That hour devoted to thy vesper "service"--
Dulcet exhilaration! glorious tea!--
I deem my happiest. Howsoe'er I swerve, as
To mind or morals, elsewhere, over thee
I am a perfect creature, quite impervious
To care, or tribulation, or _ennui_--
In fact, I do agnize to thee an utter
Devotion even to the bread and butter.
The homely kettle hissing on the bar--
(Urns I detest, irrelevant pomposities)--
The world beyond the window-blinds, as far
As I can thrust it--this defines what "cosset" is--
What woe that rhyme such scene of bliss must mar!
But rhyme, alas! is one of my atrocities;
In common with those bards who have the scratch
Of writing, and are all right with Catnach.
"How Nancy Sniggles was the village pride,--
How Will, her sweetheart, went to be a sailor;
How much at parting Nancy Sniggles cried,--
And how she snubb'd her funny friend the tailor;
How William boldly fought and bravely died;
How Nancy Sniggles felt her senses fail her--"
Then comes a sad _dénouement_--now-a-days
It is not virtue dominant that pays.
Such tales, in this, the post-octavo age,
Our novelists incontinently tells us--
Tales, wherein lovely heroines engage
With highwaymen, good-looking rogues but callous,
Who go on swimmingly till the last page,
And then take poison to escape the gallows--
Tales, whose original refinement teaches
The pride of eloquence in--dying speeches!
What an apotheosis have we here!
What equal laws th' awards of fame dispose!
Capture a fort--assassinate a peer--
Alike be chronicled in startling prose--
Alike be dramatised--(how near
Is clever crime to virtue!)--at Tussaud's
Be grouped with all the criminals at large,
From burglar Sheppard unto fiend Laffarge!
The women are best judges after all!
And Sheridan was right, and Plagi-ary;
To their decision all things mundane fall,
From court to counting-house; from square to dairy;
From caps to chemistry; from tract to shawl,
And then these female verdicts never vary!
In fact, on lap-dogs, lovers, buhl, and boddices,
There are no critics like these mortal goddesses!
To please such readers, authors make it answer
To trace a pedigree to the creation
Of some old Saxon peer; a monstrous grandsire,
Whose battles tell, in print, to admiration--
But I, unfortunate, have never once a
Mysterious hint of any great relation;
I know whether Shem or Japhet--right sir--
Was my progenitor--nor care a kreutzer.
For, though there's matter for regret in losing
An opportune occasion to record
The feats in gambling, duelling, seducing--
Conventional acquirements of a lord--
Still I have stories startling and amusing,
Which I can tell and vouch, upon my word.
To anybody who desires to hear 'em--
But don't be nervous, pray,--you needn't fear 'em.
But what of my poor Hy-son all this while?
She saved the gardener by a timely kiss.
Few husbands are there proof against a smile,
And Te-pott's rage endured no more than this.
Ah, reader! gentle, moral, free from guile,
Think you she did so _very_ much amiss?
She was not love-sick for the fellow quite--
She merely _thought_ of him--from morn till night!
A state of mind how much by parents dreaded!
(By those outrageous parents, English mammas,
Who scarcely own their daughters till they're wedded)--
How postulant of patent Chubbs and Bramahs!
And eyes--the safest locks when locks are needed!--
And Abigails, and homilies, and grammars;
And other antidotes for "detrimentals"--
_Id est_, fine gentlemen unblest with rentals.
But this could not stop here; nor did it stop--
For both were anxious for--an explanation.
And in the harem's grating was a gap,
Whence Hy-son peep'd in modest hesitation;
While on his spade the gardener would prop
Himself, and issue looks of adoration;
Until it happen'd, like a lucky rhyme,
Each for the other look'd at the same time.
Then fell the gardener upon his knees,
And kiss'd his hand in manner most devout--
So Hy-son couldn't find the heart to tease
The poor dear man by being in a pout;--
Besides, she might go walk among the trees,
And not a word of scandal be made out.
She thought a--very--little more upon it,
Then smiled to Sou-chong,--and put on her bonnet.
* * * * *