  INCOGNITA.Just for a space that I met her— Just for a day in the train! It began when she feared it would wet her, That tiniest spurtle of rain: So we tucked a great rug in the sashes, And carefully padded the pane; And I sorrow in sackcloth and ashes, Longing to do it again! Then it grew when she begged me to reach her A dressing-case under the seat; She was "really so tiny a creature, That she needed a stool for her feet!" Which was promptly arranged to her order With a care that was even minute, And a glimpse—of an open-work border, And a glance—of the fairyest boot. Then it drooped, and revived at some hovels— "Were they houses for men or for pigs?" Then it shifted to muscular novels, With a little digression on prigs: "Had I read it?" She knew when I had, Like the rest, I should dote upon "Molly;" And "poor Mrs. Gaskell—how sad!" "Like Browning?" "But so-so." His proof lay Too deep for her frivolous mood. That preferred your mere metrical soufflÉ To the stronger poetical food; Yet at times he was good—"as a tonic:" Was Tennyson writing just now? And was this new poet Byronic, And clever, and naughty, or how? Then we trifled with concerts and croquÊt, Then she daintily dusted her face; Then she sprinkled herself with "Ess Bouquet," Fished out from the foregoing case; And we chattered of Gassier and Grisi, And voted Aunt Sally a bore; Discussed if the tight rope were easy, Or Chopin much harder than Spohr. And oh! the odd things that she quoted, With the prettiest possible look, And the price of two buns that she noted In the prettiest possible book; Flashed on with the hours that flew, And the carriage, her smile seemed to fill it With just enough summer—for Two. Till at last in her corner, peeping From a nest of rugs and of furs, With the white shut eyelids sleeping On those dangerous looks of hers, She seemed like a snow-drop breaking, Not wholly alive nor dead, But with one blind impulse making To the sounds of the spring overhead; And I watched in the lamplight's swerving The shade of the down-dropt lid, And the lip-line's delicate curving, Where a slumbering smile lay hid, Till I longed that, rather than sever, The train should shriek into space, And carry us onward—for ever,— Me and that beautiful face. But she suddenly woke in a fidget, With fears she was "nearly at home," And talk of a certain Aunt Bridget, Whom I mentally wished—well, at Rome; Looking back with a merry Bon Soir, Adding, too, to my utter vexation, A surplus, unkind Au Revoir. So left me to muse on her graces, To dose and to muse, till I dreamed That we sailed through the sunniest places In a glorified galley, it seemed; But the cabin was made of a carriage, And the ocean was Eau-de-Cologne, And we split on a rock labelled Marriage, And I woke,—as cold as a stone. And that's how I lost her—a jewel, Incognita—one in a crowd, Nor prudent enough to be cruel, Nor worldly enough to be proud. It was just a shut lid and its lashes, Just a few hours in a train, And I sorrow in sackcloth and ashes Longing to see her again. DORA VERSUS ROSE."The Case is proceeding." From the tragic-est novels at Mudie's— At least, on a practical plan— To the tales of mere Hodges and Judys, One love is enough for a man. But no case that I ever yet met is Like mine: I am equally fond Of Rose, who a charming brunette is, And Dora, a blonde. Each rivals the other in powers— Each waltzes, each warbles, each paints— Miss Rose, chiefly tumble-down towers; Miss Do., perpendicular saints. In short, to distinguish is folly; 'Twixt the pair I am come to the pass Of Macheath, between Lucy and Polly,— Or Buridan's ass. If it happens that Rosa I've singled For a soft celebration in rhyme, Somehow with the tune and the time; Or I painfully pen me a sonnet To an eyebrow intended for Do.'s, And behold I am writing upon it The legend "To Rose." Or I try to draw Dora (my blotter Is all overscrawled with her head), If I fancy at last that I've got her, It turns to her rival instead; Or I find myself placidly adding To the rapturous tresses of Rose Miss Dora's bud-mouth, and her madding, Ineffable nose. Was there ever so sad a dilemma? For Rose I would perish (pro tem.); For Dora I'd willingly stem a— (Whatever might offer to stem); But to make the invidious election,— To declare that on either one's side I've a scruple,—a grain, more affection, I cannot decide. And, as either so hopelessly nice is, My sole and my final resource Some feat of molecular force, To solve me this riddle conducive By no means to peace or repose, Since the issue can scarce be inclusive Of Dora and Rose. (Afterthought.) But, perhaps, if a third (say a Norah), Not quite so delightful as Rose,— Not wholly so charming as Dora,— Should appear, is it wrong to suppose,— As the claims of the others are equal,— And flight—in the main—is the best,— That I might ... But no matter,—the sequel Is easily guessed. AD ROSAM."Mitte sectari Rosa quo locorum Sera moretur." —Hor. i. 38. I had a vacant dwelling— Where situated, I, As naught can serve the telling, Decline to specify;— Enough 'twas neither haunted, Entailed, nor out of date; I put up "Tenant Wanted," And left the rest to Fate. Then, Rose, you passed the window,— I see you passing yet,— Ah, what could I within do, When, Rose, our glances met! You snared me, Rose, with ribbons, Your rose-mouth made me thrall, Brief—briefer far than Gibbon's, Was my "Decline and Fall." I heard the summons spoken That all hear—king and clown: You smiled—the ice was broken; You stopped—the bill was down. How blind we are! It never Occurred to me to seek If you had come for ever, Or only for a week. The words your voice neglected, Seemed written in your eyes; The thought your heart protected, Your cheek told, missal-wise;— I read the rubric plainly As any Expert could; In short, we dreamed,—insanely, As only lovers should. I broke the tall Œnone, That then my chambers graced, Because she seemed "too bony," To suit your purist taste; And you, without vexation, May certainly confess Some graceful approbation, Designed À mon adresse. You liked me then, carina,— You liked me then, I think; For your sake gall had been a Mere tonic-cup to drink; For your sake, bonds were trivial, The rack, a tour-de-force; And banishment, convivial,— You coming too, of course. Then, Rose, a word in jest meant Would throw you in a state That no well-timed investment Could quite alleviate; Beyond a Paris trousseau You prized my smile, I know, I, yours—ah, more than Rousseau The lip of d'Houdetot. Then, Rose,—But why pursue it? When Fate begins to frown Best write the final "fuit," And gulp the physic down. And yet,—and yet, that only, The song should end with this:— You left me,—left me lonely, Rosa mutabilis! Left me, with Time for Mentor, (A dreary tÊte-À-tÊte!) To pen my "Last Lament," or Extemporize to Fate, In blankest verse disclosing My bitterness of mind,— Which is, I learn, composing In cases of the kind. No, Rose. Though you refuse me, Culture the pang prevents; "I am not made"—excuse me— "Of so slight elements;" I leave to common lovers The hemlock or the hood; My rarer soul recovers In dreams of public good. The Roses of this nation— Or so I understand From careful computation— Exceed the gross demand; And, therefore, in civility To maids that can't be matched, No man of sensibility Should linger unattached. So, without further fashion— A modern Curtius, Plunging, from pure compassion, To aid the overplus,— I sit down, sad—not daunted, And, in my weeds, begin A new card—"Tenant Wanted; Particulars within." OUTWARD BOUND.(HORACE, iii. 7.) "Quid fles, Asterie, quem tibi candidi Primo restituent vere Favonii— Gygen?" Come, Laura, patience. Time and Spring Your absent Arthur back shall bring, Enriched with many an Indian thing Once more to woo you; Him neither wind nor wave can check, Who, cramped beneath the "Simla's" deck, Still constant, though with stiffened neck, Makes verses to you. Would it were wave and wind alone! The terrors of the torrid zone, The indiscriminate cyclone, A man might parry; But only faith, or "triple brass," Can help the "outward-bound" to pass Safe through that eastward-faring class Who sail to marry. For him fond mothers, stout and fair, Ascend the tortuous cabin stair Only to hold around his chair Insidious sessions; For him the eyes of daughters droop Across the plate of handed soup, Suggesting seats upon the poop, And soft confessions. Nor are these all his pains, nor most. Romancing captains cease to boast— Loud majors leave their whist—to roast The youthful griffin; All, all with pleased persistence show His fate,—"remote, unfriended, slow,"— His "melancholy" bungalow,— His lonely tiffin. In vain. Let doubts assail the weak; Unmoved and calm as "Adam's Peak," Your "blameless Arthur" hears them speak Of woes that wait him; Naught can subdue his soul secure; "Arthur will come again," be sure, Though matron shrewd and maid mature Conspire to mate him. But, Laura, on your side, forbear To greet with too impressed an air A certain youth with chestnut hair,— A youth unstable; Albeit none more skilled can guide The frail canoe on Thamis tide, Or, trimmer-footed, lighter glide Through "Guards" or "Mabel." Be warned in time. Without a trace Of acquiescence on your face, Hear, in the waltz's breathing-space, His airy patter; Avoid the confidential nook; If, when you sing, you find his look Grow tender, close your music-book, And end the matter. IN THE ROYAL ACADEMY.Hugh (on furlough). Helen (his cousin). Helen. They have not come! And ten is past,— Unless, by chance, my watch is fast; —Aunt Mabel surely told us "ten." Hugh. I doubt if she can do it, then. In fact, their train.... Helen. That is,—you knew. How could you be so treacherous, Hugh? Hugh. Nay;—it is scarcely mine, the crime, One can't account for railway-time! Where shall we sit? Not here, I vote;— At least, there's nothing here of note. Helen. Then here we'll stay, please. Once for all, I bar all artists,—great and small! From now until we go in June I shall hear nothing but this tune:— Whether I like Long's "Vashti," or Like Leslie's "Naughty Kitty" more; With all that critics, right or wrong, Have said of Leslie and of Long.... No. If you value my esteem, I beg you'll take another theme; Paint me some pictures, if you will, But spare me these, for good and ill.... Hugh. "Paint you some pictures!" Come, that's kind! You know I'm nearly colour-blind. Helen. Paint then, in words. You did before; Scenes at—where was it? Dustypoor? You know.... Hugh (with an inspiration). I'll try. Helen. But mind they're pretty Not "hog hunts." ... Hugh. You shall be Committee, And say if they are "out" or "in." Helen. I shall reject them all. Begin. Hugh. Here is the first. An antique Hall (Like Chanticlere) with panelled wall. A boy, or rather lad. A girl, Laughing with all her rows of pearl Before a portrait in a ruff. He meanwhile watches.... Helen. That's enough, It wants "verve," "brio," "breadth," "design," ... Besides, it's English. I decline. Hugh. This is the next. 'Tis finer far: A foaming torrent (say Braemar). Then the same pair, a little older, Left by some lucky chance together. He begs her for a sprig of heather.... Helen. —"Which she accords with smile seraphic." I know it,—it was in the "Graphic." Declined. Hugh. Once more, and I forego All hopes of hanging, high or low: Behold the hero of the scene, In bungalow and palankeen.... Helen. What!—all at once! But that's absurd;— Unless he's Sir Boyle Roche's bird! Hugh. Permit me—'Tis a Panorama, In which the person of the drama, Mid orientals dusk and tawny, Mid warriors drinking brandy pawnee, Mid scorpions, dowagers, and griffins, In every kind of place and weather, Is solaced ... by a sprig of heather. (More seriously.) He puts that faded scrap before The "Rajah," or the "Koh-i-noor".... He would not barter it for all Benares, or the Taj-Mahal.... It guides,—directs his every act, And word, and thought—In short—in fact— I mean ... (Opening his locket.) Look, Helen, that's the heather! (Too late! Here come both Aunts together.) Helen. What heather, Sir? (After a pause.) And why ... "too late?" —Aunt Dora, how you've made us wait! Don't you agree that it's a pity Portraits are hung by the Committee? THE LAST DESPATCH. |
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