“Still fare you well, however I may fare, A fare perchance to the Lethean shore, Caught up by rushing whirlwinds in the air, Or dash’d down cataracts with dreadful roar: Nay, this warm heart, once yours unto the core, This hand you should have claim’d in church or minster Some cannibal may gnaw”--she read no more-- Prone on the carpet fell the senseless spinster, Losing herself, as ’twere, in Kidderminster! Of course of such a fall the shock was great, In rush’d the father, panting from the shop, In rush’d the mother, without cap or tête, Pursued by Betty Housemaid with her mop; The cook to change her apron did not stop, The charwoman next scrambled up the stair,-- All help to lift, to haul, to seat, to prop, And then they stand and smother round the chair, Exclaiming in a chorus, “Give her air!” One sears her nostrils with a burning feather, Another rams a phial up her nose; A third crooks all her finger-joints together, A fourth rips her up laces and her bows, While all by turns keep trampling on her toes, And, when she gasps for breath, they pour in plump A sudden drench that down her thorax goes, As if in fetching her--some wits so jump-- She must be fetched with water like a pump! [Illustration: “SHE’S BLACK IN THE FACE!”] No wonder that thus drench’d, and wrench’d, and gall’d, As soon as possible from syncope’s fetter Her senses had the sense to be recall’d, “I’m better--that will do--indeed I’m better,” She cried to each importunate besetter; Meanwhile, escaping from the stir and smother, The prudent parent seized the lover’s letter, (Daughters should have no secrets with a Mother) And read it thro’ from one end to the other. From first to last she never skipp’d a word-- For young Lorenzo of all youths was one So wise, so good, so moral she averr’d, So clever, quite above the common run-- She made him sit by her, and call’d him son, No matrimonial suit, e’en Duke’s or Earl’s, So flatter’d her maternal feelings--none! For mothers always think young men are pearls Who come and throw themselves before their girls. [Illustration: DECAPITATION.] And now, at warning signal from her finger, The servants most reluctantly withdrew, But list’ning on the stairs contrived to linger; For Ellen, gazing round with eyes of blue, At last the features of her parent knew, And summoning her breath and vocal pow’rs, “Oh, mother!” she exclaimed--“Oh, is it true-- Our dear Lorenzo”--the dear name drew show’rs-- “_Ours_,” cried the mother, “pray don’t call him ours!”