Nothing to Do

And when the Queen left on a visit to Calais,
Remained in sole charge of—the plate and the palace.
All which, the Fitz-Herberts may justly lay claim,
Invests with proud honor the family name.

There is something that puzzles me, let me confess—
Why these rare old antiques wear so modern a dress!
Unless, like the comet which now reappears,
For the first time, I think, within hundreds of years,
So fashions in dress run through regular courses,
And strictly obey the mechanical forces.
Let me hereby suggest that some almanac-maker,
In his very next issue but one, undertake a
Brief record of Fashions that may reäppear
In the course of the next or the following year.
With what eager eyes would our wives read, be sure,
About—this—time—expect—a—new—style—of—coiffure,
A black lace Fichu under dark satin loops;
Or, more ominous still, a recurrence of hoops!
Attended, perhaps, by the brief intimation,
Based upon strict and exact calculation,
That the first would enjoy but a limited reign, as
It was looked for next year in far-distant Uranus;
While the last had intended to visit us sooner,
But tarried a while with the ladies of Luna.

Apropos of the portraits—I've heard of a queer
Contretemps which befell the most famous last year;
I mean of Sir Arthur, who saved the Black Prince,—
Excuse my not knowing how many years since.
It seems a young lady—Miss Blanche Delarue—
One day on a visit to Fifth Avenue,
While carelessly chatting and sipping some sherbet,
Was shown the fine portrait of Arthur Fitz-Herbert,
Which, Augustus assured her, as an heirloom
Was more valued than anything else in the room,
And proceeded to speak of the well-deserved fame
Of Sir Arthur Fitz-Herbert, the first of his name,
With a few of those actions of gallant emprise,
Which have made him so great in Posterity's eyes;
Or, at least, that small part which, like Miss Delarue,
Are on visiting terms in the Fifth Avenue.
In the midst of his story conceive his amaze,
When his visitor, after a long, earnest gaze
At the portrait before her, approaching, let fall
On the tapestry carpet plate, sherbet, and all,
Which, scattered with fragments of fine porcelain,
Must have suffered, I fear, an indelible stain.
While standing aghast at a breach of propriety
Which rarely occurs in the best of society,
He was startled still more, as I cannot but own,
When the lady exclaimed, in a deeply-moved tone,
In reply to his feebly-expressed "Never mind it,"
"That's my grandfather's portrait! O, where did you find it?"
Which indeed was the case, being sold at vendue,
Some years since, when the father of Blanche Delarue
Had lost for the time both his wealth and high station,
By indulging too largely in land speculation.
The unlucky portrait, I scarcely need say,
Was at once taken down, but soon after replaced
By another as stately, though somewhat defaced,—
A clear mark of age, and which, by the way,
On Fitz-Herbert's assurance I'm glad to be able
To say was a knight of the Famous Round Table.

If my memory fails not, 'tis three months to-day
Since Augustus Fitz-Herbert appeared in Broadway,
Having passed the last year in a tour beyond seas,
Where his travels extended from Russia to Spain,
And towards the North-West from the famed Hebrides
To the beautiful isles in the fair Grecian main.
He has wandered through climes of which even the names
Thrill the heart with emotion, or summon a tear,
When we think how completely has time swept away
The traces of all that we fain would revere.
He has stood, it may be, on the very same spot
Where Homer recited his deathless heroics,
Or paused at the portico, knowing it not,
Where Zeno addressed his disciples, the Stoics.
Perchance when he gazed from the brow of the hill
On the once famous harbor—the Attic Piræus,—
Proud trophy of valor reverse could not chill!—
His foot pressed the turf on the breast of Musæus.
He has seen the proud city whose arts and whose arms
In the mouth of tradition for ages have rung;
O, there is not a foot of that soil but has charms,
Where Tully once fulmined, where Virgil once sung.
In the streets of Byzantium he's smoked a chibouk
With the bearded and turbaned devout Mameluke;
Has seen the Cathedral—the glory of Munich—
And deciphered inscriptions, perhaps, from the Runic;
Floated dreamily down the thrice beautiful Rhine,
Through lands that are teeming with olives and wine;
Passed a night in the capital city of Berne,
And crossed in a steamer the Lake of Lucerne;
Has strolled through the fortified town of Brussels,
And heard in old Bruges the sweet Minster bells;
Has stopped in the siege-renowned city of Prague,
And supped with Mynheer in his town of the Hague;
At length reaching France, in a steamboat crossed over