Lines to Anne. 411 



a man mad raving about your cursed bull-dog's muzzle just after I 

 have been contemplating the divinest woman earth affords! Well, 

 Chacun a son gout.' 1 



" Oh ! I can't afford the time to be sentimental in town. I doff 

 the heroics with my shooting-jacket and leathern gaiters. Never- 

 theless, it is worth while to see 'the divinest woman earth affords/ 

 so I'll give you five minutes. Is that the carriage of your incognita?" 

 I assented. " I do not know the arms," continued Tom, " I dare say, 

 after all, she is nobody." 



" Hush !" I interrupted " she comes." 



" Which ? the lady with blonde edging to her bonnet '(" 



" The same. Who is she, in Jove's name ?" 



" Bless my soul, don't you know ? I thought every body knew 

 Mrs. H ." 



" I almost screamed as I echoed his last words. "Mrs. H I" 



I exclaimed " Is she then married ?" 



" To be sure she is," replied Tom, with a coolness for which I 

 could have cut his throat. " Her husband is a rich old fellow between 

 sixty and seventy : she married him for his yellow boys, and he 

 spliced her for her beauty. She don't know B from a bull's foot. 

 Her mother was a washerwoman.'' 



" The fiend seize you for a merciless destroyer of the most beau- 

 tiful day-dream I ever enjoyed. But surely you must be joking/' 



" Not I. She is veritably married to an old Croesus of a sugar 

 baker, and consoles herself for being tied to a piece of antiquity by 

 making amorous advances to the brandy-bottle. She tipples cogniac 

 famously. But come, do walk down and see my bull-dog, there's a 

 good fellow." 



I could no longer endure this horrible transition from the poetry 

 of beauty to brandy and bull-dogs. I darted away, leaving Tom 

 staring after me in surprise. Despite, however, of his malicious in- 

 sinuations and I never knew a creature who so gloried in destroy- 

 ing poetry and romance I was in love, if I remember rightly, for 

 very nearly three days. CAIUS. 



LINES TO ANNA. 



OH ! for a strain of Orpheus' lyre, 

 A spark of godlike Homer's fire, 

 For Flaccus' wit, or Maro's lays, 

 To tell her worth and sing her praise. 

 Fair of her stature, fair of face, 

 In every feature dwells a grace. 

 A swan-like neck, and polished brow, 

 More white to look upon than snow. 

 Bewitching eyes, of melting blue, 

 And lips that mock the coral's hue. 

 Methinks some nymph of Fairy land, 

 An exile from Titan ia's band, 

 Has flown for refuge to our isle, 

 And ta'en my Anna's form the while. 



