The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 04, No. 21, July, 1859. Various

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СКАЧАТЬ should the worst come, you may figure in "The Bibliographer's Manual," with a star of honor against your name, to indicate that you are exceedingly scarce and proportionally valuable; rival collectors, with fury in their faces, will run you up to a fabulous price at the auction, and you will at last be put into free quarters for life in some shady alcove upon some lofty shelf, with unlimited rations of dust, as you glide into a vermiculate dotage. Why should you be faint-hearted, when the men of the stalls ask such a breath-stretching price for the productions of William Whitehead, Esq., who used to celebrate the birthdays of old George the Third after this fashion:—

      "And shall the British lyre be mute,

      Nor thrill through all its trembling strings,

      With oaten reed and pastoral flute

      While every vale responsive rings?"

      Ben Jonson called Inigo Jones Sir Lanthorn Leatherhead, but St. Paul's still stands; and how many flies are there in the sparkling amber of "The Dunciad"! Have the critics, poor birdling, torn your wings, and mocked at your recording? I know, as Howell wrote to "Father Ben," that "the fangs of a bear and the tusks of a wild-boar don't bite worse and make deeper gashes than a goose-quill sometimes; no, not the badger himself, who is said to be so tenacious of his bite that he will not give over his hold until he feels his teeth meet and bone crack." I know all about it, my minstrel boy! for have I not, in my day, given and taken, and shouldered back again when I have been shouldered? Pray, do not finger your eyes any longer! Screw your lyre up to concert pitch, and go on with your stridulous performances! Neither you nor I know how bad may be the taste of our grandchildren, or how high you may stand when they have

      "Made prostitute and profligate the Muse."

      If you cannot be a poet, be a poetaster; and if you cannot be that, be a poetess, or "she-poet," as Johnson, in his big dictionary, defines the word. So "gently take all that ungently comes," and hammer away as sedulously as old Boileau. Somebody will, undoubtedly, in the next age, relish your rinsings. A poet, you know, is a prophet. Console yourself by vaticinating in the bower of your bed-chamber, as you count the feet upon your fingers, your own immortality. If 'tis a delusion, 'tis a cheap one, to which even a poet can afford to treat himself. Play with and humor your life, till you fall asleep, and then the care will be over! Meanwhile, you must be more stupid than I think, if you cannot find somebody to give you your fodder of flattery. You need not blush, for I know that you like it, and you need not be ashamed of liking it. We all do,—we are all women in that regard; although the honestest man to confess it that I ever heard of was Sir Godfrey Kneller, who said to Pope, when he was painting his picture, "I can't do so well as I should do, unless you flatter me a little; pray, flatter me, Mr. Pope! You know I love to be flattered."

      You see, my excellent Robert, that, by some hocus-pocus which I do not exactly comprehend, myself, I have introduced a wheel within a wheel, a letter within a letter, a play within a play, after the manner of the old dramatists; and I beg you to make a note that the foregoing admonitions and most sapient counsels are not addressed to you. You are something of a philosopher; but you are not, like Mr. Stephen Duck, "something of a philosopher and something of a poet"; for I do not believe, O fortunate youth, that you ever invoked the ten ladies minus one in your life; and I shrewdly suspect, that, so far from knowing the difference between a male and a female rhyme, you are unfamiliar with the close family connection between "trees" and "breeze," or between "love" and "dove." My episodical remarks are for the benefit of young Dolce Pianissimo, who has taken, I am sorry to say, to gin, shirt-collars prodigious, and the minor magazines, and whose friends are standing aghast and despairing at his lunacy. But, after all, 'tis my best irony quite thrown away; for the foolish boy will believe me quite in earnest, and will still be making love to that jade, Mistress Fame, although he knows well enough how many she has jilted. But as he grows in stature, he may grow in sense. If you see him very savagely cut up in "The Revolver," you will recognize the kindly hands which held the bistoury, scalpel, and tenaculum, and the gentleman who wept while he wounded.

      But I have long enough, I fear too long, tormented you with my drivel. It must be your consolation, that, in spirit, you have been with me to-night, as I have thought of the old days, pausing for a moment over these mute but eloquent companions, to dream or to sigh, and then once more turning the old familiar pages as I try to forget, for just a little while, that dear familiar face. If something of indifference has tinctured these hurried lines, if I have been unjust in my estimate of the world's honors and the rewards of the Muses, you will forgive me, if you will remember how the great Burke reduced the value of earthly honors and emoluments to less than that of a peck of wheat. My fire is gone out. My candle is flickering in the socket. There is light in the cold, gray East. Good-morning, Don Bob!—good-morning!

      AFTER THE BALL

      They sat and combed their beautiful hair,

      Their long, bright tresses, one by one,

      As they laughed and talked in the chamber there,

      After the revel was done.

      Idly they talked of waltz and quadrille,

      Idly they laughed, like other girls,

      Who over the fire, when all is still,

      Comb out their braids and curls.

      Robe of satin and Brussels lace,

      Knots of flowers and ribbons, too,

      Scattered about in every place,

      For the revel is through.

      And Maud and Madge in robes of white,

      The prettiest night-gowns under the sun,

      Stockingless, slipperless, sit in the night,

      For the revel is done,—

      Sit and comb their beautiful hair,

      Those wonderful waves of brown and gold,

      Till the fire is out in the chamber there,

      And the little bare feet are cold.

      Then out of the gathering winter chill,

      All out of the bitter St. Agnes weather,

      While the fire is out and the house is still,

      Maud and Madge together,—

      Maud and Madge in robes of white,

      The prettiest night-gowns under the sun,

      Curtained away from the chilly night,

      After the revel is done,—

      Float along in a splendid dream,

      To a golden gittern's tinkling tune,

      While a thousand lustres shimmering stream,

      In a palace's grand saloon.

      Flashing of jewels, and flutter of laces,

      Tropical odors sweeter than musk,

      Men and women with beautiful faces

      And eyes of tropical dusk,—

      And one face shining out like a star,

      One face haunting the dreams of each,

      And one voice, sweeter than others are,

      Breaking into silvery speech,—

      Telling, through lips of bearded bloom,

      An old, old story over again,

      As down the royal bannered room,

      To the golden gittern's strain,

      Two and two, they dreamily walk,

      While an unseen spirit walks beside,

      And, all unheard in the lovers' talk,

      He claimeth one for a bride.

      Oh, Maud and Madge, dream on together,

      With СКАЧАТЬ