THE MASQUERADE

BY JOHN G. SAXE

Count Felix was a man of worth
By Fashion's strictest definition;
For he had money, manners, birth,
And that most slippery thing on earth
Which social critics call position.

And yet the Count was seldom gay;
The rich and noble have their crosses;
And he as he was wont to say-
Had seen some trouble in his day,
And met with several serious losses.

Among the rest, he lost his wife,
A very model of a woman,
With every needed virtue rife

To lead a spouse a happy life

Such wives (in France) are not uncommon.

The lady died, and left him sad

And lone, to mourn the best of spouses;

She left him also-let me add

One girl, and all the wealth she had,
The rent of half a dozen houses.

I cannot tarry to discuss

The weeping husband's desolation; Upon her tomb he wrote it thus:"FELIX infelicissimus!"'

In very touching ostentation.

At length when many years had fled,
And Father Time, the great physician,
Had healed his sorrow for the dead,
Count Felix took it in his head

To change his wearisome condition.

And yet the Count might well despond
Of tying soon the silken tether;
Wise, witty, handsome, faithful, fond,
And twenty-not a year beyond-

Are charming-when they come together.

But more than that, the man required
A wife, to share his whims and fancies,
Admire alone what he admired,
Desire, of course, what he desired,"
And show it in her very glances.

Long, long, the would-be-wooer tried
To find his precious ultimatum-
All earthly charms in one fair bride.
But still in vain he sought and sighed.
He couldn't manage to get at 'em.

The Count's high hopes began to fade
His plans were not at all advancing;
When lo, one day, his valet made
Some mention of a Masquerade.

"I'll go," said he, "and see the dancing."

Count Felix found the crowd immense,

And had he been a censor morum, He might have said without offense, Got up regardless of expense,

And some-regardless of decorum.

And one among the motley brood

He saw, who shunned the wanton dances, A sort of demi-nun, who stood

In ringlets flashing from a hood,

And seemed to seek our hero's glances.

The Count delighted with her air,

Drew near, the better to behold her; Her form was slight, her skin was fair, And maidenhood you well might swear, Breathed from the dimples in her shoulder.

He spoke; she answered with a grace
That showed the girl no vulgar heiress.
And if the features one may trace
In voices, hers betrayed a face,

The finest to be found in Paris.

And then such wit; in repartee

She shone without the least endeavor→

A beauty and a belle esprit,

A scholar, too, was plain to see.

Whoever saw a girl so clever!

Her taste he ventured to explore

In books, the graver and the lighter, And mentioned authors by the score. Mon dieu! In every sort of lore,

She always chose his favorite writer.

She loved the poets; but confessed
Racine beat all the others hollow;
At least, she thought his style the best.
Racine! his literary taste.

Racine! his maximus appollo.

Whatever topic he might name,

Their minds were strangely sympathetic. Of courtship, marriage, fortune, fame, Their views and feelings were the same. Parbleu! he cried. It looks prophetic.

"Come let us seek an ampler space; This heated room, I can't abide it. That mask I'm sure is out of place,

And hides the fairest sweetest face.'
Said she, "I wear the mask to hide it."

The answer was extremely pat,

And gave the Count a deal of pleasure. "C'est vrai. I did not think of that. Come let us go where we can chat

And eat (I'm hungry) at our leisure."

"I'm hungry, too," she said, and went
Without the least attempt to cozen;
Like ladies who refuse, relent,
Debate, oppose, and then consent
To eat enough for half a dozen.

And so they sat them down to dine,
Solus cum sola, gay and merry.
The Count enquires the kind of wine
To which his charmer may incline.

Ah! Quelle merveille! She answers sherry!

What will she eat? She takes the carte,
And notes the viands that she wishes;
"Pardon Monsieur! what makes you start?"
As if she knew his tastes by heart,

The lady named his favorite dishes!

Was e'er such sympathy before?

The Count was really half demented; He kissed her hand, and roundly swore He loved her perfectly!-nay, more,

He'd wed her-if the gods consented!

"Monsieur is very kind," she said,

"His love so lavishly bestowing On one who never thought to wed,— And least of all," she raised her head

""Tis late, Sir Knight, I must be going!"