There was a quiet in her eye Appalling to the Hugh who'd try With rudeness to offend her.
"But whence," I cried, "this masquerade?
Some figure for to-night's charade, A Watteau shepherdess or maid?"
She smiled and begged my pardon:
"Why, surely you must know the name,--That woman who was Shakespeare's flame Or Byron's,--well, it's all the same:
Why, Lord! I'm Dolly Varden!"
TELEMACHUS VERSUS MENTOR
Don't mind me, I beg you, old fellow,--I'll do very well here alone;
You must not be kept from your "German" because I've dropped in like a stone.
Leave all ceremony behind you, leave all thought of aught but yourself;
And leave, if you like, the Madeira, and a dozen cigars on the shelf.
As for me, you will say to your hostess--well, I scarcely need give you a cue.
Chant my praise! All will list to Apollo, though Mercury pipe to a few.
Say just what you please, my dear boy; there's more eloquence lies in youth's rash Outspoken heart-impulse than ever growled under this grizzling mustache.
Go, don the dress coat of our tyrant,--youth's panoplied armor for fight,--And tie the white neckcloth that rumples, like pleasure, and lasts but a night;
And pray the Nine Gods to avert you what time the Three Sisters shall frown, And you'll lose your high-comedy figure, and sit more at ease in your gown.
He's off! There's his foot on the staircase. By Jove, what a bound!
Really now Did I ever leap like this springald, with Love's chaplet green on my brow?
Was I such an ass? No, I fancy. Indeed, I remember quite plain A gravity mixed with my transports, a cheerfulness softened my pain.
He's gone! There's the slam of his cab door, there's the clatter of hoofs and the wheels;
And while he the light toe is tripping, in this armchair I'll tilt up my heels.
He's gone, and for what? For a tremor from a waist like a teetotum spun;
For a rosebud that's crumpled by many before it is gathered by one.
Is there naught in the halo of youth but the glow of a passionate race--'Midst the cheers and applause of a crowd--to the goal of a beautiful face?
A race that is not to the swift, a prize that no merits enforce, But is won by some faineant youth, who shall simply walk over the course?
Poor boy! shall I shock his conceit? When he talks of her cheek's loveliness, Shall I say 'twas the air of the room, and was due to carbonic excess?
That when waltzing she drooped on his breast, and the veins of her eyelids grew dim, 'Twas oxygen's absence she felt, but never the presence of him?
Shall I tell him first love is a fraud, a weakling that's strangled in birth, Recalled with perfunctory tears, but lost in unsanctified mirth?
Or shall I go bid him believe in all womankind's charm, and forget In the light ringing laugh of the world the rattlesnake's gay castanet?
Shall I tear out a leaf from my heart, from that book that forever is shut On the past? Shall I speak of my first love--Augusta--my Lalage?
But I forget. Was it really Augusta? No. 'Twas Lucy! No. Mary!
No. Di!
Never mind! they were all first and faithless, and yet--I've forgotten just why.
No, no! Let him dream on and ever. Alas! he will waken too soon;
And it doesn't look well for October to always be preaching at June.
Poor boy! All his fond foolish trophies pinned yonder--a bow from HER hair, A few billets-doux, invitations, and--what's this? My name, I declare!
Humph! "You'll come, for I've got you a prize, with beauty and money no end:
You know her, I think; 'twas on dit she once was engaged to your friend;
But she says that's all over." Ah, is it? Sweet Ethel! incomparable maid!
Or--what if the thing were a trick?--this letter so freely displayed!--My opportune presence! No! nonsense! Will nobody answer the bell?
Call a cab! Half past ten. Not too late yet. Oh, Ethel! Why don't you go? Well?
"Master said you would wait"-- Hang your master! "Have I ever a message to send?"
Yes, tell him I've gone to the German to dance with the friend of his friend.
WHAT THE WOLF REALLY SAID TO LITTLE RED RIDING-HOOD
Wondering maiden, so puzzled and fair, Why dost thou murmur and ponder and stare?
"Why are my eyelids so open and wild?"
Only the better to see with, my child!
Only the better and clearer to view Cheeks that are rosy and eyes that are blue.
Dost thou still wonder, and ask why these arms Fill thy soft bosom with tender alarms, Swaying so wickedly? Are they misplaced Clasping or shielding some delicate waist?
Hands whose coarse sinews may fill you with fear Only the better protect you, my dear!
Little Red Riding-Hood, when in the street, Why do I press your small hand when we meet?
Why, when you timidly offered your cheek, Why did I sigh, and why didn't I speak?
Why, well: you see--if the truth must appear--I'm not your grandmother, Riding-Hood, dear!
HALF AN HOUR BEFORE SUPPER
"So she's here, your unknown Dulcinea, the lady you met on the train, And you really believe she would know you if you were to meet her again?"
"Of course," he replied, "she would know me; there never was womankind yet Forgot the effect she inspired. She excuses, but does not forget."
"Then you told her your love?" asked the elder. The younger looked up with a smile:
"I sat by her side half an hour--what else was I doing the while?
"What, sit by the side of a woman as fair as the sun in the sky, And look somewhere else lest the dazzle flash back from your own to her eye?
"No, I hold that the speech of the tongue be as frank and as bold as the look, And I held up herself to herself,--that was more than she got from her book."
"Young blood!" laughed the elder; "no doubt you are voicing the mode of To-Day:
But then we old fogies at least gave the lady some chance for delay.
"There's my wife (you must know),--we first met on the journey from Florence to Rome:
It took me three weeks to discover who was she and where was her home;
"Three more to be duly presented; three more ere I saw her again;
And a year ere my romance BEGAN where yours ended that day on the train."
"Oh, that was the style of the stage-coach; we travel to-day by express;
Forty miles to the hour," he answered, "won't admit of a passion that's less."
