_A Cool Collation of Several Bards._
I would I had not met you, Sweet,
I wish you had been far away
From where, in Upper Wimpole Street,
We two foregather'd yesterday.
Somewhere in that unlovely street
Summer's lost beauty, hid away,
Woke at the music of your feet,
And sought the little girl in grey.
Around your head the sunbeams play--
Home to the depths of your deep eyes
Soft shadows of the woodland stray,
Then sparkle with a quick surprise,
As when the branch-entangled skies
Shake from the depths of woodland stream,
Awhile in laughing circles gleam,
Then spread to heaven's peace again.
Amber and gold, and feathery grey,
You suited well the Autumn day,
The muffled sun, the misty air,
The weather like a sleepy pear.
And yet I wish that you had been
Afar, beside the sounding main,
Or swaying daintily the rein
Of mettled courser on the green,
So I had passed, and passed unseen.
For I arose, from dreams of thee,
So late that morn, my matin tea
Was cold as mutton two days cooked;
As in the looking-glass I looked,
Methought the razor need not wreak
Its wonted vengeance on my cheek,
Nor clear the shadow from my chin
Till to the City I had been.
Thus, horrid with a nascent beard,
By chance through Wimpole Street I steered,
Trusting therein to shun contempt
Of who abhor a man unkempt.
For like a mother-bird, who's caught
The cant of modern woman's thought,
My restless tie refused to sit,
And restless fingers vainly sought
To soothe the silkworm's stubborn toil.
But only did its candour soil,
And suffered none the less from it.
For all my neck, and head no less,
Owned to a vague unquietness,
As when the vagrant spiderlet
Has spread at large her filmy net
To catch the moonbeams, wavering white,
At the front gate on Autumn night.
Then suddenly the sombre way
Rock'd like the darkness struck by day,
The endless houses reel'd from sight,
And all romance and all delight
Came thronging in a glorious crowd.
So, when the drums are beating loud,
The mob comes sweeping down the Mall,
Far heralding the bear-skins tall.
Glorious in golden clothing comes
The great drum-major with his drums
And sun-smit brass of trumpets; then
The scarlet wall of marching men,
Midmost of which great Mavors sets
The colours girt with bayonets.
Yes, there were you--and there was I,
Unshaved, and with erratic tie,
And for that once I yearn'd to shun
My social system's central sun.
How could a sloven slave express
The frank, the manly tenderness
That wraps you round from common thought,
And does not ask that you should know
The love that consecrates you so.
No; furtive, awkward, restless, cold,
I basely seemed to set at naught
That sudden bliss, undreamt, unsought.
What must she think, my girl of gold?
I dare not ask; and baffled wit
Droops--till sweet hopes begin to flit--
Like butterflies that brave the cold--
Perhaps she didn't notice it.
* * * * *
[Illustration: STUDIES IN REPARTEE.
_She._ "HOW SILENT YOU ARE! WHAT ARE YOU THINKING OF?"
_He._ "_NOTHING!_"
_She._ "EGOTIST!"]
* * * * *
"JUST TO OBLIGE BENSON."
DEAR MR. PUNCH,--It was not a very happy thought to send me to the Globe
Theatre at this festive season of the year to witness the representation
of a piece, called by the management, for some reason or other, "a
_faërie_ comedy." Now, I like a Burlesque, and I am fond of a Pantomime,
but a mixture of blank verse and tom-foolery is rather too much for me,
especially when that mixture is not redeemed by a plot of any interest.
Nothing can be more absurd than the story (save the mark!) told in this
particularly uninteresting play. It appears that a "Duke!" of Athens
married the Queen of the Amazons, and during the nuptial rejoicings
ordered the daughter of one of his subjects to "die the death" unless
she transferred her affections from her own true love to a gentleman of
her father's choice. The gentleman of her father's choice was beloved in
his turn by a school friend of his would-not-be betrothed, and the play
which lasted from eight until nearly midnight, was devoted to setting
this simple (in more senses than one) _imbroglio_ right. By a clumsy
device, _Oberon_ King of the Fairies bewitched the two pairs of lovers
during their sleep in a wood, so that one lady had two admirers and the
other none. All that was needed to bring the piece to a conclusion was
to have another exercise of magic when the couples paired off, of
course, in a manner calculated to give satisfaction to their friends and
relations. This was the entire plot. There was now and again some
attempts to turn amateur theatricals into feeble ridicule by the
introduction of a party of village histrions, who were allowed to
"clown" to their heart's content; and _voilà tout_!
The mounting is excellent. Nothing better than "a Wood near Athens,"
painted by Mr. HEMSLEY, has been seen since Professor HERKOMER startled
the world with his representation of village life at Bushey. The music,
too (chiefly from the works of MENDELSSOHN), is always charming, and
frequently appropriate. Moreover, Mr. BENSON, no doubt feeling that his
author required every possible support, has introduced a number of
pretty dances, executed by comely maidens of ages varying from seven to
(say) seven-and-twenty.
Of course, such a play required very ordinary acting. Mr. BENSON was, on
the whole, a gentlemanly _Lysander_, Mr. OTHO STUART a dignified
_Oberon_, and Mr. STEPHEN PHILLIPS quite the best of the village
histrions. Miss GRACE GERALDINE was also fanciful in the _rôle_ of a
sort of gnome. But, allowing for the music, and the scenery, and the
acting, the piece itself was unquestionably dull. And now, having given
you my unbiassed opinion, I beg to sign myself,