Our ridicules are kept in the back-ground—
Ridiculous enough, but also dull :
Professions, too, are no more to be found
Professional and there is nought to cull
Of folly's fruit: for though your fools abound,
They're barren, and not worth the pains to pull.
Society is now one polish'd horde,
Form'd of two mighty tribes, the Bores and Bored.
But from being farmers, we turn gleaners, gleaning
The scanty but right-well thrash'd ears of truth;
And, gentle reader! when you gather meaning,
You may be Boaz, and I-modest Ruth.
Farther I'd quote, but Scripture, intervening,
Forbids. A great impression, in my youth,
Was made by Mrs. Adams, where she cries,
"That Scriptures out of church are blasphemies.”
But what we can, we glean in this vile age
Of chaff, although our gleanings be not grist.
I must not quite omit the talking sage,
Kit-Cat, the famous conversationist,
Who, in his common-place book, had a page
Prepared each morn for evenings. List, oh! list!" "Alas, poor ghost !"- What unexpected woes
Await those who have studied their bon-mots!
Firstly, they must allure the conversation,
By many windings, to their clever clinch
And, secondly, must let slip no occasion,
Nor bate (abate) their hearers of an inch,
But take an ell—and make a great sensation,
If possible; and, thirdly, never flinch
When some smart talker puts them to the test,
But seize the last word, which no doubt's the best.
Lord Henry and his lady were the hosts :
The party we have touch'd on were the guests.
Their table was a board to tempt even ghosts
To pass the Styx for more substantial feasts.
I will not dwell upon ragouts or roasts,
Albeit all human history attests
That happiness for man-the hungry sinner!—
nce Eve ate apples, much depends on dinner.
Witness the lands which "flow'd with milk and honey,"
Held out unto the hungry Israelites :
To this we have added, since, the love of money,
The only sort of pleasure which requites.
Youth fades, and leaves our days no longer sunny;
We tire of mistresses and parasites;
But O, ambrosial cash! Ah! who would lose thee?
When we no more can use, or even abuse, thee?
The gentlemen got up betimes to shoot,
Or hunt: the young, because they liked the sport— The first thing boys like, after play and fruit :
The middle-aged, to make the day more short;
For ennui is a growth of English root,
Though nameless in our language !—we retort
The fact for words, and let the French translate
That awful yawn which sleep cannot abate.
The elderly walk'd through the library,
And tumbled books, or criticised the pictures,
Or saunter'd through the gardens piteously,
And made upon the hot-house several strictures, Or rode a nag which trotted not too high,
Or on the morning papers read their lectures,
Or on the watch their longing eyes would fix,
Longing, at sixty, for the hour of six.
But none were "gêné:" the great hour of union
Was wrung by dinner's knell; till then all were
Masters of their own time-or in communion,
Or solitary, as they chose to bear
The hours, which how to pass is but to few known.
Each rose up at his own, and had to spare
What time he chose for dress, and broke his fast
When, where, and how, he chose for that repast.
The ladies-some rouged, some a little pale-
Met the morn as they might. If fine, they rode,
Or walk'd: if foul, they read, or told a tale,
Sung, or rehearsed the last dance from abroad;
Discuss'd the fashion which might next prevail,
And settled bonnets, by the newest code,
Or cramm'd twelve sheets into one little letter,
To make each correspondent a new debtor.
For some had absent lovers, all had friends.
The earth has nothing like a she-epistle,
And hardly heaven-because it never ends.
I love the mystery of a female missal,
Which, like a creed, ne'er says all it intends,
But, full of cunning as Ulysses' whistle,
When he allured poor Dolon :-you had better
Take care what you reply to such a letter.
Then there were billiards; cards, too, but no dice :—
Save in the clubs, no man of honour plays ;-
Boats when 'twas water, skating when 'twas ice,
And the hard frost destroy'd the scenting days:
And angling, too, that solitary vice,
Whatever Izaak Walton sings or says:
The quaint, old, cruel, coxcomb, in his gullet
Should have a hook, and a small trout to pull it.
With evening came the banquet and the wine;
The conversazione; the duet,
Attuned by voices more or less divine,
(My heart or head aches with the memory yet)
The four Miss Rawbolds in a glee would shine :
But the two youngest loved more to be set
Down to the harp-because to music's charms
They added graceful necks, white hands and arms.
Sometimes a dance (though rarely on field days,
For then the gentlemen were rather tired),
Display'd some sylph-like figures in its maze :
Then there was small-talk ready when required;
Flirtation-but decorous; the mere praise
Of charms that should or should not be admired.
The hunters fought their fox-hunt o'er again;
And then retreated soberly-at ten.
The politicians, in a nook apart,
Discuss'd the world, and settled all the spheres:
The wits watch'd every loophole for their art,
To introduce a bon-mot, head and ears;
Small is the rest of those who would be smart ;
A moment's good thing may have cost them years,
Before they find an hour to introduce it;
And then, even then, some bore may make them lose it.
But all was gentle and aristocratic,
In this our party; polish'd, smooth, and cold, As Phidian forms cut out of marble Attic.
There now are no Squire Westerns, as of old; And our Sophias are not so emphatic,
But fair as then, or fairer to behold.
We have no accomplish'd blackguards, like Tom Jones, But gentlemen in stays, as stiff as stones.
They separated at an early hour;
That is, ere midnight-which is London's noon :
But, in the country, ladies seek their bower
A little earlier than the waning moon.
Peace to the slumbers of each folded flower-
May the rose call back its true colour soon!
Good hours of fair cheeks are the fairest tinters,
And lower the price of rouge—at least some winters.
IF from great nature's or our own abyss
Of thought, we could but snatch a certainty,
Perhaps mankind might find the path they miss-
But then 'twould spoil much good philosophy.
One system eats another up, and this
Much as old Saturn ate his progeny ;
For when his pious consort gave him stones
In lieu of sons, of these he made no bones.
But System doth reverse the Titan's breakfast,
And eats her parents, albeit the digestion
Is difficult. Pray tell me, can you make fast,
After due search, your faith to any question?
Look back o'er ages, ere unto the stake fast
You bind yourself, and call some mode the best one.
Nothing more true than not to trust your senses;
And yet what are your other evidences?
For me, I know nought: nothing I deny,
Admit, reject, contemn; and what know you, Except, perhaps, that you were born to die? And both may, after all, turn out untrue.
An age may come, Font of Eternity,
When nothing shall be either old or new,
Death, so call'd, is a thing which makes men weep;
And yet a third of life is pass'd in sleep.
A sleep without dreams, after a rough day
Of toil, is what we covet most; and yet
How clay shrinks back from more quiescent clay!
The very suicide that pays his debt
At once without instalments (an old way
Of paying debts, which creditors regret)
Lets out impatiently his rushing breath,
Less from disgust of life than dread of death.
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