M. or N. "Similia similibus curantur."

by G. J. Whyte-Melville

"Champagne to Mr. Stanmore!" said his entertainer, beckoning to a servant. "You're below the mark, Stanmore, and we've a heavy night before us. You're thinking of your pets at Tattersall's next week. Cheer up. Their future masters won't be half so hard on them, I'll be bound. But I wouldn't assist at the sacrifice if I were you. Come down to the Den with me; we'll troll for pike, and give the clods a cricket-match. Then we'll dine early, set trimmers, and console ourselves with claret-cup under affliction."

Dick laughed. Affliction, indeed, and he had never been so happy in his life! Perhaps that was the reason of his silence, his abstraction. At this very moment, he thought, Maud might be opening the packet he made such sacrifices to redeem. He had arranged for her to receive the diamonds all reset and glittering at the hour she would be dressing for the ball. He could almost fancy he saw the beautiful face flushed with delight, the dark eyes filled with tears. Would she press those jewels to her lips, and murmur broken words of endearment for him? Would she not love him now, if, indeed, she had not loved him before? Horses, forsooth! What were all the horses that ever galloped compared to one smile of hers? He would have given her his right arm, his life, if she wanted it. And now, perhaps, he was to obtain his reward. Who could tell what that very night might bring forth?

Mr. Stanmore's glass remained untasted before him, and Lord Bearwarden observing that dinner was over, and his guests seemed disinclined to drink any more wine, proposed an adjournment to the little mess-room to smoke.

In these days the long sittings that delighted our grandfathers have completely given way to an early break up, a quiet cigar, and a general retreat, if not to bed, at least to other scenes and other society. In ten minutes from the rising of the colonel, Lord Bearwarden, and half-a-dozen guests, the larger mess-room was cleared of its inmates, and the smaller one crowded with an exceedingly merry and rather noisy assemblage.

"

Just one cigar," said Lord Bearwarden, handing a huge case to his friends. "It will steady you nicely for waltzing, and some eau-de-cologne in my room will take off all the smell afterwards. I know you dancing swells are very particular."

Both gentlemen laughed, and putting large cigars into their mouths, accommodated themselves with exceeding goodwill to the arrangement. It was not in the nature of things that silence should be preserved under such incentives to conversation as tobacco and soda-water with something in it, but presently, above other sounds, a young voice was heard to clamour for a song.

"Let's have a chant!" protested this eager voice; "the night is still young. We're all musical, and we don't often get the two best pipes in the regiment to dine here the same day. Come, tune up, old boy. Give us 'Twisting Jane,' or the 'Gallant Young Hussar.'"

The "old boy" addressed, a large, fine-looking man, holding the appointment of riding-master, smiled good-humouredly, and shook his head. "It's too early for the 'Hussar,'" said he, scanning the fresh beardless face with its clear mirthful eyes. "And it's not an improving song for young officers neither. I'll try 'Twisting Jane' if you gentlemen will support me with the chorus;" and in a deep mellow voice he embarked without more ado on the following barrack-room ditty:--

I loved a girl, down Windsor way,

When we was lying there,

As soft as silk, as mild as May,

As timid as a hare.

She blushed and smiled, looked down so shy,

And then--looked up again--

My comrades warned me: 'Mind your eye,

With Twisting Jane!'

I wooed her thus, not sure but slow,

To kiss she vowed a crime,--

For she was 'reining back,' you know,

While I was 'marking time.'

'Alas!' I thought, 'these dainty charms

Are not for me, 'tis plain;

Too long she keeps me under arms,

Does Twisting Jane.'

Our corporal-major says to me,

One day before parade,

'She's gammoning you, young chap,' says he,

'Is that there artful jade!

You'll not be long of finding out,

When nothing's left to gain,

How quick the word is "Threes about!"

With Twisting Jane!'

Our corporal-major knows what's what;

I peeped above her blind;

The tea was made--the toast was hot--

She looked so sweet and kind.

My captain in her parlour sat,

It gave me quite a pain,

With coloured clothes, and shining hat,

By Twisting Jane.

The major he came cantering past,

She bustled out to see,--

'O, major! is it you at last?

Step in and take your tea.'

The major halted--winked his eye--

Looked up and down the lane;

And in he went his luck to try

With Twisting Jane.

I waited at 'attention' there,

Thinks I, 'There'll soon be more.'

The colonel's phaeton and pair

Came grinding to the door.

She gave him such a sugary smile,

(Old men is very vain!)

'It's you I looked for all the while,'

Says Twisting Jane,

'I've done with you for good,' I cried,

'You're never on the square;

Fight which you please on either side,

But hang it, lass, fight fair!

I won't be last--I can't be first--

So look for me in vain

When next you're out "upon the burst,"

Miss Twisting Jane!--

When next you're out "upon the burst,"

Miss Twisting Jane!