of fiction written for the express purpose of bringing curates, half-pay captains, starving barristers, and other such low wretches into vogue. But I have only shown you yet one side of the picture. When the misery of this foul apartment is at its height—a flyman, paid by the job (he is not on our permanent staff), is instructed to inflict upon the door of Mountchauncey House one of those long and sonorous salutations which announce the proximate advent of the wealthy—the happy—the aristocratic! A former fellow pupil at Mountchauncey House calls upon the miserable woman whose sufferings I have just described to you. Her dress is in the last style of fashion. In winter she wears an Indian shawl given to my sister, Miss Belinda Mountchauncey—to whom you will shortly have the honour of being presented, by our late uncle, Major-General Roger Mountchauncey, C.B.—she is accompanied by two children—her latest cherubs—in velvet tunics—one bears an ivory Noah’s Ark—the other a humming top in blue enamel. They enter the apartment of the Poor Man’s Wife whilst the Irish Housemaid is in the act of giving notice—and the husband is inflicting corporal chastisement upon one of the hungry and howling children, whilst the lady is hanging upon his arm, and imploring him to desist. The Rich Man’s Wife glides into the room like the glorious sun, with two beauteous satellites in attendance. She does not appear to notice the misery around her, but the Poor Man’s Wife feels that she has taken it in to the last potato-paring. She converses about her trials—Lady Boldathers has ignobly tricked her out of a box on the Grand Tier at the Opera, on which she had set her heart—Sir Eustace has spent so much at the last contest for the county, that she must deny herself a tiara of sapphires and diamonds which would have suited her complexion exactly. At the last Queen’s Ball, Lord Glittergarterville—the Gold Stick in waiting—did not pay her all the deference to which she was entitled—and Oh! but it was hard to be slighted by a Gold Stick; She then compliments her friend upon the healthy appearance of her children;—asks where she attends service?—for, after all, life with its vanities passes away like a shadow!—refers to the old happy days at Mountchauncey House, when they two had started in life upon equal terms;—gives a little tract of an elevating and soul-purifying character to each of the hungry, dirty children;—remembers that it is Opera Night,—and that Sir Eustace had requested her to meet him at Hunt and Roskell’s—it might be a surprise,—men are such odd creatures;—and so the Rich Man’s Wife glides out of the room to her jeweller’s—leaving the Poor Man’s Wife to the remains of the cold mutton, and her meditations. This is a general outline of the little drama which I cause to be rehearsed in fifty forms for the instruction of my pupils. What think you of the Mountchauncey system, Mr.—a—a—ahem—Brown?”
“I have no doubt, madam, that it is forcibly efficient—but under it I do not exactly see what is to become of the poor men.”
“They must remain, sir, in their odious insignificance, and go to sea, or fight the battles and do the dirty work of the country generally; unless, indeed, they have sufficient energy to take their coats off and go to the diggings, and bring back such a sum of money as any lady would consider it worth her while to spend for them.”
“But surely, madam, even with a view to the advancement of your amiable pupils in life, it is scarcely politic to announce boldly that their sole object is to contract a wealthy marriage?—for even the poor fools who have balances at their banker’s, and estates in land, are so ridiculous as to desire some small share of affection for their own sakes.”
“I waited for you there, sir. If I may say so without an abuse of speech, that consideration is the second key-note of my system. Miss Selina Tender, I am a half-pay Commander in the Navy—my name is Smith. I am leaning over your chair—my eye seeks yours in vain—I request you to breathe forth your soul in music.”
Miss Selina Tender (moving her head about in a discontented way). “Oh! I can’t sing to-night—my head aches; my throat is sore; I have been singing all the morning; I hate singing before strangers; I won’t!”
Miss Harriet Mountchauncey. “I am a Lincolnshire Baronet; age twenty-two—a long minority; slate-quarries in Wales—highly recommended by your estimable aunt—my hair is red—I am freckled—short and stout. I ask you if you can’t give us a song?”
Miss Selina Tender (with an inspired look).
“Ah! Sir John, I divined that you were a fellow enthusiast. Music is indeed the language of the soul. I never sing but to please one whose soul is touched with kindred fire. Yes! I will sing for you, but upon one condition—now mind, upon one condition,” (archly shaking her sweet finger at the slate-quarries, and making eyes), “that is, that you must turn over the leaves for me. Oh! what it is to me to spurn the earth in company with a kindred soul! Shall I begin with Beautiful Star?”
With these words, Miss Selina—giddy thing!—ran over to the piano, and delivered herself of the following inspired composition:—
The Beautiful Star.
(Cantabile e con molta simplicità.)
Beautiful Star! Beautiful Star!
Angel of Night, in thy radiant car
With none to love me how sad thy gaze,
Pour on my heart thy balmy rays!
Scenes that are brightest may charm awhile,
The world may woo me with heartless smile!
I am not loved here—so I love afar—
And my love is for thee, thou—Beautiful Star!
As I muse on the treasures of love I bear,
They are scatter’d like dreams on the perfumed air;
Shall my aching spirit ever know
Passion’s entrancing ebb and flow?
O yes! I could love—that must not be!—
Earth holds no rapture like that for me.
Let me pass to the world where Spirits are,
And my love be for thee, thou—Beautiful Star!
