CLXV. Futurity to her! and, though it must beam'd. Which gathers shadow, substance, life, and all Like star to shepherds' eyes; 'twas but a meteor Between us sinks and all which ever glow'd, To hover on the verge of darkness; rays Sadder than saddest night, for they distract the gaze, CLXXI. Woe unto us, not her; for she sleeps well: Which tumbles mightiest sovereigns, and hath flung Against their blind omnipotence a weight Within the opposing scale, which crushes soon or late, SIR,-I am a country gentleman of a midland county. I might have been a Parliament man for a certain borough; having had the offer of as many votes as General T. at the general election in 1812. But I was all for domestic happiness; as, fifteen years ago, on a visit to London, I married a middle-aged maid of honour. We lived happily at Hornem Hall till last season, when my wife and I were invited by the Countess of Waltzaway (a distant relation of my spouse) to pass the winter in town. Thinking no harm, and our girls being come to a marriageable (or, as they call it, marketable) age, and having besides a Chancery suit inveterately entailed upon the family estate, we came up in our old chariot; of which, by the by, my wife grew so much ashamed in less than a week, that I was obliged to buy a second-hand barouche, of which I might mount the box, Mrs H. says, if I could drive, but never see the inside-that place being reserved for the Honourable Augustus Tiptoe, her partner-general and opera-knight. Hearing great praises of Mrs H.'s dancing (she was famous for birthnight minuets in the latter end of the last century), I unbooted, and went to a ball at the Countess's, expecting to see a country dance, or, at most, cotillons, reels, and all the old paces to the newest tunes. But judge of my surprise, on arriving, to see poor dear Mrs Hornem with her arms half round the loins of a huge hussarlooking gentleman I never set eyes on before: and his, to say truth, rather more than half round her waist, turning round, and round, and round, to a d-d see-saw up-and-down sort of tune, that reminded me of the "Black Joke," only more "affetuoso," till it made me quite giddy with wondering they were not so. By and by they stopped a bit, and I thought they would sit or fall down. But no; with Mrs H.'s hand on his shoulder, "quam familiariter" (as Terence said when I was at school), they walked about a minute, and then at it again, like two cockchafers spitted upon the same bodkin. I asked what all this meant, when, with a loud laugh, a child no older than our Wilhelmina (a name I never heard but in the Vicar of Wakefield, though her mother would call her after the Princess of Swappenbach) said "Lord! Mr Hornem, can't you see they are valtzing!" or waltzing (I forget which); and then up she got, and her mother and sister, and away they went, and round-abouted it till supper-time. Now that I know what it is, I like it of all things, and so does Mrs H. (though I have broken my shins, and four times overturned Mrs Hornem's maid, in practising the preliminary steps in a morning). Indeed, so much do I like it, that having a turn for rhyme, tastily displayed in some election ballads, and songs in honour of all the victories (but till lately I have had little practice in that way), I sat down, and with the aid of William Fitzgerald, Esq., and a few hints from Dr Busby (whose recitations I attend, and am monstrous fond of Master Busby's manner of delivering his father's late successful "Drury Lane Address"), I composed the following hymn, wherewithal to make my sentiments known to the public; whom, nevertheless, I heartily despise, as well as the critics. -I am, Sir, yours, &c., &c., HORACE HORNEM. State of the poll (last day), 5. E MUSE of the many-twinkling feet!* whose charms Are now extended up from legs to arms; And own-impregnable to most assaults, Hail, nimble nymph! to whom the young hussar, The whisker'd votary of waltz and war, banners Gives all it can, and bids us take the rest. O Germany! how much to thee we owe, We bless thee still-for George the Third is left! Of kings the best, and last not least in worth, But peace to her, her emperor and diet, Though now transferr'd to Bonaparte's "fiat!" Back to my theme-O Muse of motion! say, How first to Albion found thy Waltz her way? "Glance their many-twinkling feet."-GRAY. To rival Lord Wellesley's, or his nephew's, (the Duke of Wellington), as the reader pleases. Of Heyne, such as should not sink the packet. Fraught with this cargo, and her fairest freight, Delightful Waltz, on tiptoe for a mate, The welcome vessel reach'd the genial strand, And round her flock'd the daughters of the land. Not decent David, when, before the ark, His grand pas-seul excited some remark; Not love-lorn Quixote, when his Sancho thought The knight's fandango friskier than it ought: Not soft Herodias, when, with winning tread, Her nimble feet danced off another's head; Not Cleopatra on her galley's deck, Display'd so much of leg, or more of neck, Than thou, ambrosial Waltz, when first the moon Beheld thee twirling to a Saxon tune! To you, ye husbands of ten years! whose brows Ache with the annual tributes of a spouse: Endearing Waitz! to thy more melting tune light." Methinks the glare of yonder chandelier Shines much too far, or I am much too near And true, though strange-Waltz whispers this remark, "My slippery steps are safest in the dark!" |