PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

"'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,