Puslapio vaizdai
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But soon, and yet, though soon, too late,
We, sorrowing, sighed to find
A gradual softness enervate

That all superior mind,
Until,-in full assembly met,

He dared to speak of Etiquette.

The verse that we severe had known,
Assumed a wanton air,—

A fond effeminate monotone

Of eyebrows, lips, and hair;

Not ἦθος stirred him now or νοῦς,
He read "The Angel in the House!"

Nay worse. He, once sublime to chaff,

Grew whimsically sore

If we but named a photograph

We found him simpering o'er ;
Or told how in his chambers lurked
A watch-guard intricately worked.

Then worse again. He tried to dress; He trimmed his tragic mane; Announced at length (to our distress) He had not "lived in vain" ;Thenceforth his one prevailing mood Became a base beatitude.

And O Jean Paul, and Fate, and Soul !
We met him last, grown stout,
His throat with wedlock's triple roll,
"All wool,"-enwound about ;

His very hat had changed its brim ;—

Our course was clear,―WE BANISHED HIM!

B

A VIRTUOSO.

E seated, pray.

"A grave appeal "?

The sufferers by the war, of course;
Ah, what a sight for us who feel,—
This monstrous mélodrame of Force!
We, Sir, we connoisseurs, should know,
On whom its heaviest burden falls;
Collections shattered at a blow,

Museums turned to hospitals!

"And worse," you say;

"the wide distress !"

Alas, 'tis true distress exists,

Though, let me add, our worthy Press

Have no mean skill as colourists ;

Speaking of colour, next your seat

There hangs a sketch from Vernet's hand; Some Moscow fancy, incomplete,

Yet not indifferently planned;

Note specially the gray old Guard,
Who tears his tattered coat to wrap
A closer bandage round the scarred
And frozen comrade in his lap ;-

But, as regards the present war,

Now don't you think our pride of pence
Goes-may I say it ?-somewhat far
For objects of benevolence?

You hesitate. For my part, I—
Though ranking Paris next to Rome,
Æsthetically—still reply

That "Charity begins at Home."
The words remind me. Did you catch

My so-named "Hunt"? The girl's a gem ;

And look how those lean rascals snatch
The pile of scraps she brings to them!

"But your appeal 's for home,"-you say,— For home, and English poor! Indeed!

I thought Philanthropy to-day

Was blind to mere domestic need-

However sore-Yet though one grants

That home should have the foremost claims,

At least these Continental wants

Assume intelligible names;

While here with us-Ah! who could hope

To verify the varied pleas,

Or from his private means to cope

With all our shrill necessities !

Impossible! One might as well
Attempt comparison of creeds;
Or fill that huge Malayan shell

With these half-dozen Indian beads.

Moreover, add that every one

So well exalts his pet distress, 'Tis-Give to all, or give to none, If you'd avoid invidiousness.

Your case, I feel, is sad as A.'s,

The same applies to B.'s and C.'s;

By my selection I should raise

An alphabet of rivalries;

And life is short,-I see you look
At yonder dish, a priceless bit;
You'll find it etched in Jacquemart's book,
They say that Raphael painted it ;-
And life is short, you understand;

So, if I only hold you out

An open though an empty hand,

Why, you'll forgive me, I've no doubt.

Nay, do not rise. You seem amused;
One can but be consistent, Sir !
'Twas on these grounds I just refused
Some gushing lady-almoner,——

K

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