His poems are the most
beautiful things you ever saw. He's written a continuation of "Don
Juan," from his own adventures. Did you ever read his lines to Mary?
They're superior to Byron, sir--superior to Byron.'
I was glad to hear this from so accomplished a critic as Waggle; for
the fact is, I had composed the verses myself for honest Wiggle one
day, whom I found at his chambers plunged in thought over a very dirty
old-fashioned album, in which he had not as yet written a single word.
'I can't,' says he. 'Sometimes I can write whole cantos, and to-day not
a line. Oh, Snob! such an opportunity! Such a divine creature! She's
asked me to write verses for her album, and I can't.'
'Is she rich?' said I. 'I thought you would never marry any but an
heiress.'
'Oh, Snob! she's the most accomplished, highly-connected creature!--and
I can't get out a line.'
'How will you have it?' says I. 'Hot, with sugar?'
'Don't, don't! You trample on the most sacred feelings, Snob. I want
something wild and tender,--like Byron. I want to tell her that amongst
the festive balls, and that sort of thing, you know--I only think about
her, you know--that I scorn the world, and am weary of it, you know,
and--something about a gazelle, and a bulbul, you know.'
'And a yataghan to finish off with,' the present writer observed, and we
began:--
'TO MARY
'I seem, in the midst of the crowd, The lightest of all; My laughter
rings cheery and loud, In banquet and ball.
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