For Grace was sweet as sweet could be—
To me, at least, divinely fair:
And I believe I loved her—See!
This little curl of golden hair.
This curl upon her brow has gleamed
Beneath the sun’s alchemic touch;
But I, who stole it, little dream’d
That it could ever mean so much:
It summons back her lovely look,
The brow alive with thoughts untold,
The blushing laughter, when she shook
The sunshine from her locks of gold.
We played a little pleasing game,
A playful love, we knew not why:
I made acrostics on her name,
But came to kisses by-and-by.
This sleeping Cupid, red as wine,—
A quiver here, a spire beyond,—
She sent me as a Valentine,
And it reminds me we were fond.
And here,—a book of tender rhymes
That (for a wonder) time has kept:
I read it out a hundred times,
And marked some portions, where we wept:
A foolish volume it may be,
Yet o’er it she has laughed and grieved—
It says, we were so young, that we
Conferred the beauty we perceived.
Well, time passed on. Within, without,
My brain was hot, my face was fired;
We played our pretty folly out,
Till I grew bold and she grew tired;
Till I grew bold and she grew cold,
Forgetful what the years might bring—
We quarrelled, she not loath. Behold
This tiny, tarnish’d golden ring.
I bought the ring unknown to Grace,
A golden ring my love to crown,
And often, looking on her face,
Dreamed of a cottage out of town,—
A little garden, deaf to fame;
Till, blind with projects small and big,
Sure of its object, Love became
A gross ambition for a gig!
O, common folly, short and proud!
We quarrelled, parted, turning backs—
The gig came never from its cloud,
The cottage never felt a tax.
I bade, while brow and bosom burned,
A bitter truce to all my joys;
She married (well, they say), and learned
The knack of rearing girls and boys.
I keep the tokens I have shown,
And hold them very dear, in truth,—
Not for the single loss, I own,
But for the general loss of youth;
Love dies, but memories renew
The heart whose crust is hard and cold:
Romeo is young at forty-two,
And Juliet can ne’er be old!
R. W. Buchanan.
“PRAY, SIR, ARE YOU A GENTLEMAN?”
On the 23rd of March, 1860, I went to London for a couple of days on business.
Turning the corner of Chancery Lane, I unexpectedly encountered my friend Frank Stonhouse. I call him my friend, though there was a disparity in our ages,—he being forty-five, I thirty years old. He, moreover, was a married man with a family; I an itinerant animal, without encumbrances, called a bachelor. Still we were very much attached to each other. After an exclamation of surprise and pleasure, Frank rapidly said, “I am very busy now, but you must come and dine with me to-day at seven o’clock.”
“Very well,” replied I, and we parted.
As my tale will, I fear, be a long one, I must not be prolix at starting, especially as this is but a kind of preface. So fancy, good reader, dinner over—ladies gone to the drawing-room—a most luxurious dessert on the table, and some Madeira.
“Charles,” said my friend Frank to me, “I have not opened fresh port for you, because I fancy I recollect your partiality for Madeira; but I will do so in a moment if you wish it.”
“Oh no, thank you,” replied I, “this is perfection in the shape of wine, and I assure you that owing to it I shall soon feel happier; indeed, as happy as a prince, were it not for one thing which I cannot shake off.”
“And what is that, Charles?” asked Frank.
“Why, the fact is, that about a month ago I was foolish enough to bind myself by a promise to write six tales. They must be finished by the 31st. I have only written three, and what on earth I am to say in the other three is more than I can imagine: now do help me, there’s a good fellow, Frank, and then I shall have a load off my mind.”
“Help you! Not I. Why, you can get out of your predicament easily enough. Remember Truth is stranger than Fiction, and you who lived three years in London, and have been a fair average rover so far through life, can be at no loss for adventures in which you have borne a considerable share, and which, therefore, you can readily describe. Write about your London experience.”
“Well, I would do so if I was writing for a periodical, but I am writing for friends who have often heard me repeat whatever was amusing in my London life that would bear narration.” Now, do help me, Frank.”
The Madeira was beginning to soften Frank’s heart: I let it work.
“Charles,” said he, after a time, “I will tell you a true tale concerning myself. No one has ever yet heard a word of it. Promise me faithfully not only that you will never reveal my name in connection with it, but that you will so disguise it as to render detection impossible; and moreover, that you will never again, in conversation with me, allude to the subject.”
I promised, wondering what was coming. Two or three times Frank stopped in the course of his story. With difficulty I induced him to continue. In fact, if I had not pretended to wish for another bottle of Madeira (of which I took care he should drink the greater part), I never should have elicited what I wanted. I knew full well that I should have a head-ache next morning, but I also knew that one head-ache and a good story from another person were to be preferred to the three head-aches I should probably get in composing a story myself. I was astonished at the following tale: of course parts of it came out in the shape