WHAT ONE YEAR BROUGHT.
If they had told me a year ago,
As I lay, all love, at my darling’s feet,
That our hearts would become more cold than snow,
And our eyes never meet when we meet—
If they had told me the treasured tress
Would be shrivell’d and shrunk in the heedless flames;
That love, and devotion, and tenderness
Would become but idle names—
If they had told me the ring you wore
(Well chosen, the opal’s changing hue)
Would be lying crush’d at my feet on the floor
For its crime that it bound me to you—
If they had told me your love was a lie,
That your faith was faithless, and false your heart;
That you would change sweetness to scorn, and I
Should give scorn for your scorn, and depart—
I should have said, with a laugh, that the sun
Would be dark, the hills tottering, and shallow the sea:
One short year through its snows and its roses has run,
Yet you are wedded, and I am free.
W. W. M.
FISH OUT OF WATER.
A FEW WORDS ABOUT FOREIGN GENTLEMEN RESIDENT IN LONDON.
I do not know a much more terrible spectacle than the deck and cabin of a Calais and Dover steamer, when one of those vessels is bound for the shores of England, with a good stirring breeze from the N.W. The foreign gentlemen mostly act upon a system; and the system consists in lying down flat upon their backs, with a cuvette in the immediate vicinity for fear of the worst. Suppose the packet to start at night. After you have succeeded in wringing your passport and the permis d’ embarquer from the stern official with the long shade to his cap, and coursed along the pier with a number of small uneasy packages in your grasp, you arrive at length at the spot where the fussy little steamer is scolding away, and overpowering with its shrill tones the howling of the wind and the roar of the sea. It appeared that you must be too late, but there is always a quarter of an hour to spare, and you descend to the cabin, where the foreign gentlemen are awaiting their doom. Are these the Lucifers of the Boulevards? How are the mighty fallen!
Here indeed may be seen intense misery and intense selfishness. They know what is coming, and have distinctly made up their minds for the worst. There is but one swinging lamp in the cabin—but what a scene it reveals! Fat, pasty, pale men, whose beards seem to have attained a two days’ growth in a few hours, already groan with what they would call their emotions. All the vivacious cackle of the great nation—all the self-applausive politeness of our friends of the Palais Royal—quite, quite gone! The retching and the moaning have not yet commenced; but the curtain is about to draw up on the performances in this kind. Each gentleman as he enters the cave of despair, deposits on the table a little leather bag, something like a lady’s reticule, and lets slip the buckle of his trousers in order to give himself greater ease during his forthcoming throes. He then lets himself drop on the first sofa where he can find room to accommodate his miserable limbs—or it may be on the floor—but always taking care to have a cuvette within easy reach. In answer to the eager questions of many anxious inquirers, the phlegmatic steward only remarks, that, “Well, it may be just a little fresh, but we shan’t feel it till we gets out to sea.” There is a general movement amongst the sufferers, as if the steward’s words were very precious. They look up from their uneasy resting-places. “Qu’est-ce qu’il dit?” is asked on all sides. The reply is, “Il dit qu’il fait un peu frais, mais qu’il n’y aura rien jusqu’à ce que nous sommes en pleine mer!” Then there is a growl, and a remark that “Ce garçon là se moque de nous, dans quelques instants nous serons en marche, et sortis du port, et alors—Ah! mon Dieu!” There is a movement upon deck. They are drawing up the steps—a cry to cast off—and a general groan below.
In a few moments, just as the gentlemen had anticipated, the little steamer appears to be “taking” a series of turnpike gates. She is what is called by seamen a lively craft, and is giving conclusive evidence of her natural gaiety of character. Speaking from my own experience of such performances, I should say that the most fearful moment is when the steamer is at the top of a wave, and preparing for a fresh plunge, while a sort of thrill seems to run throughout her frame. You know too well what is coming, whilst she is balancing herself and rolling from side to side; then a pause, a fresh plunge, and horrible utterances from the afflicted creatures below. “Ah, mon Dieu! ça me soulève le cœur! Ayiai! Que sommes nous donc venus faire ici? Ayiai! Encore une cuvette!” Someway or another, the British mariner does not seem to feel as much commiseration for these unfortunate persons as the real misery of their situations might inspire, even into the most hardened hearts. “He didn’t ought to do it here, sir,” said an old sailor to me one night (I admit that on the night in question other feelings than those of scientific curiosity drew me occasionally to the bulwarks of the Eagle). “Why can’t you go to the side, you dirty brute?” This soothing question was directed to an unfortunate French gentleman, who was positively livid with misery, and as capable at that moment of reaching the side of the lively craft as he would have been of taking command of the ship. But we will not linger on the miseries of that middle passage. I think, however, I shall not be far wrong when I say, the foreign gentlemen don’t like it.
Those blessed, blessed lights of Dover! there they are at last. There is no use in attempting to keep the deception up any longer. I must give up the piratical dreams of my youth. I was not intended to be a Red Rover; indeed I fear, that although my marine miseries are not so complete as those of our foreign friends below, I should in the midst of any considerable hubbub of the elements prove but a Pea Green Rover after all. When my gallant crew were expecting the stern command of “Boarders away!” to fall from my iron lips, I should call out feebly, “Steward, steward!” The fact is, that my soul does sicken o’er the heaving wave; and if Lord Byron puts it as an inevitable inference that I am a “luxurious slave,” I cannot help it. I suppose it is so, and I