TALES IN RHYME.

Much strange is true. And yet so much Dan Time thereto of doubtful lays He blurs them both beneath his touch:— In this our tale his part he plays. At Florence, so the legend tells, There stood a church that men would praise (Even where Art the most excels) For works of price; but chief for one They called the "Virgin with the Bells." Gracious she was, and featly done, With crown of gold about the hair, And robe of blue with stars thereon, And sceptre in her hand did bear; And o'er her, in an almond tree, Three little golden bells there were, Writ with Faith, Hope, and Charity. None knew from whence she came of old, Nor whose the sculptor's name should be Of great or small. But this they told:— That once from out the blaze of square, And bickering folk that bought and sold, More moved no doubt of heat than prayer, Came to the church an Umbrian, Lord of much gold and champaign fair, But, for all this, a hard, haught man. To whom the priests, in humbleness, At once to beg for alms began, Praying him grant of his excess Such as for poor men's bread might pay, Or give their saint a gala-dress. Thereat with scorn he answered—"Nay, Most Reverend! Far too well ye know, By guile and wile, the fox's way "To swell the Church's overflow. But ere from me the least carline Ye win, this summer's sky shall snow; "Or, likelier still, your doll's-eyed queen Shall ring her bells ... but not of craft. By Bacchus! ye are none too lean "For fasting folk!" With that he laughed, And so, across the porphyry floor, His hand upon his dagger-haft, Strode, and of these was seen no more. Nor, of a truth, much marvelled they At those his words, since gear and store Oft dower shrunk souls. But, on a day, While yet again throughout the square, The buyers in their noisy way, Chaffered around the basket ware, It chanced (I but the tale reveal, Nor true nor false therein declare)— It chanced that when the priest would kneel Before the taper's flickering flame, Sudden a little tremulous peal From out the Virgin's altar came. And they that heard must fain recall The Umbrian, and the words of shame Spoke in his pride, and therewithal Came news how, at that very date And hour of time was fixed his fall, Who, of the Duke, was banned the State, And all his goods, and lands as well, To Holy Church were confiscate. Such is the tale the Frati tell.

"There's nothing new"—Not that I go so far As he who also said "There's nothing true," Since, on the contrary, I hold there are Surviving still a verity or two; But, as to novelty, in my conviction, There's nothing new,—especially in fiction. Hence, at the outset, I make no apology, If this my story is as old as Time, Being, indeed, that idyll of mythology,— The Cyclops' love,—which, somewhat varied, I'm To tell once more, the adverse Muse permitting, In easy rhyme, and phrases neatly fitting. "Once on a time"—there's nothing new, I said— It may be fifty years ago or more, Beside a lonely posting-road that led Seaward from Town, there used to stand of yore, With low-built bar and old bow-window shady, An ancient Inn, the "Dragon and the Lady." Say that by chance, wayfaring Reader mine, You cast a shoe, and at this dusty Dragon, Where beast and man were equal on the sign, Inquired at once for Blacksmith and for flagon: The landlord showed you, while you drank your hops, A road-side break beyond the straggling shops. And so directed, thereupon you led Your halting roadster to a kind of pass, This you descended with a crumbling tread, And found the sea beneath you like a glass; And soon, beside a building partly walled— Half hut, half cave—you raised your voice and called. Then a dog growled; and straightway there began Tumult within—for, bleating with affright, A goat burst out, escaping from the can; And, following close, rose slowly into sight— Blind of one eye, and black with toil and tan— An uncouth, limping, heavy-shouldered man. Part smith, part seaman, and part shepherd too: You scarce knew which, as, pausing with the pail Half filled with goat's milk, silently he drew An anvil forth, and reaching shoe and nail, Bared a red forearm, bringing into view Anchors and hearts in shadowy tattoo. And then he lit his fire.... But I dispense Henceforth with you, my Reader, and your horse, As being but a colorable pretence To bring an awkward hero in perforce; Since this our smith, for reasons never known, To most society preferred his own. Women declared that he'd an "Evil Eye,"— This in a sense was true—he had but one; Men, on the other hand, alleged him shy: We sometimes say so of the friends we shun; But, wrong or right, suffices to affirm it— The Cyclops lived a veritable hermit,— Dwelling below the cliff, beside the sea, Caved like an ancient British Troglodyte, Milking his goat at eve, and it may be, Spearing the fish along the flats at night, Until, at last, one April evening mild, Came to the Inn a Lady and a Child. The Lady was a nullity; the Child One of those bright bewitching little creatures, Who, if she once but shyly looked and smiled, Would soften out the ruggedest of features; Fragile and slight,—a very fay for size,— With pale town-cheeks, and "clear germander eyes." Nurses, no doubt, might name her "somewhat wild;" And pedants, possibly, pronounce her "slow;" Or corset-makers add, that for a child, She needed "cultivation;"—all I know Is that whene'er she spoke, or laughed, or romped, you Felt in each act the beauty of impromptu. The Lady was a nullity—a pale, Nerveless and pulseless quasi-invalid, Who, lest the ozone should in aught avail, Remained religiously indoors to read; So that, in wandering at her will, the Child Did, in reality, run "somewhat wild." At first but peering at the sanded floor And great shark jaw-bone in the cosy bar; Then watching idly from the dusky door, The noisy advent of a coach or car; Then stealing out to wonder at the fate Of blistered Ajax by the garden gate,— Some old ship's figure-head—until at last, Straying with each excursion more and more, She reached the limits of the road, and passed, Plucking the pansies, downward to the shore, And so, as you, respected Reader, showed, Came to the smith's "desirable abode." There by the cave the occupant she found, Weaving a crate; and, with a gladsome cry, The dog frisked out, although the Cyclops frowned With all the terrors of his single eye; Then from a mound came running, too, the goat, Uttering her plaintive, desultory note. The Child stood wondering at the silent man, Doubtful to go or stay, when presently She felt a plucking, for the goat began To crop the trail of twining briony She held behind her; so that, laughing, she Turned her light steps, retreating, to the sea. But the goat followed her on eager feet, And therewithal an air so grave and mild, Coupled with such a deprecatory bleat Of injured confidence, that soon the Child Filled the lone shore with louder merriment, And e'en the Cyclops' heavy brow unbent. Thus grew acquaintanceship between the pair, The girl and goat;—for thenceforth, day by day, The Child would bring her four-foot friend such fare As might be gathered on the downward way:— Foxglove, or broom, and "yellow cytisus," Dear to all goats since Greek Theocritus. But, for the Cyclops, that misogynist Having, by stress of circumstances, smiled, Felt it at least incumbent to resist Further encroachment, and as one beguiled By adverse fortune, with the half-door shut, Dwelt in the dim seclusion of his hut. And yet not less from thence he still must see That daily coming, and must hear the goat Bleating her welcome; then, towards the sea, The happy voices of the playmates float; Until, at last, enduring it no more, He took his wonted station by the door. Here was, of course, a pitiful surrender; For soon the Child, on whom the Evil Eye Seemed to exert an influence but slender, Would run to question him, till, by and by, His moody humor like a cloud dispersing, He found himself uneasily conversing. That was a sow's-ear, that an egg of skate, And this an agate rounded by the wave. Then came inquiries still more intimate About himself, the anvil, and the cave; And then, at last, the Child, without alarm Would even spell the letters on his arm. "G—a—l—Galatea." So there grew On his part, like some half-remembered tale, The new-found memory of an ice-bound crew, And vague garrulities of spouting whale,— Of sea-cow basking upon berg and floe. And Polar light, and stunted Eskimo. Till, in his heart, which hitherto had been Locked as those frozen barriers of the North, There came once more the season of the green,— The tender bud-time and the putting forth, So that the man, before the new sensation, Felt for the child a kind of adoration;— Rising by night, to search for shell and flower, To lay in places where she found them first; Hoarding his cherished goat's milk for the hour When those young lips might feel the summer's thirst; Holding himself for all devotion paid By that clear laughter of the little maid. Dwelling, alas! in that fond Paradise Where no to-morrow quivers in suspense,— Where scarce the changes of the sky suffice To break the soft forgetfulness of sense,— Where dreams become realities; and where I willingly would leave him—did I dare. Yet for a little space it still endured, Until, upon a day when least of all The softened Cyclops, by his hopes assured, Dreamed the inevitable blow could fall, Came the stern moment that should all destroy, Bringing a pert young cockerel of a Boy. Middy, I think,—he'd "Acis" on his box:— A black-eyed, sun-burnt, mischief-making imp, Pet of the mess,—a Puck with curling locks, Who straightway travestied the Cyclops' limp, And marveled how his cousin so could care For such a "one-eyed, melancholy Bear." Thus there was war at once; not overt yet, For still the Child, unwilling, would not break The new acquaintanceship, nor quite forget The pleasant past; while, for his treasure's sake, The boding smith with clumsy efforts tried To win the laughing scorner to his side. There are some sights pathetic; none I know More sad than this: to watch a slow-wrought mind Humbling itself, for love, to come and go Before some petty tyrant of its kind; Saddest, ah!—saddest far,—when it can do Naught to advance the end it has in view. This was at least the Cyclops' case, until, Whether the boy beguiled the Child away, Or whether that limp Matron on the Hill Woke from her novel-reading trance, one day He waited long and wearily in vain,— But, from that hour, they never came again. Yet still he waited, hoping—wondering if They still might come, or dreaming that he heard The sound of far-off voices on the cliff, Or starting strangely when the she-goat stirred; But nothing broke the silence of the shore, And, from that hour, the Child returned no more. Therefore our Cyclops sorrowed,—not as one Who can command the gamut of despair; But as a man who feels his days are done, So dead they seem,—so desolately bare; For, though he'd lived a hermit, 'twas but only Now he discovered that his life was lonely. The very sea seemed altered, and the shore; The very voices of the air were dumb; Time was an emptiness that o'er and o'er Ticked with the dull pulsation "Will she come?" So that he sat "consuming in a dream," Much like his old forerunner, Polypheme. Until there came the question, "Is she gone?" With such sad sick persistence that at last, Urged by the hungry thought which drove him on, Along the steep declivity he passed, And by the summit panting stood, and still, Just as the horn was sounding on the hill. Then, in a dream, beside the "Dragon" door, The smith saw travellers standing in the sun; Then came the horn again, and three or four Looked idly at him from the roof, but One,— A Child within,—suffused with sudden shame, Thrust forth a hand, and called to him by name. Thus the coach vanished from his sight, but he Limped back with bitter pleasure in his pain; He was not all forgotten—could it be? And yet the knowledge made the memory vain; And then—he felt a pressure in his throat, So, for that night, forgot to milk his goat. What then might come of silent misery, What new resolvings then might intervene, I know not. Only, with the morning sky, The goat stood tethered on the "Dragon" green, And those who, wondering, questioned thereupon, Found the hut empty,—for the man was gone.

"Sic visum Veneri: cui placet impares Formas atque animos sub juga aënea Saevo mittere cum joco." —Hor. i. 33.

"Love mocks us all"—as Horace said of old: From sheer perversity, that arch-offender Still yokes unequally the hot and cold, The short and tall, the hardened and the tender; He bids a Socrates espouse a scold, And makes a Hercules forget his gender:— Sic visum Veneri! Lest samples fail, I add a fresh one from the page of Bayle. It was in Athens that the thing occurred, In the last days of Alexander's rule, While yet in Grove or Portico was heard The studious murmur of its learned school;— Nay, 'tis one favoured of Minerva's bird Who plays therein the hero (or the fool) With a Megarian, who must then have been A maid, and beautiful, and just eighteen. I shan't describe her. Beauty is the same In Anno Domini as erst B.C.; The type is still that witching One who came, Between the furrows, from the bitter sea; 'Tis but to shift accessories and frame, And this our heroine in a trice would be, Save that she wore a peplum and a chiton, Like any modern on the beach at Brighton. Stay, I forget! Of course the sequel shows She had some qualities of disposition, To which, in general, her sex are foes,— As strange proclivities to erudition, And lore unfeminine, reserved for those Who now-a-days descant on "Woman's Mission," Or tread instead that "primrose path" to knowledge, That milder Academe—the Girton College. The truth is, she admired ... a learned man. There were no curates in that sunny Greece, For whom the mind emotional could plan Fine-art habiliments in gold and fleece; (This was ere chasuble or cope began To shake the centres of domestic peace;) So that "admiring," such as maids give way to, Turned to the ranks of Zeno and of Plato. The "object" here was mildly prepossessing, At least, regarded in a woman's sense; His forte, it seems, lay chiefly in expressing Disputed fact in Attic eloquence; His ways were primitive; and as to dressing, His toilet was a negative pretence; He kept, besides, the régime of the Stoic;— In short, was not, by any means, "heroic." Sic visum Veneri!—The thing is clear. Her friends were furious, her lovers nettled; 'Twas much as though the Lady Vere de Vere On some hedge-schoolmaster her heart had settled. Unheard! Intolerable!—a lumbering steer To plod the upland with a mare high-mettled!— They would, no doubt, with far more pleasure hand her To curled Euphorion or Anaximander. And so they used due discipline, of course, To lead to reason this most erring daughter, Proceeding even to extremes of force,— Confinement (solitary), and bread and water; Then, having lectured her till they were hoarse, Finding that this to no submission brought her, At last, (unwisely[1]) to the man they sent, That he might combat her by argument. Being, they fancied, but a bloodless thing; Or else too well forewarned of that commotion Which poets feign inseparable from Spring To suffer danger from a school-girl notion; Also they hoped that she might find her king, On close inspection, clumsy and Bœotian:— This was acute enough, and yet, between us, I think they thought too little about Venus. Something, I know, of this sort is related In Garrick's life. However, the man came, And taking first his mission's end as stated, Began at once her sentiments to tame, Working discreetly to the point debated By steps rhetorical I spare to name; In other words,—he broke the matter gently. Meanwhile, the lady looked at him intently, Wistfully, sadly,—and it put him out, Although he went on steadily, but faster. There were some maladies he'd read about Which seemed, at first, most difficult to master; They looked intractable at times, no doubt, But all they needed was a little plaster; This was a thing physicians long had pondered, Considered, weighed ... and then ... and then he wandered. ('Tis so embarrassing to have before you A silent auditor, with candid eyes; With lips that speak no sentence to restore you, And aspect, generally, of pained surprise; Then, if we add that all these things adore you, 'Tis really difficult to syllogise:— Of course it mattered not to him a feather, But still he wished ... they'd not been left together.) "Of one," he said, continuing, "of these The young especially should be suspicious; Seeing no ailment in Hippocrates Could be at once so tedious and capricious; No seeming apple of Hesperides More fatal, deadlier, and more delicious— Pernicious,—he should say,—for all its seeming...." It seemed to him he simply was blaspheming. If she had only turned askance, or uttered Word in reply, or trifled with her brooch, Or sighed, or cried, grown petulant, or fluttered, He might (in metaphor) have "called his coach"; Yet still, while patiently he hemmed and stuttered, She wore her look of wondering reproach; (And those who read the "Shakespeare of Romances" Know of what stuff a girl's "dynamic glance" is.) "But there was still a cure, the wise insisted, In Love,—or rather, in Philosophy. Philosophy—no, Love—at best existed But as an ill for that to remedy: There was no knot so intricately twisted, There was no riddle but at last should be By Love—he meant Philosophy—resolved...." The truth is, he was getting quite involved. O sovran Love! how far thy power surpasses Aught that is taught of Logic or the Schools! Here was a man, "far seen" in all the classes, Strengthened of precept, fortified of rules, Mute as the least articulate of asses; Nay, at an age when every passion cools, Conscious of nothing but a sudden yearning Stronger by far than any force of learning! Therefore he changed his tone, flung down his wallet, Described his lot, how pitiable and poor; The hut of mud,—the miserable pallet,— The alms solicited from door to door; The scanty fare of bitter bread and sallet,— Could she this shame,—this poverty endure? I scarcely think he knew what he was doing, But that last line had quite a touch of wooing. And so she answered him,—those early Greeks Took little care to keep concealment preying At any length upon their damask cheeks,— She answered him by very simply saying, She could and would:—and said it as one speaks Who takes no course without much careful weighing.... Was this, perchance, the answer that he hoped? It might, or might not be. But they eloped. Sought the free pine-wood and the larger air,— The leafy sanctuaries, remote and inner, Where the great heart of nature, beating bare, Receives benignantly both saint and sinner;— Leaving propriety to gasp and stare, And shake its head, like Burleigh, after dinner, From pure incompetence to mar or mend them: They fled and wed;—though, mind, I don't defend them. I don't defend them. 'Twas a serious act, No doubt too much determined by the senses; (Alas! when these affinities attract, We lose the future in the present tenses!) Besides, the least establishment's a fact Involving nice adjustment of expenses; Moreover, too, reflection should reveal That not remote contingent—la famille. Yet these, maybe, were happy in their lot. Milton has said (and surely Milton knows) That after all, philosophy is "not,— Not harsh and crabbed, as dull fools suppose;" And some, no doubt, for Love's sake have forgot Much that is needful in this world of prose:— Perchance 'twas so with these. But who shall say? Time has long since swept them and theirs away.

"—portentaque Thessala rides?" —Hor. "—Thessalian portents do you flout?" * *

Cardenio's fortunes ne'er miscarried Until the day Cardenio married. What then? the Nymph no doubt was young? She was: but yet—she had a tongue! Most women have, you seem to say. I grant it—in a different way. 'Twas not that organ half-divine, With which, Dear Friend, your spouse or mine, What time we seek our nightly pillows, Rebukes our easy peccadilloes: 'Twas not so tuneful, so composing; 'Twas louder and less often dozing; At Ombre, Basset, Loo, Quadrille, You heard it resonant and shrill; You heard it rising, rising yet Beyond Selinda's parroquet; You heard it rival and outdo The chair-men and the link-boy too; In short, wherever lungs perform, Like Marlborough, it rode the storm. So uncontrolled it came to be, Cardenio feared his chère amie (Like Echo by Cephissus shore) Would turn to voice and nothing more. That ('tis conceded) must be cured Which can't by practice be endured. Cardenio, though he loved the maid, Grew daily more and more afraid; And since advice could not prevail (Reproof but seemed to fan the gale), A prudent man, he cast about To find some fitting nostrum out. What need to say that priceless drug Had not in any mine been dug? What need to say no skilful leech Could check that plethora of speech? Suffice it, that one lucky day Cardenio tried—another way. A Hermit (there were hermits then; The most accessible of men!) Near Vauxhall's sacred shade resided; In him, at length, our friend confided. (Simples, for show, he used to sell; But cast Nativities as well.) Consulted, he looked wondrous wise; Then undertook the enterprise. What that might be, the Muse must spare: To tell the truth, she was not there. She scorns to patch what she ignores With Similes and Metaphors; And so, in short, to change the scene, She slips a fortnight in between. Behold our pair then (quite by chance!) In Vauxhall's garden of romance,— That paradise of nymphs and grottoes, Of fans, and fiddles, and ridottoes! What wonder if, the lamps reviewed, The song encored, the maze pursued, No further feat could seem more pat Than seek the Hermit after that? Who then more keen her fate to see Than this, the new Leuconoë, On fire to learn the lore forbidden In Babylonian numbers hidden? Forthwith they took the darkling road To Albumazar his abode. Arriving, they beheld the sage Intent on hieroglyphic page, In high Armenian cap arrayed And girt with engines of his trade; (As Skeletons, and Spheres, and Cubes; As Amulets and Optic Tubes;) With dusky depths behind revealing Strange shapes that dangled from the ceiling, While more to palsy the beholder A Black Cat sat upon his shoulder. The Hermit eyed the Lady o'er As one whose face he'd seen before; And then, with agitated looks, He fell to fumbling at his books. Cardenio felt his spouse was frightened, Her grasp upon his arm had tightened; Judge then her horror and her dread When "Vox Stellarum" shook his head; Then darkly spake in phrase forlorn Of Taurus and of Capricorn; Of stars averse, and stars ascendant, And stars entirely independent; In fact, it seemed that all the Heavens Were set at sixes and at sevens, Portending, in her case, some fate Too fearful to prognosticate. Meanwhile the Dame was well-nigh dead. "But is there naught," Cardenio said, "No sign or token, Sage, to show From whence, or what, this dismal woe?" The Sage, with circle and with plane, Betook him to his charts again. "It vaguely seems to threaten Speech: No more (he said) the signs can teach." But still Cardenio tried once more: "Is there no potion in your store, No charm by Chaldee mage concerted By which this doom can be averted?" The Sage, with motion doubly mystic, Resumed his juggling cabalistic. The aspects here again were various; But seemed to indicate Aquarius. Thereat portentously he frowned; Then frowned again, then smiled:—'twas found! But 'twas too simple to be tried. "What is it, then?" at once they cried. "Whene'er by chance you feel incited To speak at length, or uninvited; Whene'er you feel your tones grow shrill (At times, we know, the softest will!), This word oracular, my daughter, Bids you to fill your mouth with water: Further, to hold it firm and fast, Until the danger be o'erpast." The Dame, by this in part relieved The prospect of escape perceived, Rebelled a little at the diet. Cardenio said discreetly, "Try it, Try it, my Own. You have no choice, What if you lose your charming voice!" She tried, it seems. And whether then Some god stepped in, benign to men; Or Modesty, too long outlawed, Contrived to aid the pious fraud, I know not:—but from that same day She talked in quite a different way.

"Ce sont les amours Qui font les beaux jours."

What is a Patron? Johnson knew, And well that lifelike portrait drew. He is a Patron who looks down With careless eye on men who drown; But if they chance to reach the land, Encumbers them with helping hand. Ah! happy we whose artless rhyme No longer now must creep to climb! Ah! happy we of later days, Who 'scape those Caudine Forks of praise! Whose votive page may dare commend A Brother, or a private Friend! Not so it fared with scribbling man, As Pope says, "under my Queen Anne." Dick Dovecot (this was long, be sure, Ere he attained his Wiltshire cure, And settled down, like humbler folks, To cowslip wine and country jokes) Once hoped—as who will not?—for fame, And dreamed of honours and a Name. A fresh-cheek'd lad, he came to Town In homespun hose and russet brown, But armed at point with every view Enforced in Rapin and Bossu. Besides a stout portfolio ripe For Lintot's or for Tonson's type. He went the rounds, saw all the sights, Dropped in at Wills and Tom's o' nights; Heard Burnet preach, saw Bicknell dance, E'en gained from Addison a glance; Nay, once, to make his bliss complete, He supp'd with Steele in Bury Street. ('Tis true the feast was half by stealth: Prue was in bed: they drank her health.) By this his purse was running low, And he must either print or go. He went to Tonson. Tonson said— Well! Tonson hummed and shook his head; Deplor'd the times; abus'd the Town; But thought—at length—it might go down; With aid, of course, of Elzevir, And Prologue to a Prince, or Peer. Dick winced at this, for adulation Was scarce that candid youth's vocation: Nor did he deem his rustic lays Required a Coronet for Bays. But there—the choice was that, or none. The Lord was found; the thing was done. With Horace and with Tooke's Pantheon, He penn'd his tributary pæan; Despatched his gift, nor waited long The meed of his ingenuous song. Ere two days pass'd, a hackney chair Brought a pert spark with languid air, A lace cravat about his throat,— Brocaded gown,—en papillotes. ("My Lord himself," quoth Dick, "at least!" But no, 'twas that "inferior priest," His Lordship's man.) He held a card: My Lord (it said) would see the Bard. The day arrived; Dick went, was shown Into an anteroom, alone— A great gilt room with mirrored door, Festoons of flowers and marble floor, Whose lavish splendours made him look More shabby than a sheepskin book. (His own book—by the way—he spied On a far table, toss'd aside.) Dick waited, as they only wait Who haunt the chambers of the Great. He heard the chairmen come and go; He heard the Porter yawn below; Beyond him, in the Grand Saloon, He heard the silver stroke of noon, And thought how at this very time The old church clock at home would chime. Dear heart, how plain he saw it all! The lich-gate and the crumbling wall, The stream, the pathway to the wood, The bridge where they so oft had stood. Then, in a trice, both church and clock Vanish'd before ... a shuttlecock. A shuttlecock! And following slow The zigzag of its to-and-fro, And so intent upon its flight She neither look'd to left nor right, Came a tall girl with floating hair, Light as a wood-nymph, and as fair. O Dea certé!—thought poor Dick, And thereupon his memories quick Ran back to her who flung the ball In Homer's page, and next to all The dancing maids that bards have sung; Lastly to One at home, as young, As fresh, as light of foot, and glad, Who, when he went, had seem'd so sad. O Dea certé! (Still, he stirred Nor hand nor foot, nor uttered word.) Meanwhile the shuttlecock in air Went darting gaily here and there; Now crossed a mirror's face, and next Shot up amidst the sprawl'd, perplex'd Olympus overhead. At last, Jerk'd sidelong by a random cast, The striker miss'd it, and it fell Full on the book Dick knew so well. (If he had thought to speak or bow, Judge if he moved a muscle now!) The player paused, bent down to look, Lifted a cover of the book; Pished at the Prologue, passed it o'er, Went forward for a page or more (Asem and Asa: Dick could trace Almost the passage and the place); Then for a moment with bent head Rested upon her hand and read. (Dick thought once more how cousin Cis Used when she read to lean like this;— "Used when she read,"—why, Cis could say All he had written,—any day!) Sudden was heard a hurrying tread; The great doors creaked. The reader fled. Forth came a crowd with muffled laughter, A waft of Bergamot, and after, His Chaplain smirking at his side, My Lord himself in all his pride— A portly shape in stars and lace, With wine-bag cheeks and vacant face. Dick bowed and smiled. The Great Man stared, With look half puzzled and half scared; Then seemed to recollect, turned round, And mumbled some imperfect sound: A moment more, his coach of state Dipped on its springs beneath his weight; And Dick, who followed at his heels, Heard but the din of rolling wheels. Away, too, all his dreams had rolled; And yet they left him half consoled: Fame, after all, he thought might wait. Would Cis? Suppose he were too late! Ten months he'd lost in Town—an age! Next day he took the Wiltshire Stage.