Chapter II: Part 2

Brisk music gayer scenes announces, And in a half-dressed _danseuse_ bounces, With arms that wreathe, and eyes that swim, And drapery that scarce shades each limb, And lip that wears a studied smile, Applauding coxcombs to beguile, As _entre-chat_ or _pirouette_ Doth “_Brava!_” thundered loud, beget. When Mary saw her vault in air, Her snow-white tunic leaving bare Her limbs—and heard that deafening shout Grow louder as she twirled about, With one leg pointing towards the sky As if the gallery to defy; Surprised, and shocked, she turned away, Wondering how women e’er could stay, And thinking men must sure be frantic Who patronised such postures antic; She felt abashed to meet the eye Of every fop that loitered by: And, oh! how rudely did it vex Her fresh, pure heart, to mark her sex Thus outraged, while the noblest came To gaze and revel in their shame. Her troubled look the mother saw, And rose all-pitying, to withdraw, Convinced such shows must pain dispense To one bred up in innocence. But there was one who joyed to see The pure and shrinking modesty Of this fair girl—’twas Deloraine! Ah! stands he at her side again?

_The Maiden’s Chamber_

_HERE GAY AND PLACID SPEED THE HOURS
AMONG HER MUSIC, BOOKS, AND FLOWERS_
]

Yes, he now knows that there can be No maid more innocent than she; And doth with pitying look survey The bolder damsels—pleased to stay, And watch what makes the indignant blush Warm to his idol’s forehead rush.

The Races next,—O! Sport refined For women who pretend to mind— Come in their turn; but humdrum folks Can miss “the Derby,” or “the Oaks.” What, though the road to Epsom’s lined With crowds, and “cabined, cribbed, confined,” Each carriage scarce can move along Amid the dense and motley throng; And clouds of suffocating dust Are borne by every fitful gust; And slang, and curses—gentle notes!— Are heard from silken-kerchiefed throats; And rude remarks enough to raise The blush of shame—if ever praise Could mortify, it sure were here— When men, the vilest, passing near, Proclaim each high-born maid “a gal,” With half the points of Jane or Sal. And then tobacco’s fume exhales, To poison e’en the vernal gales. The coronetted coach, with steeds Such as our England only breeds, Ploughs down the crowded road its way, ’Mid taxcart, fly-van, buggy, dray; The four-in-hand, from whose high seat } Each Noble drives, with look elate, } As if he held the reins of State; } And flocks of men, and women too, With nought but staring work to do, And idle urchins, line the road And by loud shouts the horses goad: Such is the scene the route displays To Epsom, on the appointed days, When Fashion sends her votaries out To mingle with the rabble rout. The weather, too, propitious shines, And all our climate’s change combines; And showers, and wind, and dust, and sun, Annoy us ’till the day be done; Oh! who the Races ever knew To pass, and was not well soaked through? Arrived, the Stand each Lady seeks, With crimson nose and purple cheeks, Ringlets that all their curl have lost, And robes and canezous sadly tossed, And bonnets that from Paris came, So spoilt, who’d know them for the same? As droop poor Nattier’s faded flowers, Pale victims to this clime of ours; Or hangs the twisted, broken feather, Attesting our uncertain weather. The men behold the altered faces Of belles who stood in their good graces; And some, intending to propose, Draw off, alarmed by ruby nose. But Woman, ever prone to please, Affects, although she feels not ease; For, half-suspecting she’s a fright, She tries to set her toilette right; And lisps, “I hope _your_ horse will win,” To every beau that enters in: While man, the gentler sex forgetting, Remembers nothing but his betting, Consults his book, takes three to two, Then nods and hollas “Done with you!” ’Tis true he comes between the heats, And wanders round the women’s seats, ’Till he has found the favoured dame For whom he feels, or feigns a flame; And, by attentions somewhat free, Leads cool spectators to agree That “he’s a devilish lucky fellow,” Who’ll tell them all when next he’s mellow. To mingle with this herd of men, Who thought of nought but horses then, Our Mary felt was not her place, And took no pleasure in the race. But when she marked the women bet, And more and more excited get, With flushing cheek, and sparkling eye, Whene’er a favourite’s horse they spy, And talked of odds to give or take, Of Handicap, Match, or Sweepstake, And saw their dainty fingers hold Purses in which shone coins of gold, Ready to pay in case of loss, Though e’en the notion made them cross; Or heard them eager claim the cash Won from the losers, young and rash; She marked the scene with sad surprise, And wished her sex more proud—more wise.

Now rise the shouts of races bawled, And discord, falsely music called— Vile organs, viler clarionets, With cries of blacklegs offering bets; Shrill flutes, and shriller pipes of Pan, And songs deserving censor’s ban; “The horses, and their owners’ names,” At every side some knave proclaims; And cries of “Dorling’s genuine card,” From lungs stentorian ceaseless heard; While thimbleriggers boors entice, And sharpers others tempt with dice; And execrations, loud and deep, Are heard, as disappears the heap Of coins of silver and of brass, Won from the coffers of each ass; And countless beggars ply their trade, Whom practice long hath perfect made; And gipsy, chattering like a witch, Foretells weak maidens husbands rich, Prates of dark women and fair men, Begs you’ll but cross her hands, and then She’ll straight reveal your future fate, Whether a coffin or a mate: These mingled sounds produce such din, That Mary feels, a realm to win, Again she’d not a race-course see, And longed—how longed—at home to be!

And now the racers are led out, And quick disperse the rabble rout; The generous steeds impatient stand, While held in by their trainers’ hand: Their coats how sleek, their limbs how fine! England, what coursers equal thine? The Jockeys, too, how trim, how neat! How light each hand, how firm each seat! The signal’s given, they start a pace That promises a well-fought race: They quicker move—now quicker still, Round Tottenham Corner; see what skill Each Jockey shews to save his horse! Now rapidly along the course They dart, like arrows from the bow, And keep so near, that none can know Which is the fleetest. Side by side, The pink and yellow rapid glide; They’re neck to neck: how far behind The rest are left!—swift as the wind They fly. Now yellow dashes past The pink—the leader’s now the last! The yellow keeps a-head: he’ll win— He nears the goal—“He’s in! he’s in!” A deaf’ning shout now rends the air; } The winners laugh, the losers swear, } Whose feeling wives their salts prepare. } How pallid look their cheeks and brows! How sullen seems each beaten spouse, Reflecting he must soon “book up,” And leave the victor, gold, and cup!

A luncheon next the Stand supplies, Where chickens, _pâtés_, lamb, cold pies, Tongues, lobster-salads, hams, are all Devoured, till appetite doth pall; And soda-water, and champagne, Restore the losers’ nerves again. Those who, less favoured, find no place In the Grand Stand to see the race, Feast on their dickeys, or in carriage; And hungry gazers can’t disparage Their appetites, when e’en the fair Lay in a meal to make one stare; And sparkling eye, and deep-flushed cheek, Thy influence, brisk champagne! bespeak. How glad was Mary, when, all over, Seated beside her ardent lover, She heard her mother, with remorse, Regret the hours lost at the Course; And soon forgetting all around Her mind its native quiet found.

Time flew on gay and airy wing, And Summer had replaced the Spring; No more in the street and square were seen, The trees beclad in mantle green, For now exhausted, dusty, brown, They wore the livery of the town. The grass, wherever grass was seen, Resembled nought save washed nankeen; The shrubs, in spite of gardener’s care, Hung their limp boughs with dying air; No more the sickly window-roses Had strength to charm the inmates’ noses; And balconies in every street With mignonette so lately sweet, (A melancholy sight indeed!) Shewed their whole treasure run to seed. Now to the plague of mortal eyes Began the carnival of flies; All London, still of Fashion full, Sent up one groan—“How hot and dull!”

Now maidens bright begin to fear They needs must wait another year For that dear thing—establishment, On which their eager hearts were bent; “So fleet to chase—so hard to find, What ails the men? they grow so blind!” And pretty lips, with smiles that shone, Pout as their owners sit alone, Viewing with dread the time approach, When, packed in the ancestral coach, To London’s joys they bid adieu, With long and dreary months in view! Autumn and Winter spent at home, Where but old stupid neighbours come— The Rector and his prosy madam, Whose pedigree dates back to Adam; The Doctor, with his gossip small, So fond of luncheon at the Hall; The noisy, dull, and sporting Squire, Splashed to his waist in horrid mire; And then his loud, red-elbowed girls, What feet! what scarlet ears! what curls! Poor things! devoured with earnest passion To know and ape the newest fashion— What wonder maids would rather bear } With dusty streets, and blazing air, } Than bid adieu to dear May Fair? } Now mothers, too, with _soirées_ sated, Who hoped to see their daughters mated, And deemed their prey each sauntering beau, Who, passing, notice, chanced to shew; Whose talk, however slow and _fade_, } Betwixt _quadrille_ and _gallopade_ } No cold repulse from them forbade; } Are left—(the beaux all fled away), With milliners’ long bills to pay, Which now come pouring in a number To rob the matrons of their slumber, While they can scarcely courage gather To shew them to a surly father Too sure to swear—to sure to scoff— “Five hundred pounds?—not one gone off? Now truly, Madam, on my word, This cursed expense is quite absurd!” And while on sleepless beds they toss, Scared by the thoughts of husbands cross, The anxious chaperons fret and wonder Why men bend brows of darkest thunder Upon the adornments which, no doubt, No well-born girl could do without; And think some most malicious star Takes pains their prospects bright to mar. “Heavens! how my Lord will stamp and scold, And hint that Dora looks so old! And here’s another season closed, Sir Harry—gone, and _not_ proposed! I did my best—gave Sunday dinners, Though strict Sir Andrew called us sinners! I’m sure I caught three bad sore throats, With water pic-nics made in boats: Another year—and all but ruin! What ever _can_ the men be doing?”

Now fathers on their banker’s book With long and rueful visage look, Sum the small balance, curse the town, And, filled with sullen spleen, go down To country-seats—to sleep, till Spring Bids them again reluctant bring Their wares, so long on hand, for sale, And some—alas! grown _rather_ stale!

While thus the weeks went quickly o’er, His cabriolet, each morning bore Deloraine, to meet the maid, who grew Dearer the more he saw, and knew The varied treasures of her mind, By culture formed, by taste refined: He only waited just to know If but the substance equalled show— For beauty he but little rated, Unless by spirit animated; And Deloraine, wiser than his age, Must pause before he dared engage His faith to one but slightly known. But all was right!—his wooed, his own, Surpassed what fondest fancy dreamed Of pure, and good—and now he deemed The experiment had well been tried, And longed to claim her for his bride! But ere he spoke, and her fair hand From her fond parents dared demand, He longed to seek if in her heart His humble image had a part; At times depressed, at times elate, He now would dare, and meet his fate.

There came a splendid carnival, The season’s last—a costume ball; And called, as if by wizard’s wand, In garbs of many a distant land: To grace that gorgeous revel came, A host of charms—ah! who could name One half the beauty, rich and bright, That shone on that last revel night? There many a youthful matron bore Her store of gems—and sighed for more, Yon fair Sultana to eclipse With henna on her fingers’ tips; There in a snowy veil entangled Drooped pensive Nun; and next, half-strangled By garland, Perdita the fair,— And an Ophelia, with a stare Of wonder, as she queried whether ’Twas right to wear the heron feather, That nodded, with each Scottish breath, On her who stood for Queen Macbeth? In truth it was a pleasant sight To meet, in noon-tide blaze of light, The denizens of furthest lands, From Asia’s shores to Egypt’s sands: There prudes, with shrinking horror, saw The beads and blanket of a Squaw; But ere their whispered blame began } To circle round, a murmur ran, } “How very droll!—a nice young man!” }

There fair young Greeks in freedom strayed, With braided locks, and robes that played In many a light and graceful fold, And white brows bound with coins of gold; The Turkish fair unveiled were then To the promiscuous gaze of men, With such a wealth of raven hair, And cheeks so radiant, brows so fair— No wonder Sultans, passing nigh, Eyed the fair groups, and wished to buy!

One dame—a daring feat I ween, Wore the rich robes of Scotland’s Queen, And loud, and long, was heard to sigh } Whenever stately glided by, } In harsh and formal Majesty, } Her rival, with a well-starched ruff, And robe of grand brocaded stuff. There Anna Boleyn smiled elate Defying her approaching fate; So blithe she looked, the wise ones said Before her time she’d lost her head: While bluff King Harry, following after, Thought her much younger than her daughter. And she, the serious, sweet Jane Gray, Who better loved to read than play— As Ascham tells us—danced as though She took much pleasure in the show; There with mantilla, flower, and fan, And saucy page behind who ran, And sour duenna in a hoop, Came Spanish maids, a haughty group; Behind them close, with charming song, Did three Tyrolean sisters throng; And in the _chaine_, a Croat did turn A pretty black-capped maid of Berne; Three Nuns demure—pressed hard by railers, (Fresh-water though) a pair of Sailors; A Hollandaise, contrasted well With a Savoyard—his _vielle_ Slung at his back—and when he played, Ye Gods! what doleful noise he made! And Naples sent her peasants there, With sparkling eyes, and jetty hair, And dresses dight with colours gay Such as at _festas_ they display: Thus, once resistless, moved along Bright MALIBRAN, that queen of song! They little thought, who passed her by, And marvelled at her mirthful eye, So full of life and joy was she, That soon the tomb her home must be!

And Roman Ladies, chaste and proud, Were mingled in that motley crowd; And witching gipsies fortunes told, The same one theme, to young and old; And Pilgrims with their cockle-shells; And Folly with his cap and bells; And Comus with his cup divine; And Circe, but without her swine; And she who on the willowy shore[2] } Of Carthage, did her love deplore;— } The Muse lacks breath: she can no more. } Through the vast hall the brilliant crowd Roamed gaily, or to music loud Whirled nimble feet, while some apart, Revealed soft secrets of the heart: Full many a fair and dimpled lisper Lent her white ear to Flattery’s whisper, And though in Love’s experience read, Believed the whole the coxcomb said: ’Twas almost true—if true not quite— And who could doubt on such a night?

Who on this brilliant scene had dwelt, And paused to think, but must have felt As Xerxes, when he wept to see } That mighty, moving throng, whom he } Had marshalled on to destiny, } This crowd of young, and blithe, and fair, Smiled on by Death—but not to spare? To his wan eye, the gilded room Is but a thickly peopled tomb; To him the years are but a day, That pass, and all have gone their way, Or, touched by Time with finger cold, Are frail, and spectral to behold: He laughs at every polished brow, And floating tress, and neck of snow, And cheek that shames the rarest rose, And lips that rows of pearl disclose; And forms from Beauty’s faultless mould, So softly fair or proudly bold, That seraphs, from their amaranth bowers, Might envy shapes this earth of ours Yields from its dust;—and while he quaffs His wine of tears, the Spoiler laughs, Too soon that shadowy wand to wave, Which sweeps the revellers to the grave! But O! how few e’er pause to think, While Pleasure’s cup, filled to the brink, Lures them to taste—and idly gay, Their brief existence sport away; Until, perchance, some dear one dies, Then falls the bandage from their eyes That hid the dread truth from their gaze, And, terror-struck, in wild amaze They learn that nought of man’s endeavour Can change the doom—“Ye part for ever!” For ever?—No—in realms on high, If the heart’s instinct prove no lie ... But pause—nor trench on themes divine, Unmeet for such light lay as mine.

_The Declaration_

_MARK YONDER YOUTH ON WHOSE FOND ARM
LEANS ONE ENRICHED WITH EVERY CHARM_
]

Mark yonder youth, on whose fond arm Leans one enriched with every charm That ever-bounteous Nature spent, When on some loving labour bent! How fresh, how young, how fair the face! That form, how round, how full of grace! That foot, how fairy-like and small! It might on bed of roses fall, And scarce a delicate leaflet crush, Nor by its pressure stain the blush: A sable robe, in graceful folds, Sweeps to her feet—a cestus holds Her slender waist, with many a gem Brilliant; so shines the diadem That crowns her brow, as marble pale, Whence low descends a dusky veil Round her sweet face in shadowy flow, Like clouds that float o’er Dian’s brow; Now her rare splendour half concealing, Now, touched by air, the whole revealing— “She walks in beauty,” Queen of Night, Did e’er the Goddess look more bright? Large diamonds, of the purest lustre, Within her raven tresses cluster, Which darker seem between the rays Emitted by their dazzling blaze: So show the heavens when stars abound, And shed their sparkling gleams around. Her veiled arms (might Fancy say) Remind us of the milky way, When in the winter’s midnight sky Its lone, long path, streams pale on high. All eyes are on her, but her own Are veiled, as though the lids had grown Jealous of those bright orbs they shade, And to reveal them half afraid. Why wears her cheek a brighter hue, Than Cashmere’s gardens ever knew? Why throbs that fair and gentle breast So wildly ’gainst her starry vest? Would she abashed those gazers shun? She hears—she sees—she feels but one!

At last, the chosen at her side Hath asked her to become his Bride; Hath told not half the manly love Which all his future life shall prove; And every tender, timid word, Her ears hath drank—her heart has heard: Yet maiden shame would half repress } The words her blushing cheeks confess, } Fond thoughts she dares not all express. } “Look up, mine own! a word—a sign— To tell me you are ever mine; Nay, are you pained, that thus you sigh, And listen with averted eye?— Say—may I hope?”—O! who can tell The rapture on his soul which fell, When those twin faltering lips betrayed The “Yes,” of that dear conscious maid? Scarcely his joy he can dissemble, The while he felt her round arm tremble Within his own, as to his breast, Gently, but lovingly, ’twas pressed. And she—O! who could e’er disclose The deep, tumultuous bliss she knows? She longs to be alone, to weep The tears she scarce concealed can keep. Now, bolder grown, the ardent youth Repeats his vows of faith and truth, ’Till, all disclosed, the maid may own The secret by her blushes shewn. At last—for Time, who jealous hovers O’er mortal raptures, spares not lovers— He leads her to her mother’s chair, And whispers (not to empty air) How high his bliss, how great his pride, To call her angel-daughter bride: Smiling, the lady hears the news, She could not parley or refuse; Yet dignified the gracious mien In which she let assent be seen. ’Twas fixed next morning he should call And tell the good Lord Percy all: No fear of him—he could not say, To Mary and Lord Deloraine, “Nay!” Pass we the interim in our song— O! but the lovers thought it long! ’Twere vain to tell how quickly flew The hours which now the lovers knew, As, ne’er apart, they rode or walked, Or of the golden future talked, For even old age looks passing bright When viewed by Love’s own magic light: Or how the self-same poet’s page Would oft their downcast eyes engage.— The bard who sung the “hell[3] of sueing,” Forgot, methinks, the heaven of wooing!

No Deloraine blamed the law’s delay, And drove to Lincoln’s Inn each day To urge its ministers to speed, Who of impatience took small heed. They wasted weeks, without remorse, Their tedious covenants to endorse; Talked of fee-simple and entail, And due provisions for heirs-male And younger children, and made good Jointure in case of widowhood— Nay, so o’er-provident were they, As with shred counsel long to weigh What sum, in case of separation, Should form the lady’s reparation. The youth to fancy did begin That Time stood still in Lincoln’s Inn; He’d wait no more, but spoke aloud, And, angry with impatience, vowed He’d rather give his whole estate Than for tedious lawyers wait. Cold to his prayers, those parchment men The pin-money must settle then.

But all, at last, was finished well. Now of the thousand gifts to tell When father, mother, loved vied, Which should most enrich the bride! Diamonds, the costliest and the rarest; Pearls of the East, the largest, fairest— How proud had Egypt’s royal Queen, In her triumphant glory, been To drink such ocean-spoils, as now Waited to hang on Mary’s brow!— Rubies, that flashed like the red sun, When earth he latest looks upon; Emeralds, whose deep and lucid green, Would shame the fairies’ turf, I ween; And sapphires, of such hues intense As Midnight’s heaven had dropped them thence; And turquoises of paler hue, Fond Memory’s flower hath such a blue; And opals of such changeful dyes As rainbows shew in Summer skies, Were showered on her, whose beauty rare, Surpassed all gems beyond compare. And now arrived the time to shew Her gorgeous and complete _trousseau_— Crowds flocked to Regent Street each day, Enchanted with rich display Which Howell’s taste and skill provide, To deck this young and peerless bride. And many a maiden’s tempted eye Made her young heart for wedlock sigh. What Cashmere shawls!—why, for one glance, Had crossed the sea the flower of France! Even English dames (the truth to speak) Dreamed of them many an after-week, And raved in ecstasy’s disorder About “that matchless Turkish border!” Robes of each fashion, stuff, and shade, In dazzling number were displayed; With _peignoirs_, white as snows which arch The weeping branches of the larch; _Chapeaux_ and caps outpassing number— Some for the morning, some for slumber; Furs from Siberia—mart Zipline, Nor Czar nor Kaisar e’er had seen Finer; and ermine, soft and white As flakes of snow, ere they alight On earth; and shoes, which Cinderella In her glass shoe had found no fellow; Muslins from Dacca’s cunning looms; Velvets and satins with such blooms, As, shewn in garden-walks, would quite With envy turn the peaches white! And then _such_ hues!—less changeful deck The monarch of the bee-birds’[4] neck; Not Juno, when she dressed a cloud To cheat the vacant youth who bowed To its false charms, chose tints more gay Than, flower-like, in that _trousseau_ lay.

But who the treasures e’er could tell, Disposed within the rich _corbeille_? Embroidered kerchiefs white and fine, Their lace had made Arachne pine, Or, desperate grown in weaver’s pride, Resolve on doleful suicide! And veils were there, in which the bride Might her too-glowing blushes hide; With scarfs and lappets, ruffles, frills, A mine ’twould take to pay their bills! And _Point d’Alençon_, too, was there; And Mechlin, that made ladies stare; With Valenciennes so very fine— They said, for trimming ’twas divine. French gloves in _sachets_, whose perfume Lends fragrance to the dressing-room; With artificial flowers by Nardin, Vieing with those that grow in garden; Fans, smelling-bottles, _casolets_, The gazers called them, “perfect pets!” Enriched with gems of every dye Golconda’s glittering mines supply; Purses, and _reticules_ most rare, Her gold and handkerchief to bear:— No wonder that the spinsters sighed, When such a store as this they eyed! All done—all ready—nought remains For Mary now, save Hymen’s chains, Or garlands rather; if by Love They’re forged, they ne’er can galling prove: No hapless captive sure is she, Who dreads even dreams which set her free. And yet, when nothing now remains Save to put on those rosy chains, To leave a father—O! how dear! To feel a mother’s falling tear, When, strained to her o’erflowing heart, She finds ’tis very hard to part! For one brief instant, tearful, fond, She does not view the home beyond, But trembles as her feet press on Towards that strange solemn Rubicon! Then rise most tender thoughts of youth Th’ unsleeping love, th’ unshaken truth, In those so honoured and so loved, } So often tried, so largely proved, } Till all the daughter’s heart is moved! }

_The Bride_

_AND NOW IN SPOTLESS GARB ARRAYED,
WAS NEVER SEEN A FAIRER MAID._
]

Yes, even for a husband’s arms, And his ancestral home, whose charms, Painted by him—she longed to see, O! bitter must such partings be! But soon ’tis promised they shall meet, And Deloraine whispers, ’twill be sweet To welcome to _her_ stately home Those much-loved parents when they come. Gently he dries her gushing tears, And feels how much such grief endears; And soon her sadness can beguile, Until there dawns a happier smile Round her fresh lips: to add the grace Of gladness to her pensive face, He tells her, ere the autumn fades, He’ll lead her to her native shades, Make friends with every field and tree, By her beloved since infancy! Soothed by his words, and calmer grown, At last the bridal hour comes on.

And now, in spotless garb arrayed, Was never seen a fairer maid; Her parents gaze with tearful pride, Her lover longs to call her bride; And while the altar she draws nigh, She checks the tear and trembling sigh, And with religious awe doth feel The solemn bond she comes to seal! She utters not, like words of course, The vows that wedlock’s laws enforce; With holy fervour does she speak Each word, and with a spirit meek Resolves their purpose to fulfil, Obedient to the Almighty Will!

The Bishop now the bride has blessed, Her husband now her lips hath pressed; Her friends flock round, and wish the pair May all life’s joys and blessings share: Her mother tries to hide a tear, And still her father hovers near Once more to bless, once more to speak; He can but look—for words are weak,— But a life’s love’s in the embrace, And tears that fall upon her face.

And now, before my story ends, } A sumptuous _déjeûner_ attends } The happy couple and their friends. } ’Tis done: behold approach the door A well-appointed chaise-and-four: More tasteful never left Long Acre. What wonder?—Barker was the maker. The bride, attired in travelling dress, Meets once, once more, the sad caress Of parents, who with breaking heart, Behold their mansion’s flower depart. They’d keep her still.—In vain! for marriage Were nought without its travelling-carriage.

And now my Muse disdains to tune Her tired harp for the honey-moon: The wooing past—the wedding o’er— Paid every fee—what would ye more? True wishes, lovely maids, and kind, That such a lot you each may find; And every Belle have equal reason To bless the closing of the Season!

THE END.

LONDON: PRINTED BY MOYES AND BARCLAY, CASTLE STREET, LEICESTER SQUARE.

]

PUBLISHED FOR THE PROPRIETOR, BY LONGMAN, & Cº, PATERNOSTER N. Y.

_AND APPLETON, & Cº NEW YORK_

-----

Footnote 1:

It is a Rabbinical tradition, that one of the questions which the
Queen of Sheba submitted for consideration to Solomon the Wise took
the form of a couple of wreaths—the one of natural, the other of
artificial flowers. The monarch, unable to decide between nature and
art, called in the aid of a swarm of bees, which, by settling upon the
genuine wreath, saved the King of Judah’s reputation for wisdom.

Footnote 2:

——“On such a night
Stood Dido, with a willow in her hand,
Upon the wild sea-banks, and wav’d her love
To come again to Carthage.”

Footnote 3:

“What hell it is in sueing long to bide!”
SPENSER’S “_Mother Hubbard’s Tale_.”

Footnote 4:

The king of the humming-birds—remarkable among that gay tribe for the
superior brilliancy of his plumage.

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TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES

● Typos fixed; non-standard spelling and dialect retained. ● Used numbers for footnotes, placing them all at the end of the last chapter. ● Enclosed italics font in _underscores_. ● Enclosed blackletter font in =equals=.