"Our life is twofold," Byron says; and it's very certain that we pass an
equal part before and behind the curtain;—from the chandler, whose
trade's his prop, and contrives, all the week, to stop behind the
counter of his _shop_, in the midst of red-herrings and split peas,
French eggs, Prussian blue, Irish butter, and Dutch cheese, with many
other articles similar to these—but Sunday he gives up to ease; and,
"cutting the cheese" for the day, with his _shay_, makes a little
display, and off for a trip drives away, with his wife in a toilet most
gay, to 'bide by his side, with the pride of a bride, for a ride where
their own wishes guide.
Then there's the gentleman some folks call a fop, who lodges very near
the house-top, and dines off a solitary chop, in a coat too worn even to
pop, and which no old clothesman would swop—_that's the shop!_—Then he
turns out a dandy complete, to swell up and down Regent Street, with
neat polished boots on his feet, not in dread of the friends he may
meet, nor anxious to shuffle away—_that's the shay!_
And next, Mrs. Brown, in a fright, that her seventeen daughters, in
spite of their figures so slight, and eyes bright, do not marry as fast
as they might, determines her friends to unite, and sends out to each an
invite; and all the day's in a sad plight, herself putting up each wax
light, in order that all may go right, as she trusts the _blanc mange_
will be white, and not spoilt by her own oversight; and, by evening, is
ready to drop—_that's the shop!_—And when night comes, rewarding their
pains, her daughters, in _mousselain-de-laines_, with flushed cheeks and
quick-throbbing veins, to the cornet-à-piston's shrill strains, are
flying about with their swains, whom they hope to entrap in their
chains, as fast as a set of mail trains; and all is as gay as a bright
summer day—_that's the shay!_
And the young opera _danseuse_, who goes to learn how to walk on her
toes, or study each elegant _pose_, to an audience of empty pit rows, in
her toilet of everyday clothes, with her cheeks pale as death, and her
nose, from the cold, almost _couleur de rose_, the which she incessantly
blows, as she goes through each posture and hop—_that's the shop!_—And,
at night, from her place at the wing, she comes on the stage with a
spring, and plaudits throughout the house ring, at the sight of so
sylph-like a thing, and her lover's the son of a king, round whose neck
her white arms fondly cling, until pulled aloft by a string, she floats
on a bright canvas sunbeam away—_that's the shay!_
And the poor scribbling author, whose will is a few brilliant thoughts
to distil, that may flow with his ink from his quill: who grinds his
brains just like a mill, in his garret deserted and chill, and thinks
till he makes himself ill, in the hopes that his pockets may fill, when
the publisher praises his skill, and who trusts, from his efforts, to
reap a good crop—_that's the shop!_—And when his said work proves a hit,
and the sharpest reviewers admit, that it shows many traces of wit, and
he's thought for their _coteries_ fit, and soon of his debts can get
quit, no longer obscurely to flit, but soar in the day—_that's the
shay!_
[Illustration:
The Shop and the Shay.
]