  “J’ai vu les moeurs de mon temps, et j’ai publiÉ cette lettre.”—La Nouvelle HÉloise. IF this should fail, why, then I scarcely know What could succeed. Here’s brilliancy (and banter), Byron ad lib., a chapter of Rousseau; If this should fail, then tempora mutantur; Style’s out of date, and love, as a profession, Acquires no aid from beauty of expression. “The men who think as I, I fear, are few” (Cynics would say ’twere well if they were fewer); “I am not what I seem”—(indeed, ’tis true; Though, as a sentiment, it might be newer); “Mine is a soul whose deeper feelings lie More deep than words”—(as these exemplify). “I will not say when first your beauty’s sun Illumed my life”—(it needs imagination); “For me to see you and to love were one”— “Let it suffice that worship more devoted Ne’er throbbed,” et cetera. The rest is quoted. “If Love can look with all-prophetic eye”— (Ah, if he could, how many would be single!) “If truly spirit unto spirit cry”— (The ears of some most terribly must tingle!) “Then I have dreamed you will not turn your face.” This next, I think, is more than commonplace. “Why should we speak, if Love, interpreting, Forestall the speech with favour found before? Why should we plead? it were an idle thing, If Love himself be Love’s ambassador!” Blot, as I live! Shall we erase it? No; ’Twill show we write currente calamo. “My fate, my fortune, I commit to you”— (In point of fact, the latter’s not extensive); “Without you I am poor indeed” (strike through— ’Tis true, but crude; ’twould make her apprehensive); “My life is yours—I lay it at your feet” (Having no choice but Hymen or the Fleet). “Give me the right to stand within the shrine Where never yet my faltering feet intruded; Give me the right to call you wholly mine”— (That is, consols and three-per-cents. included); “To guard your rest from every care that cankers— “Compel me not to long for your reply; Suspense makes havoc with the mind”—(and muscles); “Winged Hope takes flight” (which means that I must fly, Default of funds, to Paris or to Brussels); “I cannot wait! My own, my queen—Priscilla! Write by return.” And now for a manilla! “Miss Blank,” at “Blank.” Jemima, let it go; And I, meanwhile, will idle with “Sir Walter.” Stay, let me keep the first rough copy, though— ’Twill serve again. There’s but the name to alter, And Love, that starves, must knock at every portal, In forma pauperis. We are but mortal! Austin Dobson. |
|
