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THE 
 
 DRAWING-ROOM TROUBLES 
 
 MOODY ROBINSON, ESQUIRE. 
 
"THE SHY YOUNG MAN."— Page 136. 
 
LONDON-! HOGG -AND *SONS 
 

 ^ 
 V 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Preface. ' 
 
 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, G9 
 
 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, 145 
 
 Magic Balm, 163 
 
 Moody Settled, 175 
 
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 moie 
 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 
 their frequency, 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 PREFACE. 
 
 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 polite exist- 
 ence biting him in his tenderest affections. 
 
 It is in the drawing-room, too, that taste is cultivated, 
 and refined education displayed. Think of the drawing- 
 room troubles of those rough 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 
 
PREFACE. Vll 
 
 that have been woven fur hiin by the admiring nymphs of 
 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 affections. 
 
 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 offer to her, sat on a very low prie- 
 dieu chair. The little lady sat anxious but expectant; to- 
 morrow she was to go to Eome 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 inadvertently stood up : had he retained his position, all 
 
VI 11 PREFACE. 
 
 had 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 Rome, 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 "Rape 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. 
 
%\t Jfafal iMfprtssiilw. 
 
THE FATAL INEXPKESSIBLES. 
 
 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, 
 
 Greet 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 [- 
 
 Has cost two years' manceuv'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 the offer and the day 
 The best plann'd matches fade in air away ! 
 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 not ride. 
 You visit at her father's house in Wales ; 
 Though soon your joyous heart within yon fails, 
 When seen the furious beast you're ask'd to back 
 (Your 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'erthrown. 
 
 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 ; 
 
THE 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 ! 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 his order, to fit the pretty person 
 
 Of his late lost one, Emily MTherson. 
 
 " 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 MThersons ; 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 — 
 
 II Which parcel for the lady?" John was puzzled. 
 
b 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 
 
 Eoth 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." 
 
 ^s H« * * * 
 
 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. 
 
Sentimental IMbjr. 
 
SENTIMENTAL MOODY. 
 
 Each man his trouble as his taste decides ; 
 
 His choice of gladness — 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 pates 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 in the ladies. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 * * * * 
 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 he 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 Yenus 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 Yenus, 
 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 
 You found, yet found not, all they meant to say. 
 
12 DRAWING-ROOM TROUBLES. 
 
 How to address her? — Sure do vulgar theme, 
 Or commoD talk, must mar so fair a dream. 
 The stage, th' opera seasou, e'eu Mout 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 been 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 workiug 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 
 Eefresh 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 reg'lar gard'ner /" 
 
SENTIMENTAL 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 brow, 
 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 fac'e 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 Hikfo of ims. 
 
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 when 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." 
 
18 DRAWING-ROOM TROUBLES. 
 
 Decidedly, the truth of this position 
 
 Was proved with Moody, who, agreeable, 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 efforts 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 offended 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, 
 
 Eestored his relish for the female graces ; 
 With Moody's taste so vastly too fastidious, 
 Could he but find the G-erman 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 Jcrout 
 
 To all the pretty things he talk'd about. 
 
 2b 
 
20 DRAWING-ROOM 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 as frauleins 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. 
 
 Yet 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 0¥ 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, till with Moody he had often dined — 
 
 Sold him three genuine (?) Eubens 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 bendings 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 — 
 
 G-ave to her charms the zest of singularity. 
 
22 DRAWING-ROOM TROUBLES. 
 
 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 a little puzzling. 
 She moved not as they came, but, strange to say, 
 Ketain'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. 
 
THE 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 
 Himself 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 ; 
 
 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 suggested music in her soul : 
 
 " Might he inquire the instrument she play'd 'n ? 
 
 Was hers the G-erman 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. 
 
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 /" 
 
 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 ! 
 
Htdofrg's Jfrieitb ; or, %\t $itaflkrttni Pan. 
 
MOODY'S FKIEND ; 
 OE, THE INADYEKTENT MAN. 
 
 PART I. 
 
 Some men are like bad watches — false Genevas, 
 Sold by the Jews to dupes as " patent levers," 
 Bejewell'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 them, 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 he 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 difT'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 spare 
 Much for enjoyment, with a proper care ; 
 
Moody's friend ; 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 — " Tou fool, he's dead ! 
 
 Keally, I wonder ! Ton my soul it's cruel ! 
 
 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-a-tete. 
 
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, 
 
THE 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 sjposy — 
 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 friends, besides, were almost rude — 
 Some whisper'd " passe," others mutter'd "prude." 
 
 c 
 
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 offer'd Ned fair Anna 
 
 In quite the most disinterested manner. 
 
 G-ood 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 her 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 his chest a banging, 
 Such as is felt, 'tis said, before a hanging. 
 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 brother 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 follow' d 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 mistakes, 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 should 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 he 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. 
 
 * * * * * 
 
 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, her 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 ohedience, 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 ! 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 proffer, 
 But Inadvertence with intruding call 
 Again, and yet again, delay'd the offer. 
 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 happy 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 hook 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 he 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. 43 
 
 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-a-tete 
 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'rite rose. 
 
44 DRAWING-ROOM TROUBLES. 
 
 She never smelt before so sweet a posy, 
 
 'Twas healthy scent, it made her cheeks quite 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 with joy and hope, 
 
 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 baffled 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. 45 
 
 So the young lady, with a modest bearing, 
 
 Left her poor friend despairing pardon — swearing. 
 
 He had not long been charing 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. — 
 
 " G-oing 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. 
 
 G-iving 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 charring ; 
 
 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, was 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 are. 
 
 " 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 yon) 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. 
 
 *T* *fc 3JC 5|C 
 
 The theatre was domestic, by the making 
 The larger of two drawing-rooms a hall 
 
 D 
 
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. — 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 discourse. 
 
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 parts 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 ;" j 
 
 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, 
 Grazes from off the hindmost row of chairs, 
 Eestless 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 ! 
 
 I really couldn't think it — not I, demmy ; 
 
 By Jove, she's clasping him ! G-ood 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. 
 11 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, u 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!" 
 And panting said, " Oh, pardon, I'll explain !" 
 But then his laughter rose again, again. 
 
 Just then, young Emmy entered 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." ' t 
 It made her laugh, hut also made her hlush. 
 This was too much for flesh and hlood 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 
 
 " From some strong act — it could not well he blamed — " 
 
 He had gone on, hut Emmy, now afraid he 
 
 Would do some violence, in haste exclaim'd, 
 
 " Edward, he 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-ROOM TROUBLES. 
 
 For you away, to act, our pet declined, 
 
 With 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 what. 
 
 " My pardon take for praising my humanity ;" 
 Then with a little jpiquante 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 trop." 
 
 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, when 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 blow, 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. 
 
ffoirgis Jfirsf ®ffn\ 
 
MOODY'S FIKST 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 unfurFd 
 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 plough'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 DRAWING-ROOM TROUBLES. 
 
 By using day as clay, 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, 
 Untutor'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. 
 
 J$C *%+ *|» 3}C 
 
 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 offer. 63 
 
 Her tete-a-tete "with 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. 
 
64 DRAWING-ROOM 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 dowo, 
 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 
 Completely 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, 
 While 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 lamp, 
 
 Nature still visible, but growing damp ; 
 
 When tender ladies from the garden turn, 
 
 And show their graces round the hissing urn. 
 
 E 
 
6$ DRAWING-ROOM TROUBLES. 
 
 Our friend and his host in the parlour sat, 
 
 In the silence that follows a lively chat, 
 
 And Moody began on a plan to muse, 
 
 Without offence 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 ; 
 Gould 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. 67 
 
 Her form was shawl'd — the hat was deeply veil'd — 
 He wish'd to look beneath — his courage fail'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 again, 
 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, 'twas the other sister. 
 Poor Moody started back, aghast, affrighted, 
 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 now 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 yon 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, l 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, 
 For 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. 
 
THE CKUEL SISTER. 
 
% mk\t sbtsk 
 
• 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, 
 
i& DRAWING-ROOM 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 poker, 
 
 Bat was touch'd up behind by invisible stoker. 
 
 The old comfort was flown, and, on gazing around, 
 
 My glances were met by looks cold and profound, 
 
 From two or three persons with 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 ? 
 
 .But 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. 
 
 The 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 this uncalled-for intrusion ?" 
 
A SLIGHT MISTAKE. 73 
 
 I might have soar'd higher, but was brought back to earth 
 By a touch on the arm, and those snobs' stifled mirth. 
 An elderly man, with a puckering brow, 
 Wish'd to draw my attention, and made me a bow ; 
 
 And accentedly said, " Sir, I have not the pleasure " 
 
 Why should he, indeed ? Eut 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 — but — 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 . 
 
 u 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 pet — 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 was lost — and my dinner was cold. 
 
wig's Bttntib (Sfftr. 
 
MOODY'S SECOND OFFEK. 
 
 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, 
 
 Each 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 ; 
 
 Andthough he's seen the world, known man,andtravell'd, 
 
 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 stiffen'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 fall'n 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-yea.'". 
 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. 
 
82 DRA WING-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 G-reece, Corfu, from Erin, and Rag-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 hour, 
 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. 85 
 
 She was, in fact, in treaty for her 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 his lodging 
 Euried 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 surrounded. 
 
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 G-allia's border. 
 
 "And why is that?" the answer, "I not know." 
 " My clothes and papers?" "All are on the train 
 And vhen you on de paquebot steamer go, 
 Ye 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* amies. 
 
 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 DRAWING-ROOM TROUBLES. 
 
 And so, when 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 rnaitre-d '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 puppies of legation, 
 
 And half the bureaux 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 off, and then perforce 
 
 Arose the question of her future course. 
 
 Now, 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 he afflicted. 
 
90 DRAWING-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 
 Keported in full style that all was lost, — 
 The accomplish'd bride, her beauty, and her coffers, 
 And thus was baulk'd the second of his offers. 
 
% Ctlegntpjw S.rtnUt 
 
A TELEGBAPHIC TKOUBLE. 
 
 The railway and the telegraph are lauded, 
 As doing more for us than ever war did ; 
 And yet, alas, 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 DRAWING-ROOM TROUBLES. 
 
 Next note a progress of a d inherent 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 TELEGRAPHIC TROUBLE. 95 
 
 But such a thing as this : — As when you're married, 
 Tou 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 traveling 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 his going further, 
 Suspected joining in a recent murther. 
 
 The frighten'd youth was just regaining breath, 
 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 i junction' soon with mine ; 
 Love, you well know, is one of those affairs 
 In which c 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 c express ;' 
 Her c governor's concession' also gain'd, 
 The ' terminus' of all is now attain'd. 
 Farewell, — believe not that a wrong my heart meant, 
 Or ought but duty to my own department." 
 
$Ws's »b mtx—% Cranks M. 
 
MOODY'S THIRD OFFER— A COUNTRY VISIT. 
 
 The mighty town is void. I'm well aware 
 That some genteelest persons yet are there ; 
 Although they'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 ; 
 Kidiculous ! What ? Espinasse M'G-rarler 
 Spend all the autumn id 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-ROOxM 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 
 Eecline 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 glances ; 
 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 he 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 affection 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 curses 
 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. 103 
 
 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-fitting skin ; 
 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 five, 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, 'tish'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, 
 
 Your 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 trie 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 Lydia 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 his 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 offer'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 a^,~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, with air of deep dejection, 
 
 " I fear, my friend, you'll find there's one objection." 
 
 Next morning found our friend in tete-a-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 
 Kested 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 affair 
 
 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 your husband, Madam, at whose feet 
 Tou 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. 1 09 
 
 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 hounds, 
 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 he 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 !" 
 
 Jfc 5{S 5)< ^i %. 
 
 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. 
 
t JgUMfMrBtt. 
 
THE MASQUEKADE. 
 
 Oe 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 perfum'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 those things 
 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, gentle, pure, 
 Are of the world the portion most refin'd, 
 But that they oft misjudgingly endure 
 To lose the kernel when they scorn the rind. 
 
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. 
 
 Tou 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. 115 
 
 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 ; 
 Sour 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-arrris. 
 
 Frugal their meals, as suited their condition, 
 "With all their plate and glass in requisition. 
 Einish'd the simple feast, — the dame would say, 
 " Mellish, I think we'll take no wine to-day." 
 " Please you, 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 stiffly 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 of that house dar'd such sedition. 
 
THE MASQUERADE. 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 birthj 
 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 she 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. 
 
118 DRAWING-ROOM TROUBLES. 
 
 Correction should be smooth, and broad, and bold, 
 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 ; 
 G-ood 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 MASQUEKADE. 119 
 
 Here was a shock ! — her outrag'd sense of right 
 
 Pass'd o'er her hridal feelings like a blight ; 
 
 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 I 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. 
 
 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, — 
 Bedizen'd men — but gentlemen in name ; 
 Eichly clad women, whose commencing shame, 
 
120 DRAWING-ROOM TROUBLES. 
 
 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 Moris : — 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 souDd, 
 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 shotted 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. 
 
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 manoeuvre. 
 
 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 off 
 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. 
 
 " G-reat G-eorge !" he cries, "my wife, 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. 
 
% % f frog Pair. 
 
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/eafatre being want of face ; 
 Whose humour springs 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 SHT 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. 
 
 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. E. 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. 
 
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, 
 
 ]STo 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 five, 
 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 mistake 
 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. 
 
 The 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 ; 
 
TIIE 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 
 The Indian hunters in the brake, 
 When the wild tiger of Bengal 
 Koars forth a whole zoological ;* 
 
 * Any one visiting the upper part of Kegent's Park at feeding-time 
 will understand this. 
 
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 . 
 
M MM .§ 
 o o o -3 
 
 73 2 Z t» 
 ■a ^ * J§ 
 
THE SHY YOUNG MAN. 135 
 
 Twitches of pain, and breathless sighs, 
 
 Succeeded to hysteric cries ; 
 
 As deep in terror and in tone 
 
 As the long-anguished hollow groan 
 
 Moan'd forth, when came my comrade Binns, 
 
 To hear his " son and heir" was twins. 
 
 The shy one left — 
 
 Or came he more, or yet the ball forgot, 
 Is still unknown, — the legend sayeth not. 
 
THE SHY YOUNG MAN. 
 
 PART II. 
 
 In morning calls the shy young man 
 Exhibits most his shy young plan ; 
 Long his silence, long his stay, 
 Too shy to talk or go away. 
 
 The shy young man in common calls 
 
 Just at the time of expectation 
 That 'fore a walk or dinner falls, 
 
 And throws you out of calculation 
 As to your day ; your patient powers 
 He tries by sitting on for hours. 
 
 A fair young lady sat one day 
 
 Alone, and waiting with a modest hope ; 
 Her friends were all perchance away ; 
 
 And scarce she dared to give her wishes scope 
 That one would call ; at least to say farewell, 
 Who, ere he went, would something have to tell. 
 
 Another day, and then he sails, 
 
 This was the last and only chance he had ; 
 And if he not himself avails 
 
 Of this, he leaves her weeping, hopeless, sad ; 
 On these few hours her grief or joy abided, 
 Or cometh he or not, her fate's decided. 
 
THE SHY YOUNG MAN. ; 137 
 
 Of course she watches with a beating heart 
 
 Each noisy summons at the door : 
 At last there comes a knock — oh ! gladden'd start, 
 
 She sits and listens more and more ; 
 He is announced ! — what meets her anxious scan ? 
 G-ood lack ! the simper of the shy young man. 
 
 Her cheeks grow pale, and then indignant burn, 
 
 She bids him sit, with hesitation ; 
 In two hours more her sisters will return, 
 
 But three his usual visitation : 
 Why bid him sit ? for once she might be rude ; 
 Alas ! she's done it, and she knows he's glued. 
 
 She gazes at him with a vacant stare, 
 
 A desp'rate faintness at her heart ; 
 " Why sits the fool — the stupid — simp'ring there ; 
 
 Oh ! if a girl might take her part, 
 She'd make her fingers tingle on his ears." 
 She struggles hard to stem the tide of tears. 
 
 Some minutes more, her Eustace may arrive, 
 
 And this great booby in the way. 
 She feels bewilder'd, yet she must contrive 
 
 The means to end his tether stay ; 
 She at him stares, unnerved to form a plan, 
 But still talks murmuring on the shy young man. 
 
 What shall she do to rout this project-spoiler? 
 
 Another man would take a hint ; 
 She might as well upon an iron boiler 
 
 With her soft palm attempt a dint, 
 
 o 
 
133 DRAWING-ROOM TROUBLES. 
 
 As hope the sharpest words her lips could utter 
 Would rouse his spirit to the smallest flutter. 
 
 What shall she do ? Or shall she go away, 
 Or scold him well, or call out " fire !" 
 
 And yet she dare not such manoeuvres play, 
 Nor can she for a space retire, 
 
 For fear, if such expedient were tried, 
 
 Her Eustace might arrive, and be denied. 
 
 She gazes, heedless of his commonplaces, 
 
 And so intent she looks in fear, 
 At last he thinks his talk has caught the graces 
 
 Most pleasing to a lady's ear : 
 A loud outlandish knock her friend announces, 
 And in before the man he on them bounces. 
 
 Of course he takes her hand with warmest pressing, 
 
 But greets the other with a stare 
 And something else low mutter 'd — not his blessing ; 
 
 His looks the other really scare, 
 Who casts his timid eyes upon the ground, 
 Nor dares to raise them, or to look around. 
 
 It was but natural that the loving pair 
 
 Should keep their conversation to themselves, 
 
 Nor heed the silent shy one sitting there, 
 
 Counting the books upon the crowded shelves ; 
 
 So on they went, and growing more devoted, 
 
 Forgot that by a third their acts were noted. 
 
THE SHY YOUNG MAN. 139 
 
 All those who've freld such dialogues must know 
 The smallest trifles serve to raise a laugh ; 
 
 Not that much fun from off them ever flow, 
 But that the cup of happiness we quaff ; 
 
 The timid fool mistook the laughs for wit, 
 
 And thought he heard a very pointed hit. 
 
 The young enamour'd mariner was nearing 
 By skilful tacks the harbour of his rest ; 
 
 His words were growing more and more endearing ; 
 The lady blush'd and laugh'd as on he prest ; 
 
 Just at the last, the shy one thought he saw 
 
 The point, and broke out with a loud guffaw. 
 
 The lovers woke to earth, and with a start ! 
 
 " S-i-r " — cried the sailor, springing to his feet, 
 Quitting the lady snatch 'd from off his heart, 
 
 Who interposed in time to calm his heat; 
 The trembling shy one quoth, "I beg your pardon," 
 Which sent the damsel blushing to the garden. 
 
 Of course, she's quickly join'd by one at least, 
 
 Whose conversation is a perfect feast ; 
 
 Again by shorter tacks he nears the port. 
 
 Wild as his native sea, unbound, untaught, 
 
 His love breaks forth in one strong rushing tide, 
 
 When lo ! he sees the shy one at her side. 
 
 " G-reat earth and heaven," he savage thinks, 
 
 " Must this young bore still grieve us ? 
 
 Will he not take the plainest nods and winks ?— 
 
 It would be only kind to leave us." 
 
 He thinks of some revenge in any shape. 
 
 Or, fetter still, some outlet for escape : 
 
140 DRAWING-ROOM TROUBLES. 
 
 Taking advantage of a luckless trip 
 
 Of the poor lad, they sharply give the slip ; 
 
 Through the dark walks they gallop, more they wander, 
 
 And gain quite blown the villa's cool verandah ; 
 
 He takes his place beside her ready in a chair. 
 
 One moment more the shy young man was there ; 
 Also half out of breath, to stop their wiles 
 With a new harvest of his simple smiles. 
 
 The loving couple sit in silent huff; 
 
 The gallant thinks of saying, " Sir, enough 
 
 "We've had of this fine game ; you ought to know 
 
 That you're particularly ask'd to go." 
 
 But then he felt such plain revealings 
 
 Might be ungrateful to his sweetheart's feelings ; 
 
 He had no right to say, whate'er his guess, 
 
 That her response would be a loving " Yes." 
 
 And she, poor girl, in common not a coward, 
 
 On this Occasion felt herself o'erpower'd ; 
 
 So delicately placed she dared not say, 
 
 " My dear sir, I wish you'd go away." 
 
 Once more they tread the garden in despair, 
 
 The shy young man attending them with care. 
 
 The lovers mute, — the intruder talks 
 
 With softest murmurs as he walks ; 
 
 Happily unconscious as the dead, 
 
 Of all the maledictions on his head. 
 
 They heard the clock within the neighbouring tower 
 Chime forth the coming of the parting hour ; 
 One half-hour more, and they must say good-night, 
 Their chance gone by of making things all right. 
 
THE SHY YOUNG MAX. 141 
 
 The seaman feels with bitterness the blight, 
 
 Nor comfort takes in thiDking he may write. 
 
 For when so far to go, it would so tell 
 
 To take a more material fare-you-well ; 
 
 That form, those cheeks, those hands, those cluster'd tresses, 
 
 Had been so long in thought connected with caresses. 
 
 He'd hoped when far away on sternest duty, 
 
 To bring to mind some touches of her beauty ; 
 
 Kecall the hallow'd honey of her lip, 
 
 In the close bosom of the narrow ship ; 
 
 Or cherish in his heart some tender words, 
 
 That should amidst all perils be rewards. 
 
 But now it was not so (oh I he shall rue it) ^ 
 
 Because this lubber wouldn't let 'em do it ; 
 
 What shall he do — thrash him ? — that with ease ; 
 
 Or tie him up extended 'twixt two trees ? 
 
 Or with his needle-like umbrella stick him ? 
 
 Or lengthen out his nose, or simply kick him ? 
 
 By luck these desperate designs 
 Were changed to torture for five mortal hours. 
 
 The party went to view the vines, 
 And forcing-houses for exotic flowers, 
 
 Built by the lady's father, who 
 Indulged a sort of horticultural dream 
 Of growing tropic plants by force of steam, 
 
 But not of that it came to do. 
 
 Now when they were the hottest house to leave, 
 
 The shy one linger'd far behind ; 
 A sudden thought of vengeance and reprieve 
 
 Struck on the sailor's vivid mind. 
 
142 DRAWING-ROOM TROUBLES. 
 
 He turn'd the steam-cock to its fullest tide, 
 Shut in his foe and lock'd the door outside : 
 
 Then joined his sweetheart with a careless air, 
 
 As if unconscious of his victim there. 
 
 I need not say he wasted not a minute 
 
 In op'ning out his heart with all then in it. 
 
 When he had heard his fond one's love decree, 
 He meant, indeed, to set his victim free ; 
 But now immersed in passion, happy, blind, 
 The boiling booby vanish'd from his mind, 
 Grave his last kiss, forgot the steam to alter, 
 And went off joyous on his road to Malta, 
 
 Meantime the shy young man had smiled 
 
 At what he thought was merely meant as joke, 
 
 Nor till some time he had beguiled 
 
 In looking at the plants, to danger woke, 
 
 Nor thought the deed was meant for any harm, 
 
 Until he felt unnaturally warm. 
 
 The tropic plants from Afric's torrid shore 
 
 Began to droop their petals more and more, 
 
 The boiling steam their strength had fairly done, 
 
 Accustom'd as they were to broiling sun. 
 
 The youth entrapp'd, now watched with eager eyes 
 
 A small thermometer still rise and rise. 
 
 The "blood-heat" bound'ry pass'd, small spacer; sever 
 
 The climbing metal from the mark of " fever :" 
 
 It reach'd the feverish point, and now a quarter 
 
 Of the dread space 'twixt that and boiling water. 
 
THE SHY YOUNG MAN. 143 
 
 What shall he do ? it is no time to think ; 
 
 The lively mercury never slept a wink ; 
 
 The dreadful oven hotter waxed and hotter. 
 
 In trouble never an experienced plotter, 
 
 His sole device was charging at the glass : 
 
 He downward bent his head, — he charged, alas ! — 
 
 His head went out, the little shiver'd gap, 
 
 B:tween the sturdy frames, became a trap ; 
 
 His head was out, his hat thrust down upon it 
 
 In that position that we call the "bonnet." 
 
 His shoulders stopp'd the way, and nothing more 
 Could be put out, or any part withdrawn ; 
 Outside, an eastern wind his face was freezing, 
 Inside, the air was hotter than was pleasing. 
 
 Some hours pass'd : then by another way 
 The owner of the hot-house came to stray 
 Amongst his loved exotics ; in his hand 
 He held a lamp, for night was o'er the land : 
 The over-heating of the place he soon detected, 
 And in an instant that defect corrected ; 
 And slowly gazed around, without a word, 
 Two spectacles on nose, and here a third, — 
 What strange mysterious growth now met his sight, 
 Was it some mighty fungus of the night ? — 
 Some new production from the power of steam, 
 All indistinctly seen in vapoury gleam ? 
 His cautious touch was answer'd by the tones 
 Of hollow grunts, and deeply-mutter'd groans ; 
 Although not superstitious, sudden dread 
 Comes o'er him as the fungus groans — he fled ! 
 
s 
 
 araage. 
 
MOODY'S FIRST MARBIAGE. 
 
 Having related how our facile friend 
 Was foil'd or kinder'd in his various schemes 
 Of matrimonial bliss, we near the end — 
 So common to the story of such dreams ; 
 He did the very thing he mostly dreaded, 
 And with a woman he abhorr'd he wedded. 
 
 I know not how it is, yet ladies say, 
 No man his first love ever makes a wife of; 
 That Prudence in Love's river swims away ; 
 Or that the close agreement makes a strife of 
 Small trifles other kinds of friends pass over, 
 But form the very life-breath of the lover. 
 
 So that the pair who'd die for one another, 
 At least get seriously hipp'd when parted ; 
 G-row very touchy on the smallest bother, 
 And, lastly, quarrel when directly thwarted. 
 These show what's call'd a spirit, till a tide 
 Of bitter feelings aids the rush of pride. 
 
 The lady takes to tears, the man to drinking, 
 Until th' advice of friends the breach completes, 
 "Which th' unhappy pair commenced unthinking, 
 Merely to change the flavours of love's treats, — 
 
148 DRAWING-ROOM TROUBLES. 
 
 Like discord mingled with harmonious sounds. 
 And so a little squabble ends in wounds. 
 
 Or p'raps the damsel gives her heart away 
 
 Without the cognizance of dread papa ; 
 
 She cannot gain consent, nor disobey, 
 
 And so, for comfort, promises mamma 
 
 To break off with her lover on the first occasion, 
 
 Meanly according to her friends' persuasion. 
 
 So years roll on, and then they meet again ; 
 The man's strong fibre trembles to its core, 
 For Time has sooth'd e'en insult's bitter pain. 
 His heart springs up — -to view her face once more : 
 "Great Heavens!" he cries, "Is that my long-lost fairy? 
 Is that respectable plump person, Mary?" 
 
 But she looks up with fondness, for the heart 
 
 Of woman feels a little longer than a man's. 
 
 " 'Tis he," she feels ; " I see him." What a start ! 
 
 " How stout my Henry's grown !" Again she scans. 
 
 " His nose so red ; I'm sure his hair is dyed ; 
 
 Is this the man for whom for years I've sighed?" 
 
 And so they part good friends, but disenchanted : 
 He to his calling, or another beauty ; 
 She to a wifehood, where she's really wanted ; 
 Making life cheerful in a round of duty — 
 Keeping her sons from smoking, lies, and stealing; 
 But most, her daughters from the curse of feeling. 
 
Moody's first marriage. 149 
 
 'Tis thus the truest lovers oft are parted 
 But to he match'd at last in better grain ; 
 Though hard such fortunes to the tender-hearted, 
 Yet few would care to make them o'er again. 
 Creatures of ease, a calm and low contentment 
 Bemosses o'er love, sorrow, and resentment. 
 
 Thus lovers wed awry ; oft'ner still coquettes, 
 Who spread for all their spider-woven nets ; 
 And not less oft do men of expectations, 
 Who dally out their days in coy flirtations ; 
 Thinking, their money makes them so sublime, 
 They'll find the girl they want at any time ; 
 And so they might, did their conceit permit 
 Their eyes to see how humble is their fit. 
 
 The same with beauties, surfeited with praise, 
 In looking for the one they waste their days, 
 Until at last arrives the fatal hour, 
 When the tide ebbs, and then flows back their power. 
 These find, alas ! in choosing from too many, 
 The land is bare, without their choosing any ; 
 And in the game of hearts, at length the losers, 
 Find those they claim'd to choose are now the choosers. 
 Thus true Caprice, by no Experience taught, 
 Is, in the match it scorn'd, unwilling caught. 
 The same it was with Moody, but for ease 
 Of narative we'll plunge " in medias res." 
 
 *l* *T* *T* *t* 
 
 The lady was a G-erman — not a beauty — 
 Both fat and forty, but not fair ; 
 
150 DRAWING-ROOM TROUBLES. 
 
 With half a set of teeth, that did the duty 
 That ty/ice the number could, if there. 
 
 Her hair had once been red,— that ardent ray, 
 Like winter dawn, now struggled with the grey. 
 The lady's figure, rather broad than tall ; 
 But if to her form " some imperfections fall, 
 Look on her face, and you'd forget them all ;" 
 Not for its beauty, as with Pope's creation, 
 But ugliness so great has fascination 
 That fixes, though it charms not, the attention, — 
 Like the grotesque, her native land's invention. 
 The eyes were twinkling quick like living creatures, 
 That fought for place amidst the mass of features ; 
 The nose was broad and flat ; the mouth a cavern, 
 Or double doorway of a G-erman tavern, 
 That open'd from the head, beside the ears, 
 Just like an oyster or a pair of shears. 
 
 With arms like bolsters, and with hands like fins. 
 Her form resembled much those men of snow 
 Boys build in winter. Then her winks and grins 
 In balance kept the oddity below 
 Of all ; her skin was most a wonder seen — 
 'Twas sallow, tawny, mottled with pale green. 
 
 Though no one who the first time saw this woman 
 
 But felt her presence with a kind of shudder, 
 
 Yet witness'd with surprise, though scarcely human, 
 
 She was of her society the rudder ; 
 
 For Nature, in her usual startling freaks, 
 
 Had granted mind the glow she robbed the cheeks. 
 
Moody's first marriage. 151 
 
 Her discourse flow'd on like a rill 
 
 Murm'ring and grateful, yet not loud, 
 
 And yet so changing, gentle — till 
 
 The life seem'd vanish'd from the list'ning crowd ; 
 
 Her voice was clear in tone, and such its ring, 
 
 The wonder was it burst from such a spring. 
 
 Like all the learned of the German crew, 
 She loved the Mystic rather than the True ; 
 She was a mesmerist, and sought to please 
 By giving sleepy friends magnetic ease ; 
 One thing seem'd strange, at least to a beginner, 
 The charm was most successful after dinner. 
 
 When Moody first beheld this lady, 
 
 He felt the same repugnance as did others; 
 
 Nor conquer'd it, no effort made he, 
 
 His sense of horror quite his breeding smothers. 
 
 So that he heard not ; and the voice, 
 
 Whose magic strains encharm'd the painful form, 
 
 Bespell'd him not — he'd not rejoice 
 
 In simple sound — would sailor in the storm ? 
 
 *p *p 5JC 2JC 
 
 At length his constant, firm resistance, 
 Became a joke amidst the wits about him : 
 Their badinage nigh wore out his existence, 
 They swore he loved her — who, who saw, could doubt it ? 
 Did he look glum, some brutes who thought it pleasing 
 Then followed in his wake with cruel teasing ; 
 Whisper'd her name, and poked him in the side ; 
 And, if he angry grew, but grinn'd more wide. 
 
152 DRAWING-ROOM TROUBLES. 
 
 Others — the fair ones — with more seeming art, 
 
 When he abused her, laugh'd, and took her part ; 
 
 And when he said — " Their joke — could he prevent it?' 
 
 With comic graveness ask'd him if he meant it ; 
 
 Or when he ask'd a polka, with a titter 
 
 Whisper'd they thought him pledged to fat De Bitter ; 
 
 Or at a dinner, scarce disguised his laughin', 
 
 The host would ask him to conduct the grafinn; 
 
 At pic-nics, morning-calls, it made him groan 
 
 Ever to find himself with her alone. 
 
 But thus his friends contrived — as if compassion 
 
 Urged them to aid his ill-assorted passion ; 
 
 The lady join'd the fun ; should e'er his eye 
 
 By chance meet hers, she struggled to look shy ; 
 
 Or to her rnouchoir or a trembling took, 
 
 Or seem'd to ask for pity in a look ; 
 
 In fact, indeed, she play'd so well her part, 
 
 That generous Moody took her grief to heart. 
 
 He sought an explanation with her friends, 
 
 But all his explanation nothing mends. 
 
 Some smiled, as if affecting to believe 
 
 His protestations tendered to deceive ; 
 
 Others spoke loudly, and took pity on her, 
 
 Express'd surprise, and hinted much at honour. 
 
 Moody felt crazed ; thought of murder, flight ; 
 
 At last declared he'd do what they thought right. 
 
 The thing grew serious, as most jokes do, 
 So they deep counsel took to bear it through ; 
 " Suppose they tell him all ; no, that's a bother, 
 'Twere best to end one canard with another. 
 
Moody's first marriage. 153 
 
 " The dame," tliey said, "although it might surprise him, 
 Would be contented could she mesmerise him." 
 
 Moody, without disguise, was so much worn 
 With this affair, he was indeed forlorn ; 
 He felt half-mad — whole weary of his life, 
 To think his fate might find him such a wife ; 
 So when she ask'd from him so slight ordeal 
 As mesmerism — he scarcely thought it real. 
 
 , The clique were met, 
 The chairs were set, 
 The circle form'd around 
 To watch the rapport, 
 And something more, 
 The fun that they had found. 
 
 And Moody was there, 
 
 In an easy chair, 
 
 But not in an easy mood ; 
 
 Before him was seated 
 
 The woman he hated, 
 
 Till he thought he could take her blood. 
 
 Her squat, fat figure 
 (Like half-bleach'd nigger) 
 Was before him face to face ; 
 And her knees touch'd his, 
 And her hapless " phiz" 
 Was from his but a little space. 
 
 And he feels his liver 
 Collapse with a shiver, 
 
154 DRAWING-ROOM TROUBLES. 
 
 As she touches his shrinking hands ; 
 
 But with surprise 
 
 He finds his eyes 
 
 Watch hers for their commands. 
 
 And as he gazed, 
 
 He feels amazed, 
 
 Those eyes, which the face so mars, 
 
 Come forth to light, 
 
 Both soft and bright, 
 
 Till they shine like a pair of stars. 
 
 And through his fingers 
 
 A soft pain lingers, 
 
 As she strokes his yielding palm ; 
 
 And it grows intense, 
 
 Till ev'ry sense 
 
 Seems wrapt in a magic qualm. 
 
 Then the breathing grows loud 
 
 Of the watching crowd, 
 
 Then vanishes quite away ; 
 
 But through the room 
 
 A rich perfume 
 
 Seems to make its subtle way. 
 
 And as he breathes 
 Of its cloudy wreaths, 
 It satisfies his inner 
 Sense of taste, 
 Without the waste 
 Of eating a costly dinner. 
 
MOODY^ FIRST MARRIAGE. 155 
 
 And ev'ry limb 
 
 Appears to swim 
 
 Or rest in a lazy mood ; 
 
 Languidly living, 
 
 But pleasure giving, 
 
 As if it had been shampoo'd. 
 
 And to his sight 
 
 The taper's light 
 
 Grew bright as a summers sVy ; 
 
 But with a gleam 
 
 As soft as the beam 
 
 That shines from young Beauty's eye. 
 
 The lady before him 
 
 Appears to adore him — 
 
 He deeply returns her passion ; 
 
 And there comes a change, 
 
 Both rich and strange, 
 
 In her age, and form, and fashion. 
 
 She seem'd as lymph 
 
 As a sweet young nymph 
 
 From school and her early teens ; 
 
 Before she assumes 
 
 Those queer costumes 
 
 Of jupons and crinolines. 
 
 Her hair of gold, 
 In many a fold, 
 
156 DKAWING-KOOM TROUBLES. 
 
 Flow'd down on her snowy bust ; 
 
 And the roses red 
 
 Her cheeks o'erspread, 
 
 For, as he gazed, she blush'd. 
 
 Then grew her eyes 
 
 An enormous size, 
 
 A fearful pair of " meaners ;" 
 
 Their iris' verge 
 
 Was twice as large 
 
 As Lady Clementina's. 
 
 He gazed his fill, 
 Till no more still 
 . Could he rest in his easy chair ; 
 He felt his heart 
 Would burst apart 
 Unless he clasp 'd her there. 
 
 He strove to stand, 
 
 But e'en his hand 
 
 Lay still, and he couldn't rise ; 
 
 He sat tight bound 
 
 By spells around, 
 
 Sent forth from those magic eyes. 
 
 Then through his brain 
 
 Shot bitter pain, 
 
 As if his soul would weep ; 
 
 Once more in vain 
 
 He strove to gain 
 
 The prize — then fell asleep. . 
 
Moody's first marriage. 157 
 
 Need we relate the wondrous feats 
 
 The medium wrought in magic slumber ; 
 
 How he sat in chairs that had no seats ; 
 
 How he read with his toe a hidden number ; 
 
 Correctly told to a single penny 
 
 The fortunes of those who hadn't any. 
 
 The wonder was, when he awoke 
 The charm was not dissolved ; 
 His senses still were all in smoke, 
 And mystery involved. 
 
 And still before his eyes arose 
 That vision of his brain, 
 That now in deep conviction grows 
 As something real and plain. 
 
 So, day by day, he more believed 
 The lady was a grace, 
 Until he only lived and breathed 
 To gaze upon her face. 
 
 And ever whisper'd soft regards 
 In melancholy fashion, 
 Although she 'gainst his fancy guards 
 That she returns his passion. 
 
 At last his case reach'd such a turn 
 His friends took much alarm ; 
 E'en the most careless could discern 
 These spells would lead to harm. 
 
158 DRAWING-ROOM TROUBLES. 
 
 Yet, strange to say, he still retain'd 
 
 His faculties entire ; 
 
 Although his thoughts were soon constrain'd 
 
 In this one wild desire. 
 
 A year went on, and still was there 
 This strange hallucination ; 
 'Till his well-wishers ceased to care 
 About his situation. 
 
 Nothing could soothe his fever'd mind 
 But soft magnetic sleep, 
 To which she could his senses bind 
 By .one slow manual sweep. 
 
 So, day by day, his madness grew, 
 Each day he made an offer ; 
 And every day she backward drew 
 From his lunatic proffer. 
 
 Something took place in the lady's fate 
 That seemed to change her tone : 
 She gave more heed to Moody's state 
 Than she would care to own. 
 
 And laughing said — " That ne'er again 
 She hoped he'd be absurd ; 
 He'd best beware, — for even then 
 She'd take him at his word." 
 
Moody's first marriage. 159 
 
 Once more to her, whom once he loathed, 
 He offer'd heart and hand ; 
 Fastidious Moody is betrothed 
 To the ugliest in the land. 
 
 His friends were wroth ; the lady said 
 Her object was for good ; 
 In this pursuit, she was afraid, 
 His mind not long had stood. 
 
 Forced to agree, they soon approved, 
 Although his mother sigh'd ; 
 For he not only madly loved, 
 But was half-mad beside. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 The wedding guests were gather'd in the aisle, 
 And whisper comments as they wait awhile, 
 For the young bridegroom, and his ancient bride, 
 Who enter church, most loving, side by side ; 
 They stand before the altar ; Moody leers 
 As if were gather'd then the love of years, 
 As if he hadn't time in coming life 
 To view the plump one whom he makes his wife. 
 
 The ring is on — their hands together prest, 
 The vows are utter'd, and the couple blest. 
 
 But, mercy now ! why starts he far away 
 In such pale fear — such livid, dark dismay ? 
 
 No sooner were the binding answers spoken, 
 Than, fatal to relate,— the spell was broken ! 
 
160 DRAWING-ROOM TROUBLES. 
 
 And Moody saw, with clear unclouded eyes, 
 His more than better-half (at least in size) ; 
 He saw unveil'd — so long in mystery clothed — 
 The hapless form, that now once more he loathed. 
 At first in strange surprise he keenly stares, 
 And then in hideous terror wildly glares ; 
 With trembling knees, cheeks pallid as the dead, 
 He gave one fearful cry, and then he fled. 
 
 And with the error, common to those stunn'd 
 
 In brain, he sought the house he should have shunn'd ; 
 
 Or, pr'aps the house he should have sought ; at least, 
 
 He soon was standing by the wedding-feast. 
 
 As he grew calm, he found that not alone 
 
 Was he permitted in that room to groan. 
 
 That near him sat a party, stout and ruddy, 
 
 The very counterpart of Mrs Moody. 
 
 He greeted Moody with an eye of search, 
 
 And said, " Sare, ees my wife koom back from church ?" 
 
 " Your wife, sir ! " M. replied, the notion dreading ; 
 
 " I neither know nor care," he said, as burn'd 
 
 His anger quick ; just then the guests return'd. 
 
 The gentle Mistress Moody, late De Eitter, 
 
 Went to her lord, amidst a general titter. 
 
 She sat beside him, wept, and would have knelt, 
 
 Could that have soothed the horror that he felt. 
 
 After a silence, lifted from the ground 
 
 Her redden'd eyes, and timid look'd around. 
 
 By chance she look'd towards the stout unknown, 
 
 Stared for a space, then fainted with a groan. 
 
 " Mein G-ott! " the stranger cried, " she faint, my pet ; 
 
 Mine frau — my wifes you say — mine Schatz Babette." 
 
Moody's first marriage. 161 
 
 So true it was: the gentleman, good lack, 
 Was her first husband, suddenly come back ; 
 Who'd left some years before, his native glee-land, 
 To traffic with the natives of New Zealand. 
 
 With salts revived, the lady now can sit, 
 
 And meet him with affection, as 'twas fit. 
 
 " Why you forget ?" said he, grief-beaten. 
 
 The lady said — " They wrote that you were eaten ; 
 
 Bade me not go, as 'twas beyond my pains, 
 
 By going there to honour your remains ; 
 
 Nor till months after you had been at rest, 
 
 Did I accept the offers long addrest." 
 
 Then they embrace, and she some trouble takes, 
 
 To show her second marriage all mistakes. 
 
 But let us turn to Moody : in a trance 
 Some time he stood, then ended with a dance, 
 With mad fantastic steps that would adorn 
 The wild delights of landscape-laid Cremorne. 
 It took four men to hold him, and so make fast 
 His carcass in a chair to eat his breakfast. 
 Justice was done that meal, with satisfaction, 
 The same as if it meant a real transaction. 
 
l$apf §alm. 
 
MAGIC BALM. 
 
 Now years went on with Moody, and the lines 
 That crept unwatch'd to stations 'neath his eyes 
 Mark'd ancient Time with all his old designs 
 To hide his coming, till o'erhead he flies 
 To come a stranger, when he claims his own, 
 Nor tell that youth is going — till he's flown. 
 
 This we helieve a great design of life, 
 Although a shallow thinker calls it grief 
 To fight the fight 'twixt youth and middle life ; 
 Although it must from pain be great relief 
 Not to perceive morn's cool delights are done 
 Until the fainting heats of noon begun. 
 
 It's quite amusing when a man discovers 
 He isn't quite the beau he was of yore ; 
 Some time around the fact he weakly hovers, 
 At last he says, " It's true, but what a bore." 
 Perhaps he tells his nearest friends about it, 
 He's very shock'd to find — they never doubt it. 
 
 And so, with Moody, slowly gather'd round 
 The usual signs, and in their usual order : 
 That sweet fresh youth was slowly losing ground, 
 And being routed in complete disorder : 
 
166 DRAWING-ROOM TROUBLES. 
 
 He was no longer young, and yet alive, 
 Unwon, unwed, and nearly thirty-five. 
 
 First went his brown and curling hair, 
 
 His broaden'd temples slowly getting bare : 
 
 'Twas moving quite to hear him as he call'd, 
 
 On making the discovery, — " I'm bald." 
 
 Then went he wild for every kind of stuff 
 
 To keep the hair from falling, though enough 
 
 Still came away to put him out of humour, 
 
 And make a profit for the bland perfumer. 
 
 "With zeal he read Erasmus Wilson's book, 
 
 Then to hard brushes and cold water took ; 
 
 Then to soft brushes, and the water warm, — 
 
 Which, if no good, at least could do no harm. 
 
 Then he found out a talented professor 
 
 In an old bankrupt, cidevant hairdresser, 
 
 Who rubb'd his scalp with something aromatic 
 
 That made it smart, and almost raised a blister ; 
 
 To soothe it, the professor, diplomatic, 
 
 Talk'd of his cures ; — meanwhile a bustling sister 
 
 Announced, from time to time, with careless stating, 
 
 That many noble persons were in waiting 
 
 To have their heads bedaub'd — (in such profusion 
 
 The waiting must be in great confusion) — 
 
 That Moody thought a thought that quite appall'd — 
 
 " The whole nobility are growing bald." 
 
 The learned man would say, " A few more touches, 
 
 And then we've done — Maria, call the Duchess." 
 
 Thus Moody was consol'd in this affair, 
 It seem'd to be bon ton to lose the hair. 
 
MAGIC BALM. 167 
 
 Not long this homage fashion could he render, 
 His hair grew not, although his head grew tender. 
 The great professor swore things satisfactory : 
 In spite of all, his patient grew refractory. 
 No doubt, the system rais'd the latter's ire, 
 His head was now — just like a hall of fire ; 
 He car'd not whether all his locks should fall, 
 He wish'd his head off, — hair, scalp, and all. 
 
 But soon he tried one with a higher voucher, 
 So well described by Dickens as Miss Mowcher : 
 She bled his pocket with another notion, 
 Her source of income was a cooling lotion ; 
 She cool'd her client soon, — to her disaster 
 He found his gold went fast, — his hair went faster. 
 He tried one more professor — of him 'twas true 
 His system had not fail'd — for 'twas quite new. 
 
 This was a man who'd take the world in hand, 
 Erom sweeping crossings to a chief command : 
 Quick and clever, with the best intentions, 
 He ruin'd all his friends with new inventions ; 
 Not that the schemes themselves could be assailed, 
 "For none were fairly tried — so none had fail'd, — 
 But that their companies — oh ! strange fatality — 
 Had never liv'd to work them in reality. 
 A board, directors, and a noble name, 
 "Were plac'd before the public as a claim ; 
 Not, as some people said, " as tricky snares :" 
 Some very worthy persons paid up shares. 
 
168 DRAWING-ROOM TROUBLES. 
 
 Just when the thing was paying twelve per cent., 
 
 The speculation to perdition went ; 
 
 Where the promoters should have, — though, 'twas known. 
 
 They'd only gone at present to Boulogne. 
 
 For the shareholders no one had a pity, 
 
 They're always being ruin'd in the city ; 
 
 The heart gets blunted when a thing's the fashion, 
 
 So the good public pour'd its bland compassion 
 
 On the crush'd man, who first unfurl'd the scheme, 
 
 "Who'd lost, poor wretch, the profits of a dream. 
 
 He drank in all they gave, poor ruin'd brother, 
 
 Eetired for a time, then dreamt another ; 
 
 Some said he was a rogue, and some an actor ; 
 
 Some said a martyr, some a benefactor ; 
 
 He was, at least, of use unto the nation, 
 
 By bringing on the cause of emigration : 
 
 For many widows' sons, all through his failures, 
 
 Had sought their fortunes in the Two Australias. 
 
 His public credit grew, so much he gain'd 
 
 (Somehow his private ditto rather wan'd), 
 
 That soon he manag'd from his brains to rake up 
 
 A scheme the government itself should take up. 
 
 The plan, I think, and could there be a fairer, 
 
 Was growing peaches on the G-reat Sahara ; 
 
 The government to find the right conditions, 
 
 By sending two exploring expeditions. 
 
 The plans were worth a nation — too extensive 
 
 For private enterprise, — besides expensive. 
 
 Would they succeed? some thoughtless booby cried ; 
 
 How could the world know that until they tried? 
 
 And as he drew them with unstinted measure, he 
 
 Found them well taken at the Treasury. 
 
MAGIC BALM. 169 
 
 The next step was a meeting of his friends, 
 To train the public to the wish'd-for ends. 
 It was suggested they should all combine 
 To aid the project, each one in his line ; 
 The first, for instance (done the usual greetings), 
 Proposed his warehouse for the public meetings : 
 He might be damaged, e'en in that event 
 He ask'd no more than to be saved his rent. 
 Another could not part without his hinting 
 His house was far the best in town for printing. 
 A silversmith declar'd no ceremonial 
 Could grace the meetings, like a testimonial ; 
 His house, he said, in this case, would refrain 
 From working only with a view to gain. 
 And so the meeting parted, the projectors 
 Had offer'd all such aid, or were collectors. 
 Then came out pamphlets, maps,. descriptions, 
 Though not so fast flowed in subscriptions. 
 The thing was quite a take, and yet 'twas funny 
 The public gave so little, that the money 
 Presented for the expeditions went 
 In paying for the plate, the printing, rent ; 
 Besides the cost of beating up " connection," 
 They paid a large percentage for collection. 
 The project starv'd, what matter'd such a want ? 
 They always counted on a public grant ; 
 They would have had it, that without a doubt, 
 Had not their friends, the ministers, gone out. 
 For those succeeding shelv'd it in this diction — ■ 
 It was a shameful fraud, a job, a fiction ; 
 And so the scheme, without the least intention, 
 Became a theme for faction and contention. 
 
170 DRAWING-ROOM TROUBLES. 
 
 A thousand persons met to thank the founder, 
 And platform-speakers hail'd him forth a wonder ; 
 Twisted their party questions in their speeches ; 
 Proclaimed their principles — but forgot the peaches. 
 
 Then gave the testimonial (he elated 
 
 Had meant it for his "uncle," — zounds ! 'twas plated). 
 
 Moody had met this schemer at the club, 
 
 And told him thoughtlessly his hairy trouble, 
 
 When suddenly the other said, — he'd rub 
 
 A stuff he knew, that makes the hair grow double. 
 
 He'd thoughts of turning farmer, but didn't care, 
 If, 'stead of grain, he took to growing hair. 
 
 The thought once flash'd — the energetic man 
 At once adopted his projected plan ; 
 That day he hired rooms, — a total floor ; 
 Then plac'd a brass announcement on the door. 
 Kept one mysterious chamber, — where, at ease, 
 He rubb'd your tresses, and receiv'd your fees. 
 Whate'er the stuff was that he dar'd to stick in, 
 'Tis true that Moody's locks began to thicken. 
 
 About this time, with London rather bor'd, 
 Leaving his hirsute honours unrestor'd, 
 Moody left town — nor long had been away, 
 Before the new professor, ev'ry day 
 Wrote 'til he answer'd (like his hasty ways) 
 With a short letter full of handsome praise. 
 
MAGIC BALM. 171 
 
 Nor long it was before he felt annoy'd, 
 
 With the strange looks his dearest friends employ'd ; 
 
 Not glances of avoidance — for much nearer 
 
 And closer came they, often looking dearer. 
 
 The ladies oft would change the playful wile, 
 
 Into a glance above, and cover' d smile ; 
 
 When freshly introduc'd, it made him bitter 
 
 To see the party trying not to titter. 
 
 G-ood gracious! What's the matter? Why so flout him ? 
 
 Was there then something risible about him ? 
 
 But still he saw, wherever now he went, 
 
 The mention of his name magnetic sent 
 
 A shock of laughter through the gather'd party, 
 
 Politely under kept — yet doubtless hearty. 
 
 Annoy'd to be a butt, and yet too proud 
 To ask the reason, or complain aloud, 
 He journey'd home, and soon rejoined his club, 
 Where some young grinner ask'd him to a " rub;" 
 Whatever was the joke — it brought a burst 
 (And not indeed the last, although the first) 
 Of rolling laughter from the men assembled, 
 That peal'd until the chandeliers trembled. 
 Moody grew wroth, — his passions were on fire, 
 But still he knew 'twere better to retire. 
 
 One morn, when he was thoughtful searching after 
 The cause that made him such a theme for laughter, 
 A lady friend call'd in, one of the kind 
 That so much pleasure in tame gossip find. 
 After some talk, — she said, " I want to know : 
 Now tell me, Moody, does it make it grow ?" 
 
172 DRAWING-ROOM TROUBLES. 
 
 " It grow ! Grow what ?" he answer'd, with an air 
 
 That seem'd half guessing something. "Why, the hair!' 
 
 " The hair !" he cried, his visage growing pale. 
 
 " The hair, of course," she said ; " you cannot fail 
 
 To know that lately, almost everywhere, 
 
 Your name's connected with a stuff for hair. 
 
 Perhaps you don't, — I know you of those readers 
 
 "Who only condescend to skim the leaders. 
 
 You scarce can touch a journal, but you'll find 
 
 That Mr Bobinson speaks out his mind 
 
 Of this rare stuff ; — and could you do it better ? 
 
 The notices contain your very letter ; 
 
 And all the world regards you — pray be calm — 
 
 A walking sample of the Magic Balm. 
 
 Look here, you see it — ' Published by desire, 
 
 The note of Moody Eobinson, Esquire. 
 
 This well-known and distinguish'dman of fashion,' " 
 
 " Hold !" cried our hero, in a tow'ring passion ; 
 "I'll ring the fellow's neck," and without adieu, 
 Like arrow from bow, down street he flew, 
 Nor did he, till he reach'd those chambers stop, — 
 The place had been converted to a shop ! 
 A shop for Magic Balm, — -and, horror ! there, 
 A portrait of himself, with such a head of hair, 
 Profuse and wondrous, curling, stiff as bristle, 
 There too, in gilded frame, his own epistle. 
 
 He rush'd within — his former friend had flown, 
 Two months before, to sheltering Boulogne ; 
 And, 'fore he went, to make his visit better, 
 He'd sold the business, balm, and Moody's letter. 
 
MAGIC BALM. 173 
 
 The present owner claim'd to have a right 
 To keep the letter in the public sight ; 
 Not that he acknowledgment refus'd, 
 That Moody's confidence had been abus'd ; 
 But as a trader he'd been early taught it, 
 That everything was his'n when he'd bought it. 
 
 So Moody for the note was forc'd to pay, 
 Then vanish'd from the town for many a day. 
 
Ikoh Btttkh 
 
 &£>* V V V (U c* 
 
MOODY SETTLED. 
 
 How oft it happens in this world of cost 
 The prize of life is hunted for and lost ; 
 But when the sicken 'd heart gives up pursuit, 
 It tumbles in the lap like ripen'd fruit ; 
 Falls rich with bounty to the weary hand 
 That stretch'd in vain to gather or command. 
 The unreach'd grapes, perhaps too truly sour, 
 Have shed their sweetness for you at the hour 
 When failure, courage, patience, and employment 
 Have shaped you for that, ripen'd for enjoyment. 
 'Tis better thus, than pluck (as oft is seen) 
 With both the character and fortune green. 
 
 Yet man dissatisfied whom nought can sate, 
 Bitterly says the luck has come too late ; 
 That all he wish'd to please are cold or dead, 
 And e'en his powers of enjoyment fled ; 
 When little thought would tell him that for use 
 His powers are stronger, weaken'd for abuse. 
 The friends he deems he's lost by death or cares, 
 Would love not his success when rivalling theirs. 
 A newer generation, reverent taught, 
 Can give him praise without an envious thought ■ 
 
178 DRAWING-ROOM TROUBLES. 
 
 To them his better fate is no disgrace, 
 
 But cause of pride, the honour of their race. 
 
 Yet many, though with passion fully quell'd, 
 
 Confessed the gift most tenderly withheld ; 
 
 The lofty spirit easy roused to pride, 
 
 But humbled by a host of cares that stride 
 
 Destructive o'er the verdant hopes of youth, 
 
 Confesses tardily the late-learnt truth, 
 
 That had an earlier fortune him been granted 
 
 Ill-nourish'd faults had chasten'd good supplanted. 
 
 And so those disappointed in the heart 
 
 By unrequited love, or forced to part 
 
 By sternest need from all they deeply love, 
 
 Believe no fates so cruel others move. 
 
 " Peace ? oh, no peace ! another holds my fere, 
 
 Lives in her heart, and makes her life his care." 
 
 Some suffering months pass by, yet patient years, 
 
 Efface the touches of those scalding tears ; 
 
 The passions disciplined to firmer bearing 
 
 Yield to a love less wild, but more endearing ; 
 
 And then the ardent heart, controll'd, confesses 
 
 The gift denied it spared a life's distresses, 
 
 That it's youth's love, too fanciful, too fond, 
 
 Had wither'd 'neath the grip of closer bond. 
 
 At last thus Moody's wife without his will, 
 Came like the extras to a builder's bill ; 
 That is as suddenly (without the strife), 
 Appear'd this extra to his scheme of life ; 
 Or as the fisher with his dainty flies 
 Whips all the day without a single rise 
 And leaving in despair the hope of prize, 
 
MOODY SETTLED. 179 
 
 Dropping his line, indiff'rent, careless, cool, 
 Lo ! hooks the plumpest tenant of the pool. 
 So Moody, quitting tactics, flirting, snare, 
 Caught what he wish'd without a thought of care. 
 
 For in his matrimonial schemes defeated, 
 
 At length he deem'd his chances all completed ; 
 
 But planted single his remaining days, 
 
 He thought no more of women and their ways. 
 
 He deem'd them now that part of the creation 
 
 That only call'd for clever conversation. 
 
 Their favour could not cheer, or anger flout him, 
 
 He only sought to please the world about him. 
 
 Abundantly provided, nought he asks 
 
 Than to perform this gentlest of all tasks, 
 
 And take his jolly way o'er hill and plain, 
 
 Without a thought of recompense or gain. 
 
 Yet strange to say, although he's growing bald, 
 And though the hair remaining waxeth grey, 
 
 And by the young he is " old Moody " call'd, 
 And has indeed long seen his brightest day 
 
 (Even his teeth have lost their pearly white), 
 
 He's more than ever all his friend's delight. 
 
 Even the youngest girls are always glad 
 
 To have him tow'rds their guarded sides attracted, 
 
 Because their talk with him, however mad, 
 Brings up no fear of having hearts abstracted ; 
 
 With fathers, mothers, daughters, all or either, 
 
 The ancient Moody stands in highest feather. 
 
1 80 DRAWING-ROOM TROUBLES. 
 
 His set agree he's much improved of late ; 
 
 His manners are more plain, and even crude ; he 
 Is sometimes blunt ; but then his thoughts create 
 
 More for his friends, and less by far for Moody. 
 
 ISTo intercourse is grateful to the mind 
 
 Where civil things must be repaid in kind. 
 
 The constant thought of paying back must bore you, 
 
 Like eating dinner with the bill before you. 
 
 Who would love turtle, venison chops, or ice, 
 
 If in the spoon he always saw the price ? 
 
 And so those men we love not, whose urbanity 
 
 But asks a contribution to their vanity. 
 
 We know its worth, and know they'd take it ill 
 
 Should you neglect to cash their little bill ; 
 
 As girls who dress, to make the world admire, 
 
 Are always dowdies by the household fire, 
 
 So the vain puppy no good grace extends, 
 
 Unless he sees return where he expends. 
 
 Thus rough ud giving souls more loving meet 
 
 Than does the liberal softness of conceit ; 
 
 And Moody found, when homely-minded grown, 
 
 The natural-hearted claimed him for their own. 
 
 Amongst these latter was an Indian Colonel, 
 Who with a lady, daughter of his heart, 
 
 Appeared in parties daily or nocturnal, 
 Or else in pic-nics took a leading part ; 
 
 In fact, there was that " just-the-thing " about 'em, 
 
 No gathering of their set was " ton " without 'em. 
 
MOODY SETTLED. 181 
 
 Moody ne'er knew a more agreeable pair : 
 The gentleman experienced, full of story, 
 
 Fine in his figure, of a martial air, 
 
 He'd sought and won a soldier's fleeting glory ; 
 
 He cottoned to our friend (to use a phrase 
 Eich in the vulgar meaning of these days.) 
 
 The lady was a little past her prime, 
 
 Whatever that may he in female eyes. 
 It might he Indian suns, it might be time, 
 
 Had faintly changed the lines where beauty lies ; 
 And yet withal enough of that was there 
 To charm the eyes of those that love the fair. 
 
 And yet though time had slightly touch'd the face, 
 In kind amends he'd ripen'd up the heart ; 
 
 To the round form had added fuller grace, 
 And taught the soul to lighten ev'ry part ; 
 
 So, wanting beauty, brilliant or alarming, 
 
 She was most wholly and completely charming. 
 
 Between these people and our pleasant friend 
 Sprang up a friendship of the truest kind ; 
 
 Their intercourse seem'd fated ne'er to end, 
 And ran its rash career almost blind ; 
 
 The soldier told his tales of toil and war, 
 
 While he and Moody smoked the peace cigar. 
 
 But still there was a rather quaint reserve, 
 That kept our hero from that closest bond 
 
 Of the high confidence such friends deserve ; 
 Forsooth, he felt his heart was growing fond, 
 
182 DRAWING-ROOM TROUBLES. 
 
 Too fond of that society ; and yet 
 
 His life seem'd sweeter for the colonel's pet. 
 
 Now Moody called to mind his past mishaps, 
 And swore to be most prudent in this case ; 
 
 At least not rest his hopes upon a " p'raps," 
 But be quite certain ere he had the face 
 
 To offer up his heart, his hand, his cash ; 
 To watch and wait, and venture nothing rash. 
 
 But now the danger was, he thought in fact 
 
 That she approved his preference though concealing 
 
 That point from all save him, with woman's tact, 
 And yet to him (as he thought) love revealing. 
 
 So things went on. Oh ! must I tell the whole ? — 
 
 The cautious Moody gave her up his soul. 
 
 Now groans he sad, his cheeks grow thin and pale 
 In the fierce fight 'twixt funk and inclination; 
 
 On silence firm resolved, yet hopes his tale 
 Is plainly told her in this alteration, 
 
 The more so as in her he sees a sign 
 
 That makes her in his eyes still more divine. 
 
 For now the lady fades, which only serves 
 To make poor Moody tend'rer in attentions, 
 
 Which while he pays them, wholly shake his nerves, 
 And call more fully out his soul's contentions ; 
 
 Her piercing looks shoot fire through his brain, 
 
 And seem to ask for sympathy in pain. 
 
MOODY SETTLED. 183 
 
 He thought she gather'd with reluctant pride 
 A comfort in his talk for her dejection ; 
 
 She stole more often to her father's side, 
 As if she loved to cherish his protection ; 
 
 Until poor Moody thought, no douht upon it, 
 
 " She's quite unhappy now, and I have done it." 
 
 How could he doubt, no other favour' d swain 
 E'er came about the house, or sought her smiles; 
 
 He'd tried to pump her o'er and o'er again, 
 Her heart was scatheless from another's wiles. 
 
 So now where purse, position, feelings suit all, 
 
 To keep her longer waiting, would be brutal. 
 
 Thus firm resolved — once more he'd try his fate, 
 And pop the question — desperate manoeuvre ; 
 
 He dress'd himself in haste — he might be late, 
 Then found it was too early, hours over. 
 
 He waits, and thinks ; — time seems eternal, 
 
 A knock is at the door ; in walks the Colonel. 
 
 After some greetings (which on Moody's side 
 Were not for once towards his friend sincere), 
 
 Finding the father, when he sought a bride 
 Who came unconscious now to interfere. 
 
 Howe'er, the Colonel, looking sad and graver, 
 
 Explain'd he came to ask his friend a favour. 
 
 They sit and look grave English at each other. 
 
 The colonel said, " My dear friend, I think 
 You must have seen my daughter tries to smother 
 
 A silent grief that makes her spirit sink ; 
 
184 DRAWING-ROOM TROUBLES. 
 
 In fact, her health is failing ; now I ask you 
 To aid me to restore it ; will it task you ? 
 
 I won't pretend to paint you Moody's face 
 At hearing this request ; perhaps you'll guess 
 
 Its lines had more of comedy than grace, 
 
 As he replied, " Of course, I'll aid you ; yes." 
 
 "'I knew you would," the Colonel said ; " and now 
 
 I'll tell you all, before I tell you how. 
 
 " My daughter has a lover" (" Oh !" groans Moody) 
 " Who's fought a score of fights in Hindostan," 
 
 (Our hero breathed a hope they all were bloody,) 
 " And now he comes to wed her, half-a-man ; 
 
 That is to say, his legs, and eyes, and arms, 
 
 Are none the better for his wars' alarms. 
 
 " His health is shatter 'd and my daughter fears 
 His voyage home may finish all the rest ; " 
 
 (" I hope it will," thinks Moody as he hears ; 
 
 Oh, no ! that's wrong, but 't might be for the best,") 
 
 " And now we wish, if everything avails, 
 
 To go and meet our soldier at Marseilles. 
 
 " You know," continued he, " when any two 
 After long years of absence meet again, 
 
 Any third person must become de trop. 
 
 We want a fourth — why need I more explain ; 
 
 Will you be he ?" Poor Moody, almost dumb, 
 
 G-asps out unconsciously, " I'll come ! I'll come !" 
 
MOODY SETTLED. 185 
 
 The Colonel left him grateful and delighted, 
 While Moody sits, half stupified, alone, 
 
 Feeling as if all nature were benighted, 
 At this the latest blow, but heaviest one. 
 
 What a conclusion to his hopes and toil, 
 
 Only to be his very rival's foil ! 
 
 At length they started on their road to France, 
 And lose no time in reaching hot Massillia ; 
 
 The lady, worse and worse, as they advance 
 Towards this port, and then is taken ill here, 
 
 So that her friends were forced to go without her 
 
 Down to the pier, to meet the " Bhurrumpouta." 
 
 Now Moody and friend 
 Their footsteps bend 
 
 To the custom-house level quay ; 
 To watch for the ship, 
 With that curl of the lip 
 
 With which knowing ones watch the sea. 
 
 At last she comes in, 
 As dark as sin ; 
 
 And passes the Emp'ror's fleet. 
 Then the friend appears 
 Much older in years, 
 
 But his legs and arms complete. 
 
 His health may be broken, 
 But he's every token 
 
 That his life is yet in hey-day. 
 
186 DRAWING-ROOM TROUBLES. 
 
 For on his arm, 
 
 To the Colonel's alarm, 
 
 There hangs a fair young lady. 
 
 And she hangs in that way 
 That's as much as to say, 
 
 He's mine, and I will not lose him. 
 That peculiar cling, 
 That's only the thing 
 
 You know with the wife of your hosom. 
 
 Now what would you gain, 
 If we should explain 
 
 Their meeting ; we'll cut it shorter. 
 It was easy discerned 
 That the exile returned 
 
 Had jilted the Colonel's daughter. 
 
 By the Colonel, well bred, 
 Very little is said, 
 
 Though he scorns the whole transaction. 
 But stalking away, 
 He leaves Moody to say, 
 
 He expects full satisfaction. 
 
 Then Moody's referred 
 To a man with a beard, 
 
 Who belongs to some " Contingent," 
 With cheeks as sallow 
 As palm-oil tallow, 
 
 Or as wash'd by some astringent. 
 
MOODY SETTLED. 187 
 
 This officer bold 
 To Moody told 
 
 How things had come to pass ; 
 That is, how the expected 
 Had his first love rejected, 
 
 And taken another lass. 
 
 He said his friend could hardly well be blamed, 
 So many years had passed since they had met, 
 
 That time and warfare had his passion tamed, 
 That in his soldier's toils his love had set ; 
 
 When in this state he'd come across temptation, 
 
 In a young beauty of the Irish nation. 
 
 One of those girls who seek a tropic clime 
 
 Eeady for marriage, outfitted with a trousseau, 
 
 Whose boundless hopes had not come right in time, 
 Yet frightened to go home unless they do so. 
 
 His friend had met this charmer on the steamer, 
 
 And fall'n a victim to the pretty schemer. 
 
 What could man do ? for almost to the last 
 He'd kept his honour for the first and other. 
 
 But honour flies when woman has you fast 
 
 On board a ship with nought but love and bother ; 
 
 And so she caught occasion when at Malta, 
 
 To lead her sea-prize to th' Hymeneal altar. 
 
 And now, of course, there nothing was but fighting, 
 
 To bring the matter to a happy issue : 
 The Colonel would not e'er forgive the slighting 
 
 His daughter's rights, without that mystic tissue 
 
188 DRAWING-ROOM TROUBLES. 
 
 Of murderous politeness, called a meeting : 
 " So let us settle now, as time is fleeting." 
 
 The thing was soon arranged, the hostile pair 
 "Would meet to satisfy the wound in honour, 
 
 By putting in one more or so elsewhere, 
 It mattering not who takes or is the donor. 
 
 'Twas lucky, too, concerning this transaction 
 
 That hit or miss, 'twas equal satisfaction. 
 
 That is to say, 'twas equal to the parties, 
 But to the lady — nothing of the kind ; 
 
 The men forgot how tortured now her heart is, 
 And then to wring it more was most unkind ; 
 
 Whichever fell, her father or her friend, 
 
 Her " satisfaction" equal in the end. 
 
 And Moody thought he showed his true devotion 
 In " seconding" her father to his grave. 
 
 Good lack ! — the fair did not approve the notion, 
 And strange to say, she thought him hound to save 
 
 Her father from this peril, for the cruel 
 
 Tongue of fame had told her of the duel. 
 
 Sending for Moody, she in tears entreated 
 By all his friendship he would aid her now, 
 
 To have this terrible design defeated, 
 
 And save her sorrow from this second blow. 
 
 Moody in tears, as she more pressing grew, 
 
 Promised her all he knew he couldn't do. 
 
MOODY SETTLED. 189 
 
 He sought the tough old soldier, but alas ! 
 
 Found all entreaty,, every reason fail ; 
 He was resolved the thing should come to pass, 
 
 Not e'en his daughter's grief should make him quail: 
 She had been grossly wronged, her hopes defeated ; 
 No child of his should be so vilely treated. 
 
 " Her hopes defeated," Moody musing thought 
 "Were they again erect, the father might 
 
 To something more agreeable soon be brought ; 
 At anvrate persuaded not to fight. 
 
 He posted to the lady, full of dreams 
 
 Of love and hope, and rather cunning schemes. 
 
 His failure soon was told ; gently he shows 
 (His speech with numerous topics interlarded) 
 
 Her father's chiefest thought 'midst anger's throes 
 Was taking her back home, as one discarded ; 
 
 Nought could prevent his venturing his life, 
 
 But a fair chance of seeing her a wife. 
 
 The lady stared — indeed she rather winced — 
 But Moody stoutly pushed his crowning reason, 
 
 Until his hearer slowly was convinced, 
 A new engagement would not be a treason 
 
 To the lost love ; he had her at command, 
 
 So boldly offer'd her his heart and hand. 
 
 No wonder (with some little hesitation), 
 The lady gave the honour Moody craved, 
 
 Her heart was full of bitter indignation — 
 Her father's life — her own repute was saved ; 
 
190 DRAWING-ROOM TROUBLES. 
 
 And as to Moody's self, she liked him rather, 
 And said she'd take him " to preserve her father." 
 
 And now no reason longer there remain'd 
 For any kind of warlike preparation ; 
 
 If not forgiveness, peace at least was feign'd, 
 When grounds were not for asking reparation; 
 
 And thus at last (for nought this time miscarried), 
 
 The happy Moody settled was and married. 
 
 THE END. 
 
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