"'The Humours of the Town!' Archaic phrase,

Breathing of Brummel and the dandy days

Of curly hats and gaiters!

'Humours' seem rarer now, at least by night,

In this strange world of gilt and garish light,

And bibulous wits and waiters."

So I. The Shadow smiled. "There's food for mirth

In every nook of the sun-circling earth

That human foot hath trodden.

Man, the great mime, must move the Momus vein,

Whether he follow fashion or the wain,

In ermine or in hodden.

"A City of Strange Meetings! Motives strong

Why men in well-dressed multitudes should throng,

Abundant are and various.

Strongest, perhaps, the vague desire to meet;

No animal as Man so quick to greet,

So aimlessly gregarious.

"In Council, Caucus, Causerie, there's an aim

Which many know and some might even name;

But see yon motley muster,

Like shades in Eblis wandering up and down!

Types there of every 'Show Class' in the Town

Elbow and glide and cluster."

I see long rooms, en suite, with lofty walls,

And portiÈres sombre as Egyptian palls;

I hear the ceaseless scuffle

Of many trim-shod feet; the thin sweet sound

Of stricken strings which faintly echoes round

Those draperied vistas muffle.

Susurrus of a hundred voices blent

In the bland buzz of cultured chat; intent

Set faces mutely watching

From cushioned corner or from curtained nook;

Hands that about old ears attentive crook,

The latest scandal catching.

Cold rock-hewn countenances, shaven clean,

Hard lips, and eyes alert with strength and spleen;

Visages vain and vapid,

All wreathed with the conventional bland smile

That covers weary scorn or watchful guile,

Shift here in sequence rapid.

"Why is this well-dressed mob thus mustered here?"

I asked my guide. "On every face a sneer

"Curls—when it is not smirking.

Scorn of each other seems the one sole thing

In which they sympathise, the asp whose sting

Midst flowery talk is lurking."

"Friend, mutual mockery, masked as mutual praise,

Is a great social bond in these strange days.

Rochefoucauld here might gather

Material for new maxims keen and cold.

They meet, these convives, if the truth be told,

For boredom and bland blather.

"Royston's Reception,—ah! yes; beastly bore!

But must drop in for half an hour, no more.

The usual cram,—one knows it.

Big pudding with a few peculiar "plums."

Everyone kicks, but everybody comes.

Don't quite know how he does it!'

"So Snaggs, the slangy cynic. See him there

With pouching shirt-front and disordered hair,

Talking to Cramp the sturdy,

Irreverent R. A. And he,—that's Joyce,

The shaggy swart Silenus, with a voice

Much like a hurdy-gurdy.

"You see him everywhere, though none knows why;

Every hand meets his grip, though every eye

Furtively hints abhorrence.

Society's a gridiron; fools to please,

Wise men must sometimes lie as ill at ease

As might a new St. Lawrence."

A buzz, a bustle! How the crowd makes way,

And parts in lines as on some pageant day!

'Tis the Great Man, none other,

"Bland, beaming, bowing quick to left and right;

One hour he'll deign to give from his brief night

To flattery, fuss and pother.

"Though the whole mob does homage, more than half

Behind their hands indulge in sorrel chaff,

And venomous invective.

And he, the hard-faced Cleon with his ring

Of minor satellites? Could glances sting

His were not ineffective!

"Crouched in yon corner, huddled chin to knees,

Like some old lion sore and ill at ease

Left foodless in the jungle,

Sits Grumper, growling oaths beneath his breath

At Cleon, who—to him—sums party-death

And diplomatic bungle.

"'Beshrew him for a——!'" "Grumper's speech is strong;

Flanders and screeds of old satiric song

Blend in his vigorous diction.

Around, in lounging groups or knots apart,

Are lesser lights of thought, small stars of art,

And petty chiefs of fiction.

"Hosts of the nameless, fameless, 'Small Unknown';

Men who can form a 'corner', float a loan,

Wire-pull a local Caucus,

But cannot paint poor pictures, write bad plays,

Or on a platform wildly flame or praise

In rolling tones or raucous.

"These lounge and hover, sip champagne and whiff

Mild cigarettes; these too, in secret sniff

At 'the whole queer caboodle.'

Why do they meet? How shall I say, good friend?

Modern symposiasts seem a curious blend

Of porcupine and poodle.

"'In these Saturnian days Amphitryon spreads

His meshes wide, and counts not brains but heads.

The Tadpoles and the Tapers

Are scorned by the few Titans; true; but aims

Differ; to some 'tis much to see their names

Strung in the morning papers.

"So Private Views are popular, and men

Meet just to prompt the social scribe's smart pen.

Taste too austerely winnows

Town's superflux of chaff from its scant wheat:

Our host prefers to mix, in his Great Meet,

The Tritons and the minnows!"

"With mutual scorn!" I cried. "Has Fashion power

Thus to unhumanise the 'Social Hour,'

Theme of old poets' vaunting?

Gregarious spites and egotisms harsh!—

Foregathering of frog-swarms in a marsh

Yields music as enchanting."