Hold! there is a slight drawback on our pleasure,—perfection is not to be found even in the Madrigal Society. Where are the ladies? Oh, Madrigalians! with what countenance can ye, month after month, and year after year, continue singing Fair Oriana's praise, and bewailing the cruelty of your Phillises, and Cynthias, and "Nymph of Diana," when you thus close up the fountain of all your inspirations? Is your by-law, forbidding all speechifying, a tacit confession of fear lest some gallant visitor, fired with your own sweet songs, should spring on his legs and propose "The Ladies"? Is this the reason why ye only drink "The King," "The Queen," and—your noble selves? Shame on ye!—where are the ladies?
The truth must be spoken at all times. Old as the world is, it is not yet quite steady enough to "chaperon" the fair sex to meetings like those of the Madrigal Society. True; we have pretty well got rid of the six-bottle men, and gentlemen have ceased to return home in wheel-barrows: still something more must be done ere the most courteous of chairmen can with propriety propose a new member with a soprano voice, or the most zealous of secretaries second him.
To do our friends justice, they have made a step in this matter. At the annual festival, where the madrigals put on all their splendour, the ladies are admitted; but, alas! they are perched up in a gallery "all by themselves." And even this bird's-eye view of gentlemen eating and drinking, comes, like "the grotto," only once a-year.
But these knotty points should be agitated before dinner. Let us turn to our books once again,—sing "The Waits,"—"One fa la more,"—and then "Good-night!"
LOVE AND POVERTY.
Little Cupid, one day, being wearied with play, Or weary of nothing to do, Exclaimed with a sigh, "Now why should not I Go shoot for a minute or two?" Then snatching his bow, tho' Venus cried "No," (Oh! Love is a mischievous boy!) He set up a mark, in the midst of a park, And began his nice sport to enjoy. Each arrow he shot—I cannot tell what Was the reason—fell short by a yard, Save one with gold head, which far better sped, And pierced thro' the heart of the card.
MORAL. My story discovers this lesson to lovers: They will meet a reception but cold, And endeavour in vain Beauty's smiles to obtain, Unless Love tip his arrows with gold.