LETTER I. LEONARD TO STEPHEN. From a country town: Oct. 24, 18-1. 'Two Neapolitans 'scaped '—to wit, myself And Johnnie Hirst ;-maybe you ask from what? O Stephano! from that most dreary scene, The synonym for stupid; countrified, For some unwritten adjective that tells Tie up her feet for ever, in disgust, In cocoa-matting;-this have we escaped,— For to be countified—(I coin a verb To match my adjective)—is not at times The worst of evils; there are hounds or guns For those who like them; likewise dinners, wines, That shine, for those whose souls mahoganise Of other years, with promise of content, And carelessness of walks at minor hours. Nor to be countrified, in spite of that Which Touchstone taught, in summer time at least, Is equal to damnation; I recall Visions of groves and meadows, close-cut lawns Bruised with the treadings of small-booted feet, Repressing vice with thrice the promptitude But join the two in adjectival form, And wreathe them, on a wet October night, And horror stands completed! We have 'scaped, And watch his flasks of logwood circling round, Saved in the hope of coffee? Even so Now sip I, out of very thankfulness For good intention (scarce enough sometimes) As for the rest, I leave them unto those By whom such things are prized and coveted. Yet not to be ungrateful, though the thing Too cynical, I may confess to you That there was something which (it seems SO now) Was worth the reaching through the dreary pomp, Which has its birth, like Milton's melancholy, It was that made me more susceptible To any smile that seemed l'Allegro's own; For know, I make a friend. 'Oh, rare!' you cry; 'What was he like? Arabian looker-down 'On women, creatures guiltless of a soul ! 'Cobbler, or Jehu of a country fly, 'Whose faith in coming Demos raises him 'Above the awls or ribbons of his craft?' No, I confess, a woman; one, besides, Not old, nor blue, nor differing from myself In social rank (whatever that may be); ' Which is with most their only claim for worship; A share by no means meagre of those passions Venetian pomp foretell Venetia's fall. (You laugh, I know; but I must have my fling.) But for my statue-has she got a name? Her name is Johnstone,-Eucharis, I think, I heard them call her; surely you must know, Her mother's name-the selfsame Johnstone who |