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.
XCVI.

But from being farmers we turn gleaners, gleaning The scanty but right well thresh'd ears of truth; And, gentle reader, when you gather meaning,

You may be Boaz, and I-modest Ruth. Further 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.** XCVII.

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
A wait those who have studied their bon-mots!
XCVIII.

Firstly, they must allure the conversation,
By many windings, to their clever clench;
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.
XCIX.

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!-
Since Eve ate apples, much depends on dinner.

C.

Witness the lands which 'flow'd with milk and
Held out unto the hungry Israelites : [honey,'
To this we have added since the love of money,
The only sort of pleasure which requites.
fouth fades, and leaves our days no longer sunny;
We tire of mistresses and parasites;

But oh, ambrosial cash! Ah, who would lose thee?
When we no more can use, or even abuse, thee!

CI.

The gentlemen got up betimes to shoot,

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.
CVI.

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 destroyed 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.*.

The first thing boys like, after play and fruit: The middle-aged, to make the day more short;

CVII.

When 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.

CVIII.

Sometimes a dance (though rarely on field days,
For then the gentleman 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.

'One of the best men I ever knew-as humane, delicate-minded, generous, and excellent a creature as any in the world-was an angler: true, he angled with painted flies, and would have been incapable of the extravagances of I. Walton.'

The above addition was made by a friend in reading over the MS.- Audi alteram partem.' I leave it to counterbalance my own observation.

1.

CIX

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 cars. 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; [lose it. And then, even then, some bore may make them C.X.

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 But gentlemen in stays, as stiff as stones.

CXI.

They separated at an early hour;

[Jones,

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 checks are the fairest tinters. And lower the price of rouge-at least some winters

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.

IV.

A sleep without dreams, after a rough day Of toil, is what we covet most; and yet

How clay shrinks back from more quiescent cly! 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.

V.

'Tis round him, near him, here, there, everywher, And there's a courage which grows out of fea", Perhaps of all most desperate, which will dare

The worst to know it: when the mountains ref Their peaks beneath your human foot, and ther You look down o'er the precipice, and drear The gulf of rocks yawns, you can't gaze a rain Without an awful wish to plunge within it.

VI.

'Tis true, you don't-but, pale and struck with ter
Retire; but look into your past impression
And you will find, though shuddering at the **
Of your own thoughts, in all their self-confesse
The lurking bias, be it truth or error,

To the unknown; a secret prepossession To plunge with all your fears-but where? know not:

And that's the reason why they do—or do not

VII.

But what's this to the purpose? you will say: Gent. reader, nothing; a mere speculati For which my sole excuse is-'tis my way. Sometimes with, and sometimes witho

I write what's uppermost, without delay: This narrative is not meant for narration; But a mere airy and fantastic basis,

To build up common things with common places. VIII.

You know, or don't know, that great Bacon saith, 'Fling up a straw, 'twill show the way the wind blows;'

And such a straw, borne on by human breath,
Is poesy, according as the mind glows;

A paper kite which flies 'twixt life and death;
A shadow which the onward soul behind throws:
And mine's a bubble, not blown up for praise,
But just to play with, as an infant plays.

IX.

The world is all before me-or behind;
For I have seen a portion of that same,
And quite enough for me to keep in mind.

Of passions too I've proved enough to blame,
To the great pleasure of our friends, mankind,
Who like to mix some slight alloy with fame;
For I was rather famous in my time,
Until I fairly knock'd it up with rhyme.

X.

I have brought this world about my ears, and eke
The other that's to say, the clergy-who
Upon my head have bid their thunders break,
In pious libels, by no means a few.
And yet I can't help scribbling once a week,
Tiring old readers, nor discovering new.
In youth I wrote because my mind was full,
And now because I feel it growing dull.

XI.

But why then publish? There are no rewards Of fame or profit, when the world grows weary. I ask, in turn, Why do you play at cards?

Why drink? Why read?-To make some hour less dreary.

It occupies me to turn back regards

On what I've seen or ponder'd, sad or cheery;
And what I write, I cast upon the stream,
To swim or sink-I've had at least my dream.
XII.

I think that, were I certain of success,
I hardly could compose another line;
So long I've battled either more or less,
That no defeat can drive me from the Nine.
This feeling 'tis not easy to express,

And yet 'tis not affected, I opine.

In play, there are two pleasures for your choosing; The one is winning, and the other losing.

XIII.

Besides, my Muse by no means deals in fiction:
She gathers a repertory of facts,

Of course with some reserve and slight restriction,
But mostly sings of human things and acts.
And that's one cause she meets with contradiction,
For too much truth at first sight ne'er attracts;
And were her object only what's called glory,
With more ease too she'd tell a different story.

XIV.

Love. war, a tempest-surely there's variety; Also a seasoning slight of lucubration :

When we have made our love, and gamed our gaming,

Drest, voted, shone, and, maybe, something more; With dandies dined; heard senators declaiming; Seen beauties brought to market by the score, Sad rakes to sadder husbands chastely taming; There's little left but to be bored or bore. Witness those ci-devant jeunes hommes who stem The stream, nor leave the world which leaveth them. XIX.

'Tis said-indeed, a general complaint

That no one has succeeded in describing The monde exactly as they ought to paint :

Some say that authors only snatch, by bribing The porter, some slight scandals strange and quaint, To furnish matter for their moral gibing; [monAnd that their books have but one style in com My lady's prattle, filter'd through her woman. XX.

But this can't well be true just now, for writers

Are grown of the beau monde a part potential: I've seen them balance even the scale with fighters, Especially when young, for that's essential. Why do their sketches fail them as inditers

Of what they deem themselves most consequen. The real portrait of the highest tribe? [tial, 'Tis that, in fact, there's little to describe.

XXL

Hand ignara loquor; these are Nuga, 'quarum Pars parva fui,' but still art and part. Now I could much m re casily sketch a harem, A battle, wreck, or history of the heart,

Than these things; and, besides, I wish to spare
For reasons which I choose to keep apart.
Vetabo Cereris sacrum qui vulgarit-
Which means that vulgar people must not share it.
XXII.

And therefore what I throw off is ideal

Lower'd, leaveu'd, like a history of freemasons; Which bears the same relation to the real,

As Captain Parry's voyage may do to Jason's. The grand arcanum's not for men to see all; My music has some mystic diapasons:

And there is much which could not be appreciated In any manner by the uninitiated.

XXIII.

Alas! worlds fall-and woman, since she fell'd
The world (as, since that history, less polite
Than true, hath been a creed so strictly held),
Has not yet given up the practice quite.
Poor thing of usages! coerced, compell'd,

Victim when wrong, and martyr oft when right,
Condemn'd to child-bed, as men, for their sins,
Have shaving too entailed upon their chins,
XXIV.

A daily plague, which, in the aggregate,
May average, on the whole, the parturition;
But as to women, who can penetrate

The real sufferings of their she condition?
Man's very sympathy with their estate

Has much of selfishness and more suspicion.
Their love, their virtue, beauty, education,
But form good housekeepers, to breed a nation.
XXV.

All this were very well, and can't be better;
But even this is difficult, Heaven knows!
So many troubles from her birth beset her,

Such small distinction between friends and foes,
The gilding wears so soon from off her fetter,
That but ask any woman if she'd choose
(Take her at thirty, that is) to have been
Female or male, a school-boy or a queen.
XXVI.

'Petticoat influence' is a great reproach,

Which even those who obey would fain be thought

To fly from, as from hungry pikes a roach;

But since beneath it, upon earth, we're brought,
By various joltings of life's hackney coach,
I for one venerate a petticoat-

A garment of a mystical sublimity,
No matter whether russet, silk, or dimity.
XXVII.

Much I respect, and much I have adored

In my young days, that chaste and goodly veil, Which holds a treasure like a miser's hoard,

And more attracts by all it doth concealA golden scabbard on a Damasque sword, A loving letter with a mystic seal,

An in-door life is less poetical;

[sleet,

And out-of-door hath showers, and mists, and With which I could not brew a pastoral:

But, be it as it may, a bard must meet
All difficulties, whether great or small,
To spoil his undertaking or complete ;
And work away, like spirit upon matter,
Embarrass'd somewhat both with fire and water.
XXXI.

Juan-in this respect at least like saints-
Was all things unto people of all sorts,

And lived contentedly, without complaints,
In camps, in ships, in cottages, or courts;
Born with that happy soul which seldom faints,
And mingling modestly in toils or sports.
He likewise could be most things to all women,
Without the coxcombry of certain she men,
XXXII.

A fox-hunt to a foreigner is strange :

'Tis also subject to the double danger Of tumbling first, and having, in exchange, Some pleasant jesting at the awkward stranger. But Juan had been early taught to range

The wilds, as doth an Arab turn'd avenger; So that his horse, or charger, hunter, hack, Knew that he had a rider on his back.

XXXIII.

And now in this new field, with some applause, He clear'd hedge, ditch, and double post, and rail,

And never craned, and made but few faux pas, And only fretted when the scent 'gan fail,

Craning. To crane' is, or was, an expression used to denote a gentleman stretching out his neck over a hedge to look before he leaped,-a pause in his 'vaulting ambition' which in the field doth occasion some delay and execration in those who may be immediately behind the equestrian sceptic. Sir, if you don't choose to take the lead, let me,' was a phrase which generally sent the aspirant on again: and to good purpose: for though the horse and rider' might fall, they made a gap, through which and over him and his steed, the field might follow.

He broke, 'tis true, some statutes of the laws
Of hunting-for the sagest youth is frail:
Rode o'er the hounds, it may be, now and then,
And once o'er several country gentlemen.

XXXIV.

But, on the whole, to general admiration

He acquitted both himself and horse: the squires

Marvell'd at merit of another nation;

The boors cried, 'Dang it, who'd have thought it?'-Sires,

The Nestors of the sporting generation,

Swore praises, and recall'd their former fires:
The huntsman's self relented to a grin,
And rated him almost a whipper-in,

XXXV.

Such were his trophies-not of spear and shield, But leaps, and bursts, and sometimes foxes' brushes;

Yet I must own-although in this I yield

To patriot sympathy a Briton's blushes→→ He thought at heart, like courtly Chesterfield,

Who, after a long chase o'er hills, dales, bushes, And what not, though he rode beyond all price, Ask'd, next day, 'if men ever hunted twice,

XXXVI.

He also had a quality uncommon

To early risers after a long chase,

Who wake in winter ere the cock can summon December's drowsy day to his dull race

A quality agreeable to woman,

When her soft, liquid words run on apace, Who likes a listener, whether saint or sinnerHe did not fall asleep just after dinner,

XXXVII.

But, light and airy, stood on the alert,
And shone in the best part of dialogue,
By humouring always what they inight assert,
And listening to the topics most in vogue:
Now grave, now gay, but never dull or pert:

And smiling but in secret-cunning rogue ! He ne'er presumed to make an error clearer : In short, there never was a better hearer,

XXXVIII.

And then he danced-all foreigners excel
The serious Angles in the eloquence
Of pantomime-he danced, I say, right well,
With emphasis, and also with good sense-

A thing in footing indispensable:

He danced without theatrical pretence; Not like a ballet-master in the van

Of his drill'd nymphs, but like a gentleman.

XXXIX.

Chaste were his steps, each kept within due bound
And elegance was sprinkled o'er his figure:
Like swift Camilla, he scarce skimm'd the ground,
And rather held in than put forth his vigour.
And then he had an ear for music's sound,
Which might defy a crotchet critic's rigour:
Such classic pas-sans flaws- set off our hero,
He glanced like a personified Bolero :

XL.

Or like a flying Hour before Aurora,

In Guido's famous fresco, which alone
Is worth a tour to Rome, although no more a
Remnant were there of the old world's sole
throne.

The tout ensemble of his movements wore a
Grace of the soft ideal seldom shown,
And ne'er to be described: for, to the dolour
Of bards and prosers, words are void of colour.
XLI.

No marvel then he was a favourite :

A full-grown Cupid, very much admired;
A little spoilt, but by no means so quite;
At least he kept his vanity retired.
Such was his tact, he could alike delight

The chaste, and those who're not so much inspired:

The Duchess of Fitz-Fulke, who loved tracasserie, Began to treat him with some small agacerie.

XLII.

She was a fine and somewhat full-blown blonde,
Desirable, distinguish'd, celebrated
For several winters in the grand, grande monde.
I'd rather not say what might be related
Of her exploits, for this were ticklish ground;
Besides, there might be falsehood in what's
stated:

Her late performance had been a dead set
At Lord Augustus Fitz-Plantagenet.

XLIII.

This noble personage began to look

A little black upon this new flirtation: But such small licences must lovers brook, Mere freedoms of the female corporation. Woe to the man who ventures a rebuke! "Twill but precipitate a situation Extremely disagreeable, but common To calculators, when they count on woman.

XLIV.

The circle smiled, then whisper'd, and then sneer'd; The misses bridled, and the matrons frown'd: Some hoped things might not turn out as they fear'd;

Some would not deem such women could be found; Some ne'er believed one-half of what they heard; Some look'd perplex'd, and others look'd profound;

And several pitied, with sincere regret,
Poor Lord Augustus Fitz-Plantagenet,

XLV.

But what is odd, none ever named the Duke, Who, one might think, was something in the affair:

True, he was absent, and, 'twas rumour'd, took

But small concern about the when, or where,
Or what his consort did; if he could brook
Her gaieties, none had a right to stare.
Theirs was that best of unions, past all doubt,
Which never meets, and therefore can't fall out.
XLVI.

But oh that I should ever pen so sad a line-
Fired with an abstract love of virtue, she,