Lucile | Page 4

if our day Shall be fretful and anxious, or joyous and gay)
Brings, each morning, more letters of one sort or other Than Cadmus,
himself, put together, to bother The heads of Hellenes;--I say, in the
season Of Fair May, in May Fair, there can be no reason Why, when
quietly munching your dry toast and butter, Your nerves should be
suddenly thrown in a flutter At the sight of a neat little letter, address'd
In a woman's handwriting, containing, half guess'd, An odor of violets
faint as the Spring, And coquettishly seal'd with a small signet-ring.
But in Autumn, the season of sombre reflection, When a damp day, at
breakfast, begins with dejection; Far from London and Paris, and ill at
one's ease, Away in the heart of the blue Pyrenees, Where a call from
the doctor, a stroll to the bath, A ride through the hills on a hack like a
lath, A cigar, a French novel, a tedious flirtation, Are all a man finds
for his day's occupation, The whole case, believe me, is totally changed,
And a letter may alter the plans we arranged Over-night, for the
slaughter of time--a wild beast, Which, though classified yet by no
naturalist, Abounds in these mountains, more hard to ensnare, And
more mischievous, too, than the Lynx or the Bear.
III.
I marvel less, therefore, that, having already Torn open this note, with a
hand most unsteady, Lord Alfred was startled. The month is September;
Time, morning; the scene at Bigorre; (pray remember These facts,
gentle reader, because I intend To fling all the unities by at the end.) He
walk'd to the window. The morning was chill: The brown woods were
crisp'd in the cold on the hill: The sole thing abroad in the streets was
the wind: And the straws on the gust, like the thoughts in his mind,
Rose, and eddied around and around, as tho' teasing Each other. The
prospect, in truth, was unpleasing: And Lord Alfred, whilst moodily
gazing around it, To himself more than once (vex'd in soul) sigh'd . . . . .
"Confound it!"
IV.
What the thoughts were which led to this bad interjection, Sir, or
madam, I leave to your future detection; For whatever they were, they

were burst in upon, As the door was burst through, by my lord's Cousin
John.
COUSIN JOHN.
A fool, Alfred, a fool, a most motley fool!
LORD ALFRED.
Who?
JOHN.
The man who has anything better to do; And yet so far forgets himself,
so far degrades His position as Man, to this worst of all trades, Which
even a well-brought-up ape were above, To travel about with a woman
in love,-- Unless she's in love with himself.
ALFRED.
Indeed! why Are you here then, dear Jack?
JOHN.
Can't you guess it?
ALFRED.
Not I.
JOHN.
Because I HAVE nothing that's better to do. I had rather be bored, my
dear Alfred, by you, On the whole (I must own), than be bored by
myself. That perverse, imperturbable, golden-hair'd elf-- Your
Will-o'-the-wisp--that has led you and me Such a dance through these
hills--
ALFRED.

Who, Matilda?
JOHN.
Yes! she, Of course! who but she could contrive so to keep One's eyes,
and one's feet too, from falling asleep For even one half-hour of the
long twenty-four?
ALFRED.
What's the matter?
JOHN.
Why, she is--a matter, the more I consider about it, the more it demands
An attention it does not deserve; and expands Beyond the dimensions
which ev'n crinoline, When possess'd by a fair face, and saucy Eighteen,
Is entitled to take in this very small star, Already too crowded, as I
think, by far. You read Malthus and Sadler?
ALFRED.
Of course.
JOHN.
To what use, When you countenance, calmly, such monstrous abuse Of
one mere human creature's legitimate space In this world? Mars,
Apollo, Virorum! the case Wholly passes my patience.
ALFRED.
My own is worse tried.
JOHN.
Yours, Alfred?
ALFRED.

Read this, if you doubt, and decide,
JOHN (reading the letter).
"I hear from Bigorre you are there. I am told You are going to marry
Miss Darcy. Of old--" What is this?
ALFRED.
Read it on to the end, and you'll know.
JOHN (continues reading).
"When we parted, your last words recorded a vow-- What you will" . . .
Hang it! this smells all over, I swear, Of adventurers and violets. Was it
your hair You promised a lock of?
ALFRED.
Read on. You'll discern.
JOHN (continues).
"Those letters I ask you, my lord, to return." . . . Humph! . . .
Letters! . . . the matter is worse than I guess'd; I have my misgivings--
ALFRED.
Well, read out the rest, And advise.
JOHN.
Eh? . . . Where was I? (continues.) "Miss Darcy, perchance, Will forego