A Drawn Bet. (To A. D.) At Bath, when great Beau Nash was King, There happened once a curious Thing. A Beauty, Betty Clare by name, Set all the Dandies’ hearts aflame. Nay, Elders, as they sipped the Waters, Preferred her to their grown-up Daughters ; And what is even stranger still, Her Rivals showed her no Ill-will ;— In short, so potent was her Charm That not a Woman wished her Harm. The oddest thing is still to tell— ’Twas at Sir Humphry’s it befell. One day Sir Humphry gave a Turtle To Astley Coates and the MacWhirtle, And half a dozen Bucks beside, Whose Names need scarce be specified ; Suffice to say no smarter Beaux E’er staked a Guinea at E. O. ; And all agreed to praise the Air, The Dress, the Wit, of Betty Clare. Only Sir Humphry was in doubt ; But then, Sir Humphry had the Gout. He said, as from his damson Cuff He flicked some Particles of Snuff, “ I quite allow her Face is Fair, I like the Colour of her Hair, And much applaud her Disregard Of Powder, Patches, Rouge, and Lard. She has a Style, is finely bred, And like a Deer she holds her Head ; Her voice is soft, and sweet, and clear, Her Wit like—What-d’ye-call-em’s Spear, A Touch, and all Disguise is down ; Beneath the Spark appears the Clown. And yet—and yet—” (He tapped his Box And wisely shook his powdered Locks)— “ She has one Fault with all her Grace, She never looks you in the Face.” “ What ! what ! ” cried half a dozen Tongues. “ A shame ! a shame ! ” “ Pray save your lungs,” Sir Humphry said. “ Just think a minute, And then you’ll own there’s Something in it. You praised her. Scarce a thing that’s hers Escaped her gallant Worshippers. Her Nose, her Chin, her Hand, her Waist, With some sweet Epithet was graced. You even praised her Négligée, And how she sipped her Dish of Tea. Egad ! I think that she was sent To make you Dandies eloquent. But yet, I marked with some Surprise, That no one spoke about her Eyes. Come, tell their Colour, if you can, And I shall be a wiser Man.” He spoke, but there were no Replies. “ What was the Colour of those Eyes ? ”— Which surely had not idle been ; Although, perchance, not fully seen. They all recalled the Looks of Love They’d wasted in the Orange-Grove, How they had tracked the pretty Maid From Barton Fields to South Parade ; How firmly, when they passed, they found Her Eyelids settled on the Ground, How, when they grew a little bolder, And turned, they saw—the neatest—Shoulder. And some remembered sudden Flashes Shot bright between long silken Lashes ; A Glance diverted from a Book, A smile made sweeter by a Look. What Eyes ! Sure Hebe’s own were duller ! But still—what was—what was the Colour ? “ They’re Black,” at last MacWhirtle cried. And Astley would have said he lied ; But stopped and stammered, “ I should say That they were either Blue or Gray, But Light they are.” Then with a Frown Another swore that they were Brown. “ You might as well have called them Red. They’re Violet,” another said. Then Words grew high, and Tempers short. Sir Humphry chuckled at the Sport, Till fearing it might end in Blows He thought it right to interpose. “ My Friends,” he said, “ I plainly see, To-day, at least, you’ll not agree ; To-morrow you may find it clear, And I propose that we meet here. Who’ll back his colour ? ” “ I, for one,” MacWhirtle said. The Knight said, “ Done.” “ I, too,” said Coates, and nothing loth, Sir Humphry smiled, and booked them both For Fifty Pound. Then all the rest Cried out, “ I, too,” as if possest. But calm Sir Humphry, with a grin, Gently declined to take them in. They parted, and they met again. MacWhirtle’s face showed signs of Pain, And Coates’, of Joy. Full soon they burst Out with their Tales, MacWhirtle first : “ In sooth, I’ve little, Sir, to say. I went to work a foolish Way. Two steps from here I met a Coach, And in it who but Andrew Roach. To him I plainly told my Need. He said, ‘ I’ll prove a Friend indeed. I know her Brother passing well, Both he and I at Trowbridge dwell. Jump in. To-night he comes to sup ; And in a Trice we’ll clear it up.’ We went, and found our Bird had flown To Melksham, so we supped alone. We followed after Breakfast. Then We found he’d left for Bath at Ten. And here, at last, we closed the Chace ; Just now we met him Face to Face, But strange to say, this precious Brother Can’t tell one Colour from another. I’m sure they’re Black, but still must say, I know no more than yesterday.” Then Coates : “ I called and found her out, I caught her at the Hardwick’s Rout. I found her so surrounded then, I scarce could see her for the Men ; But knowing that she left to-day, I thought it time to make my Hay. Two mrtal Hours I had to wait, Before I got a Tête-à-tête ; But then, O what a Talk we had, Gey, playful, sentimental, sad. Our subjects would a Volume fill— We talked of Basset and Quadrille. We talked of Minuets and Buns, Of Country Dances, Sally-Lunns ; And then we took a bookish Turn, And spoke of Young’s ‘ Complaint,’ and Sterne, And then of Folly and the Fashons, Of all the Arts and all the Passions, Of Taste, of Cupid and his Wings ;— I fear I said some follish Things ; But straight as I the Theme forsook, She quickly brought me back to Book. And now and then her Eyes she raised, And in my Face quite frankly gazed, As if too read if what I said Came from the Heart or from the Head, And once, surprised with sudden Feeling, She turned them sweetly to the Ceiling. In short—’twas Modesty, I found, That makes he Eyes so love the gound. In short, Sir Knight that Fault you named Is one for which she can’t be blamed. In short—” “ ’Tis long, Sir !—You forget,” Sir Humphry cried, “ about the Bet ! Her Eyes—their Colour.” As he spoke Young Astley jumped as if awoke. “ Her Eyes—of course, I ought o know ; I saw them straight before me—so. Their Colour—well, upon my word, The Fact is—really quite absurd. They were so bright and kind and true, I never though about their Hue.”