CHATEAUX D'ESPAGNE.
(A Reminiscence of "David Garrick" and "the Castle of Andalusia.")
ONCE upon an evening weary,
shortly after Lord Dundreary
With his quaint and curious hum-
our set the town in such a roar,
With my shilling I stood rapping
—only very gently tapping—
For the man in charge was napping
—at the money-taker's door.
It was Mr Buckstone's playhouse,
where I linger'd at the door;
Paid half price and nothing
more.
Most distinctly I remember, it was just about September—
Though it might have been in August, or it might have been
before—
Dreadfully I fear'd the morrow. Vainly had I sought to borrow;
For (I own it to my sorrow) I was miserably poor,
And the heart is heavy laden when one's miserably poor;
(I have been so once before.)
I was doubtful and uncertain, at the rising of the curtain,
If the piece would prove a novelty, or one I'd seen before;
For a band of robbers drinking in a gloomy cave, and clinking
With their glasses on the table, I had witness'd o'er and o'er;
Since the half-forgotten period of my innocence was o'er;
Twenty years ago or more.
Presently my doubt grew stronger. I could stand the thing no
longer,
"Miss," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore.
Pardon my apparent rudeness. Would you kindly have the
goodness
To inform me if this drama is from Gaul's enlighten'd shore?"
For I know that plays are often brought us from the Gallic shore;
Adaptations—nothing more!
So I put the question lowly: and my neighbour answer'd slowly,
"It's a British drama wholly, written quite in days of yore.
'Tis an Andalusian story of a castle old and hoary,
And the music is delicious, though the dialogue be poor!"
(And I could not help agreeing that the dialogue was poor:
Very flat, and nothing more.)
But at last a lady entered, and my interest grew center'd
In her figure, and her features, and the costume that she wore.
And the slightest sound she utter'd was like music; so I mutter'd
To my neighbour, "Glance a minute at your play-bill, I implore.
Who's that rare and radiant maiden? Tell, oh, tell me! I implore.'
Quoth my neighbour, "Nelly Moore!"
Then I ask'd in quite a tremble—it was useless to dissemble—
"Miss, or Madam, do not trifle with my feelings any more;
Tell me who, then, was the maiden, that appear'd so sorrow laden
In the room of David Garrick, with a bust above the door?"
(With a bust of Julius Cæsar up above the study door.)
Quoth my neighbour, "Nelly Moore."
I've her photograph from Lacy's; that delicious little face is
Smiling on me as I'm sitting (in a draught from yonder door),
And often in the nightfalls, when a precious little light falls
From the wretched tallow candles on my gloomy second-floor.
(For I have not got the gaslight on my gloomy second-floor,)
Comes an echo, "Nelly Moore!"