Читать книгу: «The Bunsby Papers (second series): Irish Echoes», страница 13
CHAPTER IX.
SUNLIGHT
Our scene shifts back to Mrs. Grimgriskin's elegant establishment, where poor Travers' affairs are once more in a very dilapidated state, as may be inferred from the conversation now progressing.
"People as can't pay," said the now curt landlady, smoothing down an already very smooth apron, "needn't to have no objections, I think, to turn out in favor of them as can. I'm a woman of few words – very few indeed. I don't want to make myself at all disagreeable; but impossibles is impossibles, and I can't provide without I have the means to do so with."
"My good lady," interposed Travers, "do pray give me a little time; my friend Sterling has again applied to Mr. Granite" —
"Pooh! I'm sick of all such excuses; one word for all – get your trunks ready. I'd rather lose what you owe me than let it get any bigger, when there's not the remotest chance, as I can see, for its liquidation; and, dear me, how lucky – I declare there's the very truckman who came the other day. I'll tell him to stop, for I don't mind giving you all the assistance I can, conveniently with my own interest."
So saying, she hailed Tom Bobolink, who was indeed looking somewhat wistfully towards the house. He was just cogitating within his mind what excuse he could make to get into the place, and so rid himself of his unfortunate good fortune at once.
"Yon trunks, I presume from appearance, won't take a long time to get ready," said the delicate Grimgriskin. "Here, my man; just come in here," she continued, as Tom, in a state of considerable trepidation, entered the room; "this young man will have a job for you." The poor wife now joined Travers, and on inquiring the cause of the slight tumult, was told by Henry that she must prepare to seek an asylum away from the hospitable mansion which had recently afforded them a shelter.
"Come, my love," said he, with a tolerable effort at cheerfulness, "let us at once leave this mercenary woman's roof."
"Mercenary, indeed!" the landlady shrieked after them, as they entered their own room. "Because a person won't suffer themselves to be robbed with their eyes open, they're mercenary. The sooner my house is cleared of such rubbish, the better. Mercenary, indeed!" and with an indignant toss of her false curls, she flounced out of the room.
"Now for it!" cried Tom; "the coast is clear; what the deuce shall I do with it? I dare not give it openly; suppose I say I found it under the sophia. Egad, that will do famously; here goes." So saying, he plunged his hand into his bosom, and to his horror and consternation it was not there; his blood froze in his veins for an instant, then deluged him with a perfect thaw of perspiration. "Oh, miserable, miserable wretch, I've lost it, I've lost it; what is to become of me!" In vain he searched and searched; it was clean gone. "Oh, how can I face Polly again?" he groaned. "My life is made unhappy for ever; cursed, cursed luck. That ever my eyes fell upon the thing at all: ha!" a shadowy hope flitted across him, that he might have left it at home. "Could I have been so drunken a fool as to leave it behind me? if so, where is it now? At all events, I must go back as fast as I can, for if I cannot recover it, my God! I shall go mad." With a few big jumps he reached the street, and hastily mounting his truck, drove rapidly home, unmindful of the public observation his demented look and unusual haste produced.
A short time after Tom's sudden departure, which was a perfect mystery to Mrs. Grimgriskin, and also to Henry and his wife, a timid ring was heard at the hall-door, and soon Travers, to whom every sound brought increase of apprehension, trembled as he became aware of an altercation between his irate landlady and the new comers, whoever they were.
"I tell you I must see 44, the man that had the thrunks, goin' away a few days agone," said an unmistakably Irish voice, rich and round.
"Oh, if you please, ma'am," placidly continued a small, silvery one.
The dispute, however, was very suddenly cut short by the owner of the loud voice exclaiming, "Arrah, get out o' the road, you cantankerus witch of Endher," and O'Bryan and Polly rushed up the stairs without further ceremony. The door of Travers' room was flung open. "Ha! ha!" cried O'Bryan, "there he is, every inch of him; that's 44; long life to you; and it's glad I am I've found you, and glad you'll be yourself, I'm thinkin', if a trifle o' money will do yez any good."
"What's the matter with you, my friend, what do you seek from me?" demanded Travers.
"Oh, sir, I beg your pardon for breaking in upon you so suddenly," said Polly, "but have you lost any money!"
"I have, indeed," replied Henry, "a large sum; do you know anything about it?"
"Yes, sir," cried Polly, with a radiant flash of her eye. "Here it is;" handing over the wallet, with its contents, with a sigh of the greatest possible relief. "Tell me one thing, sir," she hesitatingly went on, "was it – was it – taken from you?"
"No, my good woman, it was lost by an old friend of mine, dropped, he believes, in the street."
"It was, sir, just as you say, thank Heaven for it. Yes, sir; my husband found it. Is it all there, sir? oh, pray relieve me by saying it is."
"Yes, every penny."
"Then, sir, whatever joy you may feel at its restoration cannot equal what I feel at this moment," said Polly, while the tears gushed forth unrestrainedly from her eyes.
"Here, my good woman, you must take a portion and give it to your honest husband," said Henry, handing to her a liberal amount of the sum.
"Not a shilling, sir, not a shilling," Polly firmly repeated. "I hate to look at it."
"Then would you, my friend, take some reward," continued he, addressing O'Bryan.
"Is it me? not av you were me father, I wouldn't," said the Irishman, with a look of horror. "I know where it came from; bedad I know the very soil it sprouted out of. I'll tell you how it was, sir. You see I was sittin' by myself, and, like an ungrateful blaggard as I am, instead of thankin' the blessed Heavens for the good luck that had fell a-top o' me, what should I do but wish I had a bit o' money, for to dress up my ugly anatomy, when all at once that swadge of temptation dropped on the floor before my very face."
"Don't heed him, sir, he knows not what he talks about," said Polly. "It is all as I told you, sir. My husband" —
She was interrupted by O'Bryan, who cried, "Here he comes. May I niver stir if he doesn't, skelpin' along the street in a state of disthractitude; by me sowl it's here he's coming, too."
"Yes, I know," said Henry, "he is employed, I believe, by our worthy landlady, to remove our things."
At this moment Tom burst into the room, but on seeing Polly and O'Bryan he stopped short, as if arrested by a lightning stroke. "You here, Polly? have you heard of my crime," he said, wildly: but she restrained him by gently laying her hand upon his arm.
"Yes, Tom," she said, quietly, "I know all about it, and so does this gentleman. I have restored the money."
"What?" exclaimed Bobolink, while a thrill of joy went through his frame; "is this true?"
"Hush! husband, dear, hush!" she continued; "I did as you told me, you know. I have brought and given back the lost money to its owner. You know you left it at home for me to take."
"Ah, Polly, I wish I could tell this fellow that," said Tom, laying his hand upon his heart; "but I did intend to give it back. I did, by all my hopes of happiness."
"I know you did, my dear Tom," replied Polly, earnestly. "Your true heart could not harbor a bad thought long."
"My good friend," said Travers, approaching the truckman. "Your wife has refused any reward for this honest act."
"She's right, sir, she's right," interrupted the other.
"At least you'll let me shake you by the hand, and proffer you my friendship?"
"I can't, Poll, I can't," said Tom, aside, to his wife. "I'm afraid – I'm half a scoundrel yet – I know I am; but I've learned a wholesome lesson, and while I have life I'll strive to profit by it."
Urged to it by Polly, he did, however, shake hands with Travers and his wife, just as old Sterling, his face shrouded in gloom, and Mrs. Grimgriskin, stiff and tigerish, entered the room.
"Ah, Sterling, my good old friend, rejoice with us – this honest fellow has found, and restored the money lost," said Travers, gaily; "but, how is this? you don't join in our gladness. Has that old rascal" —
"Hold!" interrupted the old clerk, in an earnest voice, and impressive manner; "Heaven has avenged your wrongs in a sudden and fearful manner. Mr. Granite is dead."
"Dead!" exclaimed Henry, in a subdued tone; "with him let his misdeeds be buried. His son will perhaps be more merciful; he will inherit" —
"He has inherited – his father's fate," solemnly replied the old clerk. "Justice may slumber for a while, but retribution must come at last. You are now, by the merchant's will, his sole heir."
"Ho, ho!" thought Mrs. Grimgriskin, who had been an attentive listener, "I'm a woman of few words, but if I had been a woman of less, perhaps it would be more to my interest; but sudden millionaires are usually generous;" and so, smoothing her feline demeanor into quietude, she approached Travers.
"Allow me most sincerely to congratulate you upon your good fortune," she simpered. "Apropos, the first floor is somewhat in arrear; lovely apartments, new carpet, bath, hot water."
"Plenty of that, I'll be bail," remarked O'Bryan; "arrah, howld yer prate, Mrs. Woman-of-few-words – don't you see there's one too many here?"
"Then why don't you go, you ignorant animal," sharply suggested the other.
"Because I'm not the one."
Suffice it to say, Henry, with his young wife, and dear old Sterling, were soon installed in a house of their own, and, to their credit, never lost sight of the interest of Tom Bobolink and Polly, who from that day increased in content and prosperity.
As for O'Bryan, the last intimation we had of his well-doing, was the appearance of sundry gigantic street-bills, which contained the following announcement:
THE TIPPERARY VENUS
Amongst a people so simple-hearted and enthusiastic as the Irish, it is not at all surprising that a firm and implicit belief in supernal agency should be almost universal. To vivid imaginations, ever on the stretch for the romantic, yearning ever for something beyond the dull realities of commonplace existence, there is something extremely fascinating in the brain revellings of Fairy Land.
Now the Irish fairies are very numerous, and all as well classified, and their varied occupations defined and described by supernaturalists, as though they really were amongst the things that be. The "learned pundits" in such matters declare that the economy of human nature is entirely carried on through their agency. Philosophers have demonstrated the atomic vitality of the universe, and the believer in fairies simply allots them their respective places and duties in the general distribution. They tell you that every breath of air, every drop of water, every leaf and flower, teems with actual life. Myriads of tiny atomies, they say, are employed carrying on the business of existence, animal, vegetable, and atmospheric. Here are crowds of industrious little chemists, extracting dew from moonbeams, which they deliver over to relays of fairy laborers, by them to be applied to the languishing grass. The noxious exhalations of the earth are, by a similar process, gathered from decaying vegetation, and dispersed or condensed into refreshing rain. The warm sunbeams are by them brought down and scattered through the fields; it is the beautiful ministry of one class to breathe upon, and gently force open, the budding blossoms, while, another seduously warms and nurtures the ripening corn, and tends the luscious fruits. Mischievous fellows there also are, whose delight it is to try and frustrate the exertions of the workers. They travel from place to place, loaded with malign influences; blight and mildew, and all the destructive agents that blast the hopes of the agriculturist are under their control; and, with an industry nearly equal to their opponents, they employ their time in training caterpillars and other devouring insects to assist them in the work of desolation.
Many are the battles, we are informed, that occur between the two opposing classes, and it depends upon which side has the best of the contest what the result may be to the defeated object; whether they contend for the life of some delicate flower, or whether the poor farmer's toils were to be rewarded or rendered hopeless by the safety or the destruction of his entire crops.
But to leave this fanciful, and, it must be admitted, poetical theory, our business now is with an individual of a highly responsible class in the world of Fairydom —The Leprechaun. A most important personage he is; being the custodian of all hidden treasure, it is he who fabricates the gold within the rock-encircled laboratory. The precious gems, the diamond, sapphire, ruby, amethyst, emerald, and all the world-coveted jewels, are in the safe guardianship of the Leprechaun; and fatal it is to him when aught is discovered and torn from his grasp – for his fairy existence, his immortal essence, is lost with it; he can no longer sport through the air, invisible to mortal ken, but is compelled to take a tangible form, and to work at a degrading occupation – that of making and mending the shoes of his former fairy companions.
The experiences of the writer of this sketch in fairy lore and anecdote, were mostly gathered from a wild, Tipperary sort of cousin, some dozens of times removed, one Roderick O'Callaghan – familiarly Rory – or as, by an easy corruption, he was known "the country round," Roarin' O'Callaghan, who, in his time, had gathered them from the wilder henchmen and followers by whom he was surrounded, when, a devil-may-care gossoon, he wandered among the Galtie mountains, the especial pet and persecutor of the entire neighborhood.
Many and many were the mischievous pranks recorded of young Rory. I almost wish that I had begun with the determination of recounting a few of them; but, as I have set myself another task, I must defer that intention until a future opportunity. I am not at all certain still, but that my erratic nib – for I write "currente calamo," and without much especial method – may diverge from the grand current of narrative, and, in spite of myself, imperceptibly stray into the now interdicted by-way.
It was from Rory that I heard the strange tale I am now about to relate. Desperate boy-rivals were we, at that time, I must tell you, for the affectionate regards of a young beauty who played old Harry with the juvenile susceptibilities of the whole vicinage. Ah! now that my memory has reverted to that epoch, digression is inevitable. Lovely Polly O'Connor! – bless my soul; a sigh, even at this distant period; how very tenacious these boy-attachments are. I see her as plainly now, mentally pictured, as though in very deed she stood before me.
Both Rory and I endeavored, in the ardent enthusiasm of our fledgling passion, to give vent to the burning thoughts that flamed within us, through the lover's peculiar channel – poetry. My own extraordinary effusion I remember – his I have preserved, and although, at the time, I knew well which was best entitled to the world's consideration, I submit both productions now without a remark. They will at least serve for a description, however insufficient, of our inspiratress.
I had an immense advantage over my competitor in one instance; for, having an acquaintance in the editorial department of the local newspaper, my lucubration lent a lustre to the poets' corner, while, I am ashamed to confess, I exerted, successfully, the same influence to keep Rory's out; it was ungenerous, I own, unpardonable; but what won't a boy-rival do to clear the onward path before the impetuosity of a first love.
But here is the affair, just as it appeared in the Tipperary Gazette, headed, as I thought, with becoming modesty:
LINES TO A YOUNG LADY
I will not venture to compare
Those flashing eyes
To sunny skies;
To threads of gold thy wealth of hair;
Thy cheek unto the rose's glow;
Thy polished brow,
To lilies glancing in the light,
Or Parian white;
Thy bosom to the virgin snow —
For these
Are weak and well-worn similes.
Thine eyes are like – like – let me see;
The violet's hue,
Reflected through
A drop of dew;
No, that won't do.
No semblance true
In ample nature can there be
To equal their intensity —
Their heavenly blue.
T'were just as vain to seek,
Through every flower to match thy glowing cheek.
No gold could shed
Such radiant glory as ensaints thy head.
Besides, I now remember,
Your golden tresses are but flattered red,
And thine are living amber,
As, when 'tis ripest through the waving corn,
The sunbeams glance upon a harvest morn.
To the pale lustre of thy brow,
The lily's self perforce must bow —
The marbles cold,
And very old;
Thy bosom as the new-fallen snow
Is quite
As white,
And melts as soon with Love's warm glow.
But then,
While that receives an early stain,
Thy purer bosom doth still pure remain.
Since, to my mind,
I cannot find
A simile of any kind,
I argue hence
Thou art the sense
And spirit of all excellence;
The charm-bestowing fount, from whence
Fate doth dispense
Its varied bounties to the fair,
The loveliest of whom but share
A portion of the gifts thou well canst spare.
It will scarcely be credited, that after that brilliant compliment to Polly's charms, the little jilt, her well-fortified heart not being assailable by Parnassian pellets, looked still colder upon the suffering perpetrator. However, the persevering nature of my passion – and, indeed, it was then a real one – was not to be set aside by rebuffs. Again and again I returned to the attack, and, pen in hand, racked my unfortunate brains through all the strategy of acrostics, birth-day odes, and sonnets. It was not until some time afterwards that I discovered the real reason of my ill-success. The writing of the "Lines" was, perhaps, a pardonable liberty, but printing them was atrocious; so that, in fact, my unworthy suppression of Rory's concoctions brought its own punishment – not that he was a bit more successful than I, for, as we soon became sensibly aware, the charming, but conscienceless little coquette had even more strings to her bow than she could conveniently fiddle with; indeed, that there wasn't a decent-looking boy in the academy that she didn't encourage, or seem to encourage, so generalizing was her flirtation system.
And, after all, to decline upon foxy Tom Gallagher, the more than middle-aged Dispensary doctor, a long, straggling, splay-footed disciple of Æsculapius, with a head of hair like a door-mat – that she has time and again watched and laughed her little ribs sore at, as he shuffled along the street. Ah! Polly O'Connor!
But, allow me to present to your notice Rory's poetical offering at her inexorable feet. It is, as you may perceive, ambitious, and, however I might have underrated its merits at one time, I now think it smacks somewhat of the old Elizabethan relish.
Judge for yourself:
Upon some sly affair
Connubially dishonest —
Vide Lempriere —
Jupiter was non est.
And dame Juno thought
Scandal and écarté
Consolation brought,
So gave a little party.
Soon the Graces three
Came, in evening dresses,
Very fond of tea
They were, with water-cresses.
Venus came, and son,
Who richly did deserve a
Birching for the fun
He made of Miss Minerva.
Soon an earthly guest
Came by invitation,
And, among the rest,
Created a sensation.
My Polly 'twas, and she
Perfection so resembled,
For her sov'reignty
The Queen of Beauty trembled.
After tea there came
A gambling speculation,
Bringing with the game,
Celestial perturbation.
For my Polly, then,
Playing with discretion,
From each goddess won
All her rich possession.
Pallas lost her mind,
With wit and wisdom glowing;
Aphrodite pined
To see her beauty going.
Juno speedily
Lost her regal presence;
And the Graces three,
Lost their very essence.
On this earthly ball
My Polly thus alighted,
With the gifts of all
The goddesses united.
Is it strange that she,
Without much endeavor,
Quickly won from me
Heart and soul for ever?
These fiery manifestations, however, had not the slightest effect upon the arctic nature of the frigid Polly. To be sure, her smile was still "kindly, but frosty," to reverse the Shakespearean aphorism, and as it was dispensed with due impartiality amongst the entire school of her admirers, none were driven to immediate despair, but each flattered himself at the time being that he was the favored one. Our limited supply of pocket-money was transmuted into rings and brooches, for Polly had an inordinate, or rather, the usual predilection of her sex, for bijouterie, and as the rings on trees denote the number of years that have rolled over their leafy heads, so the corresponding trophies upon Polly's taper fingers, denoted the amount of her victims.
The majority of her swains began, however, to slacken in their attentions, finally dropping off one by one, until the course was left to Rory and me – praiseworthy examples of a constancy of many months, although as yet not fully known to each other. It was about this time that rumors began to reach us that old Tom Gallagher, the red-headed, rusty-jointed medico, was a constant, and it was hinted, not unwelcome visitor at Polly's father's house – by the way, I forgot to mention that the O'Connor, père, was the master of a Charter-house school in the town, and as very a character as such individuals almost invariably are. He had originally been a soldier, so rough, unpolished, and uncouth, that it was a serious question in the neighborhood, if pretty Polly could by any possibility be an offshoot from such a crabbed stock.
At the time of which I write, availability for the particular post assigned to favorites at court, was the last thing thought of, and the O'Connor having rendered some questionable service to the then government, either in making rebels or ensnaring them, he was rewarded with the position he occupied, although he did not possess a single requisite for that responsible situation.
Ignorant of the first principles of education, he delegated his task to subordinates, whose capacity he was incompetent to judge of. His military antecedents made him a harsh, unbending disciplinarian, and as it was in a routine of which he knew nothing whatever, he felt it incumbent upon him to make up in severity and bluster for his lack of knowledge.
But to return to Polly. When the certainty of her prodigious perfidy reached me, I imagined myself a kind of master of Ravenswood, and took to melancholy and light food for some days. Reflection and strong physic, however, soon restored me to something like equanimity, and, becoming a little better reconciled to the annoyance of life, I rushed for consolation and revenge to the poet's corner of the Tipperary Gazette. It was then and there that I produced the following solemn warning to Polly O'Connor, and all others of her sex, who, when love and a full purse are weighed together, get into the scale on the lucre side, making poor, shivering Cupid "kick the beam." It was near the 14th of February, so, in the savage expectation of crushing her heart beneath the satirical avalanche, I designated my contribution —
A VALENTINE FOR HER WHO WILL UNDERSTAND IT
As Plutus one day, in his chariot of gold,
Was languidly taking the air,
Looking, spite of his riches, distressingly old,
Although dressed with remarkable care;
He met with young Cupid, who, stayed in his flight
By the wealthy god's dazzling array,
Hovered joyously round on his pinions of light,
Highly pleased with the tempting display.
"Ride with me," said Plutus, "all this you may share;
Ride with me, and garments of gold you may wear."
Quite delighted, the urchin stepped into the car,
Little deeming the roads were so rough;
But, repenting his rashness, before he went far
He cried, "Stop! I've been jolted enough.
Pray excuse me, friend Plutus, though rich be the prize
You obligingly offer to me,
Your realm is the gloomy earth, mine the bright skies,
'Tis not likely that we should agree.
Farewell," said the boy, as he mounted in air,
"The heart that Gold worships, Love never can share."
Having boldly appended my own initials to this scarifying outburst, I waited patiently to watch its effect upon the false one. In a few days I saw her – she looked sad. Ha! she is touched, thought I; and, alas for the ferocity of human nature, I rejoiced in her apparent affliction. In a few moments, the sadness deepened on her brow; her lovely lashes became burdened with her pearly tears; resolution, revenge, injured feelings, all dissolved into nothing before the cruel shower. I'm not quite certain what immediately followed. I believe I flung myself enthusiastically on the carpet, before the Tipperary Niobe – beseeching her to repose her sorrows in my sympathizing bosom. At all events, I succeeded in calming her agitation, and after a delicious interview, wherein she thrilled my soul to its centre by the avowal that, however appearances might convict her of vacillation, I was, ever had been, and ever should be, the sole lord of her affections.
In that moment of blinding delirium, of course, all that had hitherto occurred was blotted from my memory as thoroughly as a damp sponge obliterates the records on a tablet of ass-skin. With the unreserved confidence of a relieved heart, she rested her cheek in dangerous proximity to my eager lips, but I had not sufficient courage to take advantage of the position. Her wonderful eyes looked sincerity and love even into the very depths of my soul. I was fascinated – bewildered – doubled up and done for, most effectually. "The evenings were now beautiful," she hinted, together with remote allusions to "soft twilight's balmy hour," setting suns, and such like delectations, until I actually summoned up courage sufficient to make an appointment to meet her
"By moonlight alone."
Nor had she any reserve while naming the particular grove where our trysting was to take place.
It was with the proud port of a conqueror that I deigned to tread the vulgar pavement after my never-to-be-forgotten interview with the Circean Polly; victory swelled within my expanding chest, like too much soup. Polly was mine; what a triumph I had achieved. I do verily believe, if, at this juncture, it were at all essential, or even could be remotely conducive to Polly's tranquillity, that I should go through the then popular amusement of hanging, I would have gone to the halter with nearly as much cheerfulness as though it were the altar; but, fortunately, I was not called upon to testify the loyalty of my devotion by asphyxiation.
Rory and I met as usual that afternoon, and I remarked that a sort of ill-concealed joy was working like an undercurrent through his features – now he would sing vociferously; anon, suddenly subside into quiet – it was very curious – I determined, however, to discover, if possible, the cause of his self-satisfaction.
"Rory," said I.
"Hallo!"
"What makes you so silent?"
"Am I silent?" he replied, bursting instantly into a merry song.
"There's something on your mind, at all events; that I know."
"May-be there is; but do you know that's exactly what I was going to say to you?"
"Is it possible?" I rejoined, as demurely as I could, but my stinging cheek betrayed me.
"Why, how you blush," he went on. "Ha! have I found you out?"
"What do you mean?" said I, in an instant changed from convict to criminal.
"You have a sweetheart."
"And so have you," I retorted, as severely as I could.
"I don't deny it," said he, laughing like mad.
"Neither do I, if it comes to that."
Now, be it understood, we had neither of us, as yet, confessed to the other the reality of the attachment we had each conceived for the divine Polly.
"You are really in love, then, Rory?"
"Oh! don't mention it," replied he. "Ocean deep, my boy; fathomless; out of soundings one instant; the next, floating nautilus-like upon the warm, tranquil bosom of an oriental lake; now, lifted upon the very top wave of lunacy, to clutch at stars; and sunk in the hollow depths of dark despair." Rory was curiously ornate in his amatory outbreaks. "What do you think?" he went on, with a dash of his hitherto confidence. "I have been at the Heliconian again."
"No!"
"Upon my life! deep draughts! inspiration. Her eyes – oh! such eyes. You've seen them; small heavens, with a sun in each; saw her to-day – all fixed, my boy; she loves me – said so, and yet my pulse didn't overflow and choke me; heart in my mouth, to be sure – but gulped it down again with a ponderous effort; going to meet her to-night, by appointment; what do you think of that, my boy? what do you think of that?"
Curious coincidence, thought I, but said nothing.
"Shall I read you what I have been doing?" said Rory, with a slightly apologetic gesture.
"Only too happy, of course," said I, mentally anathematizing him for an injudicious bore, thus to parade his flaming productions before – ahem! a writer for the press; but here is Rory's effusion; he gave me a copy.
"You must know," he premised, "that I had some misgivings about a certain elderly codger, whom I frequently discovered in tantalizing companionship with my beloved; hence my Valentine is a little suggestive."
More curious coincidences, said something within me, striking upon the ear of my heart rather alarmingly; but the great pacificator, conceit, soon quelled the emotion, and I was all absorbed in self love and delicious anticipations, when Rory cleared his throat, and read
AN ALLEGORY
As Cupid one day, with his quiver well stored,
Fluttered round, upon wickedness bent,
Right and left, his insidious love-messengers poured,
And hearts by the hundred were shamefully scored,
To the mischievous archer's content.
'Till at last he encountered King Death on his way,
Whose arrows more fatally flew.
In vain did the emulous urchin display
All his arts, his companion still carried the day,
For his shafts were, as destiny, true.
Boy Cupid, annoyed at the other's success,
Invoked cousin Mercury's aid,
Who, having for mischief a talent no less,
Changed their quivers, so featly that neither could guess,
Such complete transposition were made.
The result, up to this very hour you may see,
For when very old folk feel love's smart,
Cupid's arrow by Death surely missioned must be;
But when youth in its loveliness sinks to decay,
Death's quiver doth furnish the dart.
Here was a startling resemblance, with a vengeance; in spite of my new-fledged confidence, and the unmistakably excellent opinion I entertained of number one, I began to feel somewhat nervous.
