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Note 3, page 81, stanza xlii.
And turn on things which no aristocratic

Spirit would name, and therefore even I won't anent etc.
Anenty was a Scotch phrase meaning « concerning» –

with regard to;» it has been made English by the Scotch Novels; and as the Frenchman said —« If it be not, ought to be English.n

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Note 4, page 83, stanza xlix.

The milliners who furnish « drapery misses » etc. Drapery misses n—This term is probably any thing now but a mystery. It was however almost so to me when I first returned from the East in 1811--1812. It means a pretiy, a highborn, a fashionable

young female, well instructed by her friends, and furnished by her milliner with a wardrobe upon credit, to be repaid, when married, by the husband. The riddle was first read to me by a young

and pretty heiress, on my praising the « drapery» of an untochered but a pretty virginities» (like Mrs Anne Page) of the then day, which has now been some years yesterday:—she assured me that the thing was common in London; and as her own thousands, and blooming looks, and rich simplicity of array, put any suspicion in her own case out of the question, I confess I gave some credit to the allegation. If necessary, authorities might be cited, in which case I could quote both « drapery» and the wearers. Let us hope, however, that it is now obsolete.

Note 5, page 87, stanza lx.
”T is strange the mind, that very fiery particle, etc.

Divinæ particulam auræ. »

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Of all the barbarous middle ages, that

Which is most barbarous is the middle age Of man; it is—I really scarce know what;

But when we hover between fool and sage,
And don't know justly what we would be at,—

A period something like a printed page,
Black letter upon foolscap, while our hair
Grows grizzled, and we are not what we were;-


Too old for youth,—too young, at thirty-five,

To herd with boys, or hoard with good threescore, I wonder people should be left alive;

But since they are, that epoch is a bore:
Love lingers still, although 't were late to wive;
And as for other love, the illusion 's o'er;

that most pure imagination, Gleams only through the dawn of its creation.

And money,


Oh gold! Why call we misers miserable?

Theirs is the pleasure that can never pall; Theirs is the best bower-anchor, the chain cable

Which holds fast other pleasures great and small.
Ye who but see the saving man at table,

And scorn his temperate board, as none at all,
And wonder how the wealthy can be sparing,
Know not what visions spring from each cheese-paring.


Love or lust makes man sick, and wine much sicker;

Ambition rends, and gaming gains a loss; But making money, slowly first, then quicker,

And adding still a little through each cross,
(Which will come over things) beats love or liquor,

The gamester's counter, or the statesman's dross.
Oh gold! I still prefer thee unto paper,
Which makes bank credit like a bark of vapour.


Who hold the balance of the world? Who reign

O'er congress, whether royalist or liberal? Who rouse the shirtless patriots of Spain?

(That make old Europe's journals squeak and gibber all.) Who keep the world, both old and new, in pain

Or pleasure? Who make politics run glibber all?
The shade of Buonaparte's noble daring?-
Jew Rothschild and his fellow—christian Baring.


Those, and the truly liberal Lafitte,

Are the true lords of Europe. Every loan is not a merely speculative hit,

But seats a nation or upsets a throne. Republics also get involved a bit;

Columbia's stock hath holders not unknown On 'Change; and even thy silver soil, Peru, Must get itself discounted by a Jew.


Why call the miser miserable? as

I said before: the frugal life is his, Which in a saint or cynic ever was

The theme of praise: a hermit would not miss Canonization for the self-same cause,

And wherefore blame gaunt wealth's austerities? Because, you 'll say, nought calls for such a trial;Then there's more merit in his self-denial.


He is your only poet;--passion, pure

And sparkling on from heap to heap, displays, Possess’d, the ore, of which mere hopes allure

Nations athwart the deep: the golden rays Flash up in ingots from the mine obscure;

On him the diamond pours its brilliant blaze; While the mild emerald's beam shades down the dies Of other stones, to soothe the miser's eyes.


The lands on either side are his: the ship

From Ceylon, Inde, or far Cathay, unloads For him the fragrant produce of each trip;

Beneath his cars of Ceres groan the roads, And the vine blushes like Aurora's lip;

His very cellars might be kings' abodes; While he, despising every sensual call, Commands—the intellectual lord of all.


Perhaps he hath great projects in his mind,

To build a college, or to found a race, A hospital, a church, and leave behind

Some dome surmounted by his meagre face:
Perhaps he fain would liberate mankind

Even with the very ore which makes them base;
Perhaps he would be wealthiest of his nation,
Or revel in the joys of calculation.


But whether all, or each, or none of these

May be the hoarder's principle of action, The fool will call such mania a disease:

What is his own? Go look at each transaction, Wars, revels, loves—do these bring men more ease

Than the mere plodding through each «vulgar fraction ?» Or do they benefit mankind? Lean miser! Let spendthrifts' heirs inquire of yours—who's wiser?

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