Part 3

With vain appeals he never bored her, But stood in silent sorrow by— He knew how fondly he adored her, And knew, alas! how hopelessly!

Well grounded by a village tutor In languages alive and past, He’d say unto himself, “Knee-suitor, Oh, do not go beyond your last!”

But though his name could boast no handle, He could not every hope resign; As moths will hover round a candle, So hovered he about her shrine.

The brilliant candle dazed the moth well: One day she sang to her Papa The air that MARIE sings with BOTHWELL In NEIDERMEYER’S opera.

(Therein a stable boy, it’s stated, Devoutly loved a noble dame, Who ardently reciprocated His rather injudicious flame.)

And then, before the piano closing (He listened coyly at the door), She sang a song of her composing— I give one verse from half a score:

BALLAD

Why, pretty page, art ever sighing? Is sorrow in thy heartlet lying? Come, set a-ringing Thy laugh entrancing, And ever singing And ever dancing. Ever singing, Tra! la! la! Ever dancing, Tra! la! la! Ever singing, ever dancing, Ever singing, Tra! la! la!

He skipped for joy like little muttons, He danced like Esmeralda’s kid. (She did not mean a boy in buttons, Although he fancied that she did.)

Poor lad! convinced he thus would win her, He wore out many pairs of soles; He danced when taking down the dinner— He danced when bringing up the coals.

He danced and sang (however laden) With his incessant “Tra! la! la!” Which much surprised the noble maiden, And puzzled even her Papa.

He nourished now his flame and fanned it, He even danced at work below. The upper servants wouldn’t stand it, And BOWLES the butler told him so.

At length on impulse acting blindly, His love he laid completely bare; The gentle Earl received him kindly And told the lad to take a chair.

“Oh, sir,” the suitor uttered sadly, “Don’t give your indignation vent; I fear you think I’m acting madly, Perhaps you think me insolent?”

The kindly Earl repelled the notion; His noble bosom heaved a sigh, His fingers trembled with emotion, A tear stood in his mild blue eye:

For, oh! the scene recalled too plainly The half-forgotten time when he, A boy of nine, had worshipped vainly A governess of forty-three!

“My boy,” he said, in tone consoling, “Give up this idle fancy—do— The song you heard my daughter trolling Did not, indeed, refer to you.

“I feel for you, poor boy, acutely; I would not wish to give you pain; Your pangs I estimate minutely,— I, too, have loved, and loved in vain.

“But still your humble rank and station For MINNIE surely are not meet”— He said much more in conversation Which it were needless to repeat.

Now I’m prepared to bet a guinea, Were this a mere dramatic case, The page would have eloped with MINNIE, But, no—he only left his place.

The simple Truth is my detective, With me Sensation can’t abide; The Likely beats the mere Effective, And Nature is my only guide.

MISTER WILLIAM

OH, listen to the tale of MISTER WILLIAM, if you please, Whom naughty, naughty judges sent away beyond the seas. He forged a party’s will, which caused anxiety and strife, Resulting in his getting penal servitude for life.

He was a kindly goodly man, and naturally prone, Instead of taking others’ gold, to give away his own. But he had heard of Vice, and longed for only once to strike— To plan one little wickedness—to see what it was like.

He argued with himself, and said, “A spotless man am I; I can’t be more respectable, however hard I try! For six and thirty years I’ve always been as good as gold, And now for half an hour I’ll plan infamy untold!

“A baby who is wicked at the early age of one, And then reforms—and dies at thirty-six a spotless son, Is never, never saddled with his babyhood’s defect, But earns from worthy men consideration and respect.

“So one who never revelled in discreditable tricks Until he reached the comfortable age of thirty-six, May then for half an hour perpetrate a deed of shame, Without incurring permanent disgrace, or even blame.

“That babies don’t commit such crimes as forgery is true, But little sins develop, if you leave ’em to accrue; And he who shuns all vices as successive seasons roll, Should reap at length the benefit of so much self-control.