish for, for my child. " Alas ! it spoke not of the one dark stain That turns all other brightness into night, 108 DRAWING-ROOM TROUBLES. That seems mordanted on your yielding brain, E'en now I fear, your fatal, sole delight ; How could I give my child to such a curse ! That you indulged before her makes it worse. And now I'm on the subject, let me say, There is one thing of which I must complain. You've led my husband on from day to day To drink as you ; again, and yet again I've warned him, yet, alas ! the force Of your example urged him on his course. " But soon you leave us, so at least that wrong Will cease, I trust— a leaf we turn to-morrow; But my poor daughter, whose affections strong I find you've won,— in pity for her sorrow, The mother's heart would yield, were't not assured, That such a vice as this is never cured. " And now farewell ; it is a bitter pain To speak such words to Martha's only son, And she a friend I ne'er may see again, But still it must be said, and it is done." Pressing his hand, she sadly smiled, and left him, While he believed his senses were bereft him. And stood indignant, watching her retreat ; Oft had he thought to burst out while she spoke, " It is yonr husband, Madam, at whose feet You must lay down the blame,"— but then awoke The feeling, that the husband to the wife 'Twas useless to accuse, for peace or strife. Moody's third offer. 109 Of course, he'd leave the house that very minute, 'Twere wrong to be another hour in it ; He soon packed up ; he hurried to the station Without farewell, and choking with vexation. Just as he near'd the garden's farthest bounds. He met fair Lydia wand'ring thro' the grounds ; She paused, and said, half-weeping, as she stood, *' Farewell ! and, for your own sake, do be good." " Bother!" said Moody, as she pass'd from sight, " Zounds, she believes it too, — and thinks she's right." One more rencounter had he yet in pain ; He met the jolly father at the train, " Grood-bye !" said he, " I'm grieved, I am indeed, We could not make all matters quite agreed;" Then as he went, he with a warning air, Making the sign of drinking, said, " Beware !" Moody flush'd up with anger (but the steam Happily crush'd his accents in its scream). He bellow'd out, as if his voice would split, " G-ood-bye, indeed, you damn'd old hypocrite !" i|s * Hi * * When Moody's mother came to know the reason Her son returned, she "fire" cried and "treason;" Then she wrote madly to her former friend. Which brought a like reply ; — nor yet an end Has even now their correspondence found ; (Although the boy and girl are duly bound To other partners) — writing, if not hating, The two old dames go on recriminating. ffjje UlasijKtrai^. THE MASQUERADE. Op all the troubles of the boudoir species, There's none the ladies feel much more unkind Than the impulses many men possess To mix coarse manners with the more refin'd. Not that they scorn a gossip quite improper, If only started in the form of scandal ; They wrap ill-nature in a p^rfum'd cover, Nor fear a dagger with a jewell'd handle. Of course, there's nothing ill at all intended. Nor least indelicate, when seen the end. No more than telling " Doctor " all tho£ They wouldn't utter to a female friend. Of course, for comfort's sake, they ought to know Who of their circle bend from life's erect ; And thus a stream of naughty talk may flow. Under the plea of keeping things select. Not that I doubt that women, g-entle, pure, Are of the world the portion most refin'd, But that they oft misjudgingiy endure To lose the kernel when they scorn the rind, h 114 DRAWING-ROOM TROUBLES. Or cherish things, when cover'd with false bloom, The which they should in very nature fly : They love the civet — when its call'd perfume, And eat a morbid fowl — as Strasbourg pie. You mustn't touch their hands but with the glove, Unless you're jewell'd like the paws of Holkar ; They'll scarce admit your fondness when in love, Yet let coarse fellows squeeze them in the polka. , In reading, as in talk, they hold the strife. The purest works unthinkingly disowning If only they're connected with coarse life, And yet enjoy the poems of Mrs Browning. We know it is refin'd from home to travel, — So our young ladies, when they go abroad, Will see the naughtiest things without a cavil, Although our honest roughness is abhorr'd. Just sing your friends a harmless comic song, That touches on a range of life below them. You'd better leave the house, and will be wrong If e'er again you should attempt to know them ; And yet those dames will hear, unshock'd and easy, Most doubtful chansons in the Champs Elysees. But though the women, filling life with fictions, Grow such a crop of oddest contradictions, They know too well the dignity of station, To pass like errors in the male creation. THE MASQUERADE. llo Of all the forms of coarseness, — be afraid Of seeking pleasure in a lower grade ; Are you as good as when dispatched from heav'n ; That is a fault that scarce can be forgiven. There's nothing more, be sure, that women feel, Than male connections wanting the genteel. Be never led away by jolly " fellers," To hear good music in the cider cellars ; Your ladies will despise you — e'en tho' after, They ask your escort to " La Traviata." "Evans" is moral, — but, pray, amend your ways. And take your sisters to the Paris plays ; 'Tis true your French and theirs may stay your gleaning The fullest license of their double meaning ; But still we know lie there, thoughts that would rouse Disgust and anger in a public-house. * * * * These thoughts on manners to my mind recall A scrape that did a loving pair befall : Husband and wife, who'd married from affection, And yet on this point nearly broke connection. The lady was the daughter of a dame, The last descendant of an ancient name, — Ancient but not prolific, — what was worse. The pedigree was longer than the purse. Her six-room'd cottage was a house of pride, Haughtier than all the wealthy country side ; Though poor, indeed, this dame would ne'er abate The fancied needs of her decaying state. The house was order'd with a painful niceness, As if abundance call'd for much preciseness. 116 DRAWING-ROOM TROUBLES. The faded gard'ner, " butler" there yclept, Into an ancient liv'ry daily crept, Worn with great care, and not without alarms Of rents, — yet button'd with a coat-of-arms. Frugal their meals, as suited their condition. With all their plate and glass in requisition. Finish'd the simple feast, — the dame would say, " Mellish, I think we'll take no wine to-day." " Please j'ou, my lady," quoth the ancient " feller," Although he knew were neither wine nor cellar. Eeally of ancient blood, by strict propriety, She kept the very lead of old society ; The upstart mourn'd unless she grac'd his ball, And stij09y took the precedence of all. In secret thought, — her temples often burn'd. Such invitations could not be return'd. And so she said (scarce hoping to deceive) " A stricken widow never should ' receive.' " Her lord was slain in fight, — for other needs, As well as that, she always wore her weeds. It may be well suppos'd, her only child — A girl — was not permitted to run wild. A model child, indeed, not oft revealing The naughtiness of showing nat'ral feeling. And yet she had a stock, and that in plenty ; She fell o'er head in love ere one-and-twenty; An age at which, according to tradition. No maiden oftthat house dar'd such sedition. THE MASQUKRADK. 117 Indeed, her proud mamma was rather nettled, To find (without a settlement) her settled. Her husband was a poor one, yet of worth, A "sucking chancellor" of noble birth. Who, living years in chambers all alone, Had ting'd his manners with an under tone. Accustom 'd to his dinner and his ease At the old " Cock," or " Cheshire Cheese," No wonder that, on ent'ring married life, He often puzzled his fastidious wife ; She tried affection, scolding, joking, To drive him from that nasty vice of smoking. By sticking dirty feet upon the fender, Or entering in his hat, he'd oft offend her ; Or tried her patience, with his rolling ease ; Or nervous system, by a startling sneeze ; Or entertained his guests to chaff and cramming. With tales a leetle broad, and sometimes d — ning. And soon (when pass'd the honeymoon's delights) He'd often stop out very late at nights. Poor girl, — she thought rebuke would raise a storm. So plann'd a quiet system of reform ; By patience and affection, back slie brought him To the good breeding that his mother taught him. Had she stopp'd there, — she'd kept her gain'd control ; But, having won a part, she wish'd the whole. Once off, she never could her pace diminish, Her perfect lord still wanted yet a finish. 1 1 8 DRAWING-ROOM TROUBLES. Correction should be smooth, and broad, and bold, i, KA,.,^ K,J.^,A.^j <.VllVi K^Wi^., Not stippled, — like a portrait set in gold The picture would be lost, — ^without connection, A jumbled mass of highly-wrought perfection. She stippled o'er his manners, more and more. Until he found his home a growing bore. Denied the ease he once enjoy'd at home, He sought it where the polish couldn't come •, Good cause for great alarm, — of all mishaps, None darker than a married man's relapse. She found out means to ascertain his haunts. Then felt reproach, she hadn't known his wants ; Harmless they were — were she neglected ever, — His reading-room, the cricket-field, the river. With such a course she tried to rest content, But soon she found he rather farther went ; The billiard cue he handled, then at club He often long remain'd to have a " rub." And, worst of all, whenever late benighted, He oft return'd — what ladies call — excited. One night her maid was combing mistress' head, The damsel sigh'd " I vishes I vas dead ! " " Why so ?" — the question — " Lauks, ma'am, I'm afraid That master's gone to Jullien's marskirade !" Her mistress started from her, frighten'd, pale, And, breathless, listen'd to the gossip's tale. He had, indeed, in fancy dress attir'd. Gone with the crony that she least admir'd. THE MASQUERADE. 119 Here was a shock ! — her outrag'd sense of right Pass'd o'er her bridal feelings like a blioht : CD O 7 His pleasures sought ere now from home away, Were but the loungings of a joyless day. But this was vice. Her cheeks are red with blushes, When on her mind a thought of something rushes Jealous ? Jealous, not she ! of those her heart Scorns as unfit for such an equal part. She'll go herself— ha ! ha ! yes, go and brave him ; And now she weeps, she'll go, but go to save him. Some ladies have a strange unshap'd conception. That they can save a man by some deception : By stealing pipes, or locking up the prog, Or putting double water in the grog. Then others " save " by always being planted Exactly in the place where they're not wanted. And seldom with success in either fashion. Except to put their husbands in a passion. And so this outrag'd wife can save, she weens, By trespassing upon immodest scenes. A domino was soon procured, — a dress That muffled well, yet left her gracefulness ; A bouquet — gloves — and last, not least, a mask, — Her carriage at the door, — then to her task. Jji 3(> 5jJ JjJ ^ Arriv'd — she, trembling, sought an upper tier, And watch'd the putrid life below in fear, — Outwardly brilliant, an e'er changing maze Of light and colour, met her anxious gaze, — Bedizcn'd men — but gentlemen in name ; Eichly clad women, whose commencing shame, 120 DRAWING-ROOM TROUBLKS. Though wrapt in fulsome plenty, was the gate Of hard neglect, want, penury, and hate. And then she heard the music — mighty band — That sunk the beauteous in the strutting grand ; That vulgaris'd the best, and wrought it down To meet the vice-wrapt wishes of the town. And then she saw great Mons : — his baton waving "With most heroic zeal, — and truly slaving For the " crescendo," — ere the final crash Sent half the tympana around to smash : — It crash'd, — he sank with almost lifeless air Into the cushions of his velvet chair. As if for ever ; — quitting then e'ermore His love of sound, his passion for " encore." Dazzled with light, confus'd with all around, And half delirious with distracting sound. The lady watch'd the scene of empty glare. Almost oblivious of her purpose there ; When suddenly she saw, but near the end Of the large pit, her husband and her friend. With that strange impulse anxious women feel, — The same that brought her to that place, — She suddenly resolv'd her presence to reveal. And meet her husband face to face. Without a plan or purpose form'd, she glides Down to the teeming promenade ; Passion gives strength, the mask her blushes hides, She hopes for conquest and reward. THE MASQUERADE. 121 She stands beside him, but to her despair He heeds not, though his rattling friend, Attracted by her modesty and air, Attempts her graces to commend. She feels, as women say, about " to sink," To hear his easy observations, Frank in themselves, but franker made by drink. And spotted with insinuations. She look'd towards her husband for protection. And then remember'd that her mask Had for a time disjointed that connection, And e'en debarr'd her from her task. Here was an end to all her female plotting ; An accident might make disgrace ; She trembled, truly, at the scrape she'd got in, And wish'd herself well out the place. Here was a man, who at her husband's table Scarce dar'd to meet her purer eye, To speak three words unblushing quite unable, Because a lady made him shy, Addressing her with jokes, and sly allusions. The tip-top of the slangy style, And thinking she received his bold intrusions, Her husband present all the while. M 122 DRAWING-ROOM TROUBLES. She nat'rally by habit drew to him Who was her lord, although unknown ; Indeed, from fear — but yet as if from whim — She plac'd her arm within his own. Her heart beat fast to find her husband shrank, And quietly unlink'd her hand, Saying, " An honour that — I'm bound to thank ; My friend you'll find at your command." The lady was obliged to get support, By leaning back against the wall ; To save herself was now her only thought. She saw her plans were folly all. She tried to slip away, but ere she went — By sad ill-luck — she chanced to spy. In her lord's pouch, a handkerchief ostent. She thought might serve her by-and-by. And so she quietly put in her fingers. And drew the cambric from its cover, But while one little piece within it lingers The friend perceived the quaint manceuvre. Whether the friend was hurt at being slighted. Or really thought the girl a thief. He caught her hand, and almost seem'd delighted To call aloud the last belief. THE MASQUERADE. 123 A crowd was gather'd, and the quick police To save disturbance march'd her oflf Tow'rds the seats of guardians of the peace. Behind the street-boys ran to scoff. The hapless dame had only time to ask To be allow 'd the cover of her mask, But soon they reach'd the station dread of Bow, Whither the friend and husband also go. The charge was made, — and then, oh ! shame, disgrace. The lady's told to show her hidden face ; The husband near her stood, — anxious to know her, Who was so amorous of his cambric blower. ''GrreatGreorge!" he cries, " my wafe, by all that's blue !" "No sir," she weeps, "your wife, by all that's true;" She seized the woman's guard for wrongs and fears, And stopp'd all further question by her tears. Of course the lady quickly was releas'd. It was no theft, according to the law. If all the women who'd their husbands eas'd Of chattels on the sly were made to draw Sharp justice on their heads, — how many houses Would soon be wanting in their female spouses. How they made up the diff'rence 'twixt themselves Is not related in the legend that I tell ; 'Tis said they put their quarrels on the shelves, And ever after got on very well. €\t Slj? f owng Pail THE SHY YOUNG MAN. PART I. My readers all must now and then Have come across some shy young men ; A class whose picture's difficult to trace, Its chiefest feat are being want of /ace ; Whose humour sjirings from being void of fun, And points eccentric from desiring none. The shy young man, too timid far Duly to work the common forms of life, Is ever in guerilla war : His quaint humility the cause of strife. Just as the quaker, to avoid the gay. Is more conspicuous in his suit of gray. The shy young men are all alike ; At least the set you meet about The drawing-rooms of London, strike As being from one mould come out. Now first, — They always come too early, At least an hour before the time ; In dishabille they catch you fairly. And smile quite innocent of crime. 128 DRAWING-ROOM TROUBLES. They're " mounted " in a frame of dress, But far too jimmy for their ease ; They think a crumple great distress, And ruin to their powers to please. And, when with you that fatal hour They spend, their conversation crumb On Madame Tussaud, or the tower. Or the new glories of Tom Thumb. Or other topics up are brought, So very stale, so very true. And so long banished from your thought They sometimes serve as good as new. When guests arrive — of course he stands, And, like the host, he smiles and bows. Or shyly offers to shake hands "With persons that he hardly knows. And when your chamber fairly fills. In nervous fit he roams about ; Or else your vase of roses spills. Or turns your print-books inside out. When butler next the meal announces, Although you've warn'd him of his lady Upon the wrong he surely pounces, And off he walks before you're ready. THE SHY YOUNG MAN. 129 When, too, your guests are round the table, And in some order you have got 'em, Then come your struggles to be able To get him seated near the bottom. The shy young man, unapt to choose, Partakes of all that's to him handed ; Feeling too timid to refuse, As if to surfeit he's commanded. Then after dinner, flushed with wine. He oft attempts some small attentions ; Tells a young lady she's divine, And then protests he's no intentions. At length he goes, and in the hall He dons a suit of Macintosh's ; A waterproof, nor is that all, A wrapper, mittens, and goloshes. * * * * 5p ^ 5p ^ Unapt in proper post to stay He's nearly always in the way : And worse — detected out of place. He never backs it out with grace ; But, with confusion, blows a little bubble. To the dimensions of a D. R. Trouble. At balls the shy youths stand in pairs About the only door you've left To open on the crowded stairs, As if of senses quite bereft. N 130 DRAWING-ROOM TROUBLES. Perhaps you sharply move them on — They blush and smile, then stand anon Placid — unconscious to all faults, Just in the circle of the waltz. * * * * A shy young man was once invited To a grand ball ; and quite delighted Put on a pair of snowy gloves, And polished boots, such little loves ; With golden-braided cashmere vest, All like a tailor's pattern drest. His hair was curl'd, for straight and meek It usual hung beside his cheek. With light red face, and like grey eyes, He deem'd himself a lady's prize. This handsome youth, in Hansom cab. Leans back in placid contemplation ; To read again the invitation. He seeks in vain ; ah ! what a stab — The note is gone, but could he make, In time, or place, or aught, mistake ? But when he reaches Bedford Square, He sees no lighted windows there, — No dashing carriages about, No lacquey tall, nor little boys. In search of light, and fun, and noise. Nor the bright bustle of a rout. But on he went, for he supposed They'd only had the shutters closed ; THE SHY YOUNG MAN. 131 That when he enters number fivej He'll find the mansion all alive. Arrived, the flaps he open flings, And boldly knocks, and loudly rings ; The tardy door is oped to him — He enters in : the hall is dim. Yet round it num'rous hats in piles, Which speak of man, — could woman's smiles Be kept away ? for it is plain So many men would meet in vain. Whatever doubts his mind may meet, He's far too timid to retreat ; Besides, the footman (who appears Surprised) precedes him up the stairs; So now, whatever may befall. He's in for something or a ball. His salutation made, — a glance Show'd him he wasn't there to dance : The gentlemen he saw were old. Ill-shod, ill-dressed, and bald, and cold ; All close engaged about some topic (He heard it not) of conversation ; He found they were, by observation. The class they call the " Philanthropic." The ladies there, and they were few. Were neither young, nor old, nor blue ; But rather favour'd most the class he Had heard bad people call the passee. His hostess comes : she, buxom, forty, Yet tall, majestic, rich, and haughty. 132 DRAWING-ROOM TROUBLES. Looks on the youth whose plain Inistake Makes his poor Soul within him quake ; His curled hair starts from its roots, His blood seems sinking to his boots. But as she speaks she on him smiles, Which for an instant fear beguiles : " I fear," she says, " you've made an error (Poor Shyly sank to dust with terror) ; 'Tis not to-night, but this day week, We have the ball I think you seek, But still I hope you'll here remain, You'll get some nurture for the brain ; We hold to-night a zealous soiree. To hear a rather mournful story. You'll hear some eloquent discourse. The first of our intended course ; That is the lect'rer, and these others Are all his philanthropic brothers. But now," she said " you've my description, I wait the amount of your subscription." The shy one smiled and look'd quite pleased If not himself, his pUrse was eased. Tlie party gather'd round about, One then intending to speak out. They all were seated near the fire, One seat remained sans occupier. Towards that seat the shy man went, To take it for himself intent ; It was a sitting boudoir-stool, And richly work'd in Berlin wool ; TUE SHY YOUNG MAN. 133 And on it lay, as on a mat, Asleep, a monster Persian cat, With long grey fur, both soft and silky, And underneath the body milky. It lay so moveless and so still, And seem'd a portion of the work to fill ; The fur's soft tints, from deep to deeper changed, Well might have been by female hands arranged ; So one, not knowing that it really lived, Might as to its existence be deceived. This curl'd-up brute, so soft and flabby, Was twice, at least, a common tabby. Whether the youth was aught near-sighted, Or by his shyness was benighted ; Or whether he thought the cat and stool Form'd one inanimated whole. Is not explain 'd : he smiled and blush'd ; But, awkward, 'cross the room he rush'd ; Unhesitating down he sat, And plump a-top the sleeping cat. Just then the lecture was begun. Attentive round sat every one ; As the first accent of the speaker fell, Their ears were splinter'd by a yell — Angry, hideous — such as wake Tlie Indian hunters in the brake, When the wild tiger of Bengal Eoars forth a whole zoological ;* '^* Any one visiting the upper part of Regent's Park at feeding-time will understand tliis. 134 DRAWING-ROOM TROUBLES. Or take a more familiar simile, Like the wild scream from lovely Emily, When once she on my bosom sigh'd. And sudden found my hair was dyed. The Persian cats, we know between us, The savagest of all their genus ; So think we not that Pussy long Contented lay 'neath such a wrong. She sprung revengeful on her foe, And made him leap in direst woe. Fixing her talons, 'midst his screeches, In a quaint portion of his breeches. He round the chamber, in a course. As wild as ran Mazeppa's horse, — O'er sofas, chairs, and tables flew. Amongst the philanthropic crew. Who fled before him all afraid, When needed most to render aid ; Who would not run him such a race. With such a demon on the chase ? The house was roused, the servants throng The gentlemen and dames among ; Had it not been for their pell-melling. The man and cat might still be yelling. A plain and rather stupid cook The fury round the body took, And, with a sudden effort, pickt him Off the shy, hapless, torn victim . ^ J" -^ M a -1 o -1 • •— o o f— -i >-i —1 p n Q 3 it: -*^ ce ^ j2 51 ii en ^ T) >; m - i ^5 a •3 3 fe 2 p. CU