UC-NRLF 
 
 SB 155 3bl 
 
THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 IN MEMORY OF 
 CAROLINE GUSHING DUNIWAY 
 
THE SEASON. 
 
Muse, 
 
 draped discreetly in a skirt and vest, 
 
 "Which just withhold- the secrets they suggest '. 
 
THE SEASON 
 
 A SATIRE. 
 
 BY 
 
 ALFRED AUSTIN. 
 
 WITH FRONTISPIECE OF "THE MODERN MUSE," BY 
 THOMAS GEORGE COOPER. 
 
 Slender. Why do your dogs bark so ? be there bears i' th' Town ? 
 Anne Page. I think there are, Sir ! I heard them talked of. 
 
 Slender. I love the sport well ; . . . but the women have so 
 cried and shrieked at it, that it passed. 
 
 Merry Wives of Windsor. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 ROBERT HARDWICKE, 192, PICCADILLY. 
 1861. 
 

"The diseases of society can, no more than corporal mala- 
 dies, be prevented or cured without being spoken about in plain 
 language." JOHN STUART MILL, "Principles of Political 
 Economy." 
 
 592 
 
THE SEASON. 
 
 I SING the Season. Muse ! whose sway extends 
 Where Hyde begins beyond where Tyburn ends : 
 Muse ! not like vulgar Muses, known and nude, 
 Who look the trollop yet who act the prude, 
 But draped discreetly in a skirt and vest 
 Which just withhold the secrets they suggest : 
 Muse, at whose toilet (sure the sweetest shrine) 
 Rimmel presents his last " pommade divine : " 
 Mistress avowed where'er Man's lofty brain 
 Invents a colour or conceals a stain : 
 Muse, earth-begot ! equipped from hip to heel 
 In loose array of penetrable steel : 
 
8 THE SEASON. 
 
 Fashion yclept ! without whose granted spell 
 
 No critic praises and no verses sell, 
 
 Accept my couplets ; make my strains select, 
 
 Parade each beauty, powder each defect ; 
 
 So that my lines, quick, sparkling as your eyes, 
 
 Storm the Town's Circles with a swift surprise ! 
 
 Why sing the Season ? cautious critics say : 
 Why write a Satire ? only Epics pay. 
 The world grows earnest, and no more endures 
 A dilettante flippant pen like yours. 
 Sing of the Zodiac ! the Creator's Mind ! 
 The past the future Mansions of Mankind ! 
 The secret Spheres of blessedness or woe ! 
 Sing all, sing any save the one you know. 
 Shriek start pant palpitate pause prove to 
 
 men 
 There is some splendid purpose in your pen. 
 
THE SEASON. 9 
 
 Convert your cut-throats, leave your Phrynes 
 
 chaste ; 
 Flaunt moral diamonds (who will know they 're 
 
 paste ?) : 
 
 Compete with Meredith : a discreetly steal 
 Your plot, your apophthegms, and top " Lucile ! " 
 
 11 This clever but somewhat spasmodic young man, who 
 is too modest to write under his patronymic, is, perhaps, too 
 modest likewise to have his own opinions. But if he will 
 not adopt the name, to which he has a right, why does he 
 adopt and dress up again for the public, already tolerably 
 well acquainted with them, the dicta of his father, to 
 which he has none ? If, however, he considers the family 
 novels free warren for him, what excuse can he have for 
 poaching on the plot of " Sword and Gown ?" Has he 
 piscary and turbary over Mr. Lawrence's preserves ? If 
 he have, he has exercised his right unsparingly. 
 
 I would point out to him, that in one serious particular 
 he has overlooked parental admonition. In one of those 
 charming conversations, prefixed to each Book of " My 
 Novel," Pisistratus Caxton combats the idea of his rela- 
 tions, that he can make the personages of his story act 
 and talk just as it pleases him. He urges with admirable 
 force that, once started on a certain path, the author has 
 
10 THE SEASON. 
 
 Spawn bastard spondees spuriously Greek, 
 With modern tawdry drape the grand Antique, 
 Olympus vulgarize with clumsy care 
 Cambridge rewarded Kingsley b with a Chair. 
 
 no control over the destination of his characters. They 
 must be dramatically consistent with themselves. Goethe 
 means the same thing when he says, " A man's history is 
 his character." Had Owen Meredith even a glimpse of this 
 truth, we should have been spared the final tableau of 
 repentance and forgiveness which concludes "Lucile." 
 Really, men and women men certainly are not in the 
 habit of repenting in the ridiculously promiscuous manner 
 attributed to them from, I suppose, some preconceived 
 notions of morality. Why may not a few at least be 
 allowed to remain in ideal histories, as most, who have 
 ever been, remain in real life, wicked to the last ? 
 
 b " Andromeda and other Poems " has attained to the 
 honours of a second edition. Clergymen seem to be 
 privileged. Even had we boys nous autres written and 
 published 
 
 " As long as lips grow ripe to kiss," &c. 
 and 
 
 " Kiss me but once and I go. Then raising her neck 
 like a sea-bird 
 
THE SEASON. 11 
 
 Or write blank verse : it moveth more severe : 
 Moral your metre, if your views be queer ; 
 And hint, from 'neath a philosophic hood, 
 The " Social Evil" 's for the social good. 
 Throw in some politics, some art, and see 
 What are your chances 'gainst " Aurora c Leigh." 
 
 " Peering up over the wave, from the foam- white swells 
 
 of her hosom 
 " Blushing, she kissed him :" 
 
 not even the plea of our " hot youth " and irresponsible 
 position would have saved us from the denunciations of 
 the orthodox : but a " saint in crape " who, if lucky, may 
 become a "saint in lawn," advertises these erotic 
 effusions side by side with " Good News from God,'* 
 and is not only pardoned but applauded, and not only 
 applauded but recompensed. The Chair of Modern His- 
 tory at Cambridge is occupied by this reverend rhymester. 
 
 c Will Mrs. Barrett Browning pardon me for saying 
 that I entertain for her genius great admiration ? She is 
 the only English Poetess who can be justified by Mr. John 
 Stuart Mill's ordeal. In his dissertation on Alfred 
 de Vigny, he says : 
 
 " The gems alone of thought and fancy are worth setting 
 
12 THE SEASON. 
 
 These are the bards ; for these Apollo' s chair, 
 His bays for these, and none but these shall wear. 
 
 Thanks, thanks, my friends ! but all the world 
 
 can give 
 I care to take, is liberty to live. 
 
 with the finished and elaborate workmanship of verse ; 
 and even of them, only those whose effect is heightened 
 by it." 
 
 But its many gems of thought and fancy, and compli- 
 mentary criticisms thereon despite, "Aurora Leigh" is not 
 and no one could make it a Poem. Her " Poems before 
 Congress" have been roughly handled. I will not praise 
 them ; but I will assure her that her opinions, not her 
 versification (both heterodox enough, doubtless), were the 
 front of her offending. She is living in Italy : and so she 
 will perhaps be willing to learn, from one still in England, 
 that silly stanzas have a chance of gaining favour, but 
 heretical politics not even a hearing. Englishmen are 
 not altered since Burke wrote in his "Vindication of 
 Natural Society:" 
 
 " A man is allowed sufficient freedom of thought, pro- 
 vided he knows how to choose his subject properly. You 
 may criticise freely upon the Chinese constitution, and 
 
THE SEASOX. 13 
 
 Frankly : I want nor chaplet, chair, nor crown, 
 But only leave to dawdle through the Town ; 
 Pass where wit flags, delay where it abounds 
 Here, take my arm, and let us go the rounds. 
 
 One word, my comrade ! Let this point be 
 
 clear : 
 
 Know that I never condescend to sneer. 
 He who unwisely, be he man or boy, 
 Begins to scoff, soon ceases to enjoy. 
 See wanton bees their senseless mischief rue : 
 They leave their sting, but oft their bowels too. 
 Who part with these survive but ill the strife : 
 Compassion is a requisite of Life. 
 
 observe with as much severity as you please upon the 
 absurd tricks or destructive bigotry of the Bonzees. But 
 the scene is changed as you come homeward, and atheism 
 or treason may be the name given in Britain to what 
 would be reason and truth, if asserted of China." 
 
14 THE SEASON. 
 
 I am no cynic saturate with spleen, 
 
 Existence eyeing through a film of green, 
 
 To all offensive and whom all offend, 
 
 No surly censor, but a frolic friend. 
 
 Where is the laugh? At him at you at 
 
 me : 
 
 Each meets disaster ; all should share the glee. 
 Fool ! to stand crying o'er your broken delf ! 
 The laugh will lessen if you laugh yourself. 
 I rail at Fashion, prate of Folly, but 
 This sleeve capacious is the newest cut. 
 Say you, when Bolus comes to cure your 
 
 sneeze, 
 
 " Physician ! look you at your own disease ? " 
 Bennett's my Gibus, Houbigant's my glove 
 Yet, let me lash the follies that I love. 
 A scourge so silken need evoke no spleen ; 
 We laugh the more, unless the joke be seen. 
 
THE SEASON. 15 
 
 Returning shadows now divide the street : 
 Free now the Mall from all but Party heat : 
 Gone the broad glare, save where with borrowed 
 
 bays 
 Some female Phaeton sets the Drive a- 
 
 blaze ; 
 
 Or, more defiant, spurning frown and foe, 
 With slackened rein swift Skittles d rules the 
 
 Row. 
 
 Though scowling matrons champing steeds re- 
 strain, 
 She flaunts Propriety with flapping mane. 
 
 A Social celebrity travels slowly. Hence, fair readers 
 who reside wholly in the Provinces may be puzzled by 
 this passage ; but to their Sisters of the Season, Skittles is 
 as well known and as much an object of interest as the 
 last shape of Madame Elise ; and the skill with which 
 in talk & deux they manoeuvre the conversation into 
 speculations upon her origin, abode, and doings, fully sup- 
 ports their reputation for tact. 
 
16 THE SEASOX. 
 
 Dear fledgeling damsels ! come from country 
 
 nest 
 
 To nibble, chirp, and flutter in the West, 
 Whose clear fresh faces, with their fickle frown 
 And favour, start like Spring upon the Town : 
 Less dear, for damaged, damsels ! doomed to 
 
 wait, 
 
 Whose third fourth ? season makes half des- 
 perate, 
 
 Welling with warmth, less potent hour by hour 
 (As magnets heated lose attractive power) : 
 Or you ! nor dear nor damsels, tough and 
 
 tart, 
 
 Unmarketable maidens of the mart, 
 Who, plumpness gone, fine delicacy feint, 
 And hide your sins in piety and paint ; 
 Or, changing tactics, propped-up bosoms bare 
 To catch some boyish buyer unaware : 
 
THE SEASON. ^ 17 
 
 Answer me, all ! belle, heiress, flirt, and prue ! e 
 Who has our notice ? Skittles more or you ? 
 " The nasty wretch ! regard her saucy leer !" 
 Well, own her conquest, and Fll own it queer. 
 
 Withal, not queer. . . I am, I must insist, 
 A most uncompromising moralist. 
 Wit, frankness, beauty, natural quests of Man, 
 Provoke his instincts since the world began : 
 His fine keen scent, evading social skill 
 To hedge him out, is sure to trespass still. 
 
 e A friendly critic (but are not all critics friendly ?) 
 asks me what I mean by " prue : " and on my answering 
 " prude," tells me (truly enough) that he has been reading 
 English ever since he was seventeen, and that he has 
 never come across the word. Many (improvements, as I 
 think, but at any rate) alterations have been made at his 
 generous and enlightened suggestion : but I hold by 
 " prue," and appeal to the women and Ben Jonson. (Who 
 will tell me exactly where?) 
 
18 THE SEASON. 
 
 
 
 No barn-door game, by fluttering mothers reared, 
 Cooped up from dangers genuine or feared, 
 Whose wings are clipped to fortify control, 
 Afford the sport that satisfies the soul. 
 Is it a marvel, Man's more liberal mood 
 Should beat the wilds where Nature rears her brood, 
 Along forbidden border forests roam, 
 Seeking the breeze he cannot find at home ? 
 Go, girls ! to Church ! believing all you hear, 
 Think that their lack of virtue makes them dear ; 
 And heed not me who say that ban and bar 
 Make you the stupid stunted things you are ; 
 That both would dearer, happier, better be, 
 Had they your virtue, you their liberty. 
 But since restraint is privilege from blame, 
 And loss of fetters is a loss of fame, 
 Preferring freedom, these forego respect ; 
 Repute your choice, you smart beneath neglect. 
 
THE SEASON. 19 
 
 Alternative ordained by Moral Plan 
 To sulk, a doll, or smile, a courtesan ! 
 
 Incongruous group, they come : the judge's 
 
 hack 
 
 With knees as broken as its rider's back : 
 The counsel's courser stumbling through the 
 
 throng 
 
 With wind e'en shorter than its lord's is long : 
 The statesman's versatile but cautious cob, 
 That, like its master, sometimes stoops to job : 
 The foreign Marquis's accomplished colt 
 Sharing its owner's tendency to bolt : 
 The nay enough ; let Cowper's f care attest 
 
 The worth and vast importance of the rest. 
 
 f Henry Cowper, First Commissioner of Public Works. 
 B 2 
 
20 THE SEASON. 
 
 Rise, Britons ! rise ! ye patriot vestries ! call 
 
 For monster meetings in St. Martin's Hall ! 
 
 James, to the rescue ! Shall the Board of 
 Works 
 
 Treat sons of Hampden like Malays or Turks ? 
 
 Pym ! Magna Charta ! Bill of Eights ! Bow- 
 wow ! 
 
 You won our liberties : preserve them now ! 
 
 Heavens ! what a hubbub doth the Town divide ! 
 
 A Revolution ? no, a lengthened Ride. 
 
 Oh, spare the spot where timid maidens hie 
 A string to loosen or a swain to tie, 
 And, favoured by the shy secretive shade, 
 Prompt the proposal dalliance delayed : 
 Where tear- dewed lids, choked utterance, sobs 
 
 suppressed, 
 Coax the confession from a dawdler's breast ; 
 
THE SEASON. 21 
 
 Whence they, who vainly haunted rout and ride, 
 Emerge triumphant by a Suitor's side. 
 
 Come, let us back, and whilst the Park 's alive, 
 Lean o'er the railings and inspect the Drive. 
 Look ! as we turn, most loved of all her Line, 
 If not by Right, by deeds at least divine, 
 By Nature's self equipped for kind command, 
 Onward she comes, the Lady of the Land ! 
 Long may each zone its wealth profusely pour 
 Upon her laplike, peace-protected shore ! 
 Long may the strain come swelling from the 
 
 ships, 
 
 Which keeps Victoria on a Nation's lips ! 
 Long, long in thousand eyes that smile be 
 
 seen 
 Which thinks her woman, though it hails her 
 
 Queen : 
 
22 THE SEASON. 
 
 Queen, wife, or mother, perfect in each part, 
 And throned securely in a People's heart ! 
 
 Still sweeps the long procession, whose array 
 Gives to the lounger's gaze, as dips the Day, 
 Its rich reclining and reposeful forms/ 
 Still as bright sunsets after mists or storms, 
 Who sit and smile, (their morning wranglings 
 
 o'er, 
 
 Or dragged and dawdled through one dull day 
 more,) 
 
 * An intelligent Peruvian, whom I once took into 
 Hyde Park, expressed himself much shocked at the 
 indolent attitudes of our maids and matrons sans 
 reproche : yet he was a descendant of the very people 
 whose shameless customs Locke, in his " Essay on the 
 Human Understanding," quoting from Garcilaso de la 
 Vega, adduces, in order to prove that there are " no innate 
 practical principles." The indignant criticism of the 
 descendant of the Tououpinamoos would seem to fortify 
 Locke's theory, though by a retaliatory instance. 
 
THE SEASON. 23 
 
 As though the life of widow, wife, and girl 
 
 Were one long lapsing and voluptuous whirl. 
 
 O poor pretence ! what eyes so blind but see 
 
 The sad, however elegant, ennui ? 
 
 Think you that blazoned panel, prancing pair, 
 
 Befool our vision to the weight they bear ! 
 
 The richest ribbon, best-lined parasol, 
 
 Screen not the woman, though they deck the doll. 
 
 The padded corsage and the well-matched hair, 
 
 Judicious jupon spreading out the spare, 
 
 Sleeves well designed false plumpness to impart, 
 
 Leave vacant still the hollows of the heart. 
 
 Is not our Lesbia lovely ? In her soul, 
 
 Lesbia is troubled : Lesbia hath a mole : 
 
 And all the splendour of that matchless neck 
 
 Consoles not Lesbia for its single speck. 
 
 Kate comes from Paris, and a wardrobe brings, 
 
 To which poor Edith's are " such common things." 
 
24 THE SEASON. 
 
 Her pet lace shawl has grown not fit to wear, 
 And ruined Edith dresses in despair. 
 
 I fear there are who think my satire blind 
 To all defects except the softer kind. 
 Says saucy Maud : " You leave the men alone : 
 Is it because their meanness is your own ? " 
 Perhaps. But tell me : will you drop a hint 
 About your sisters I may seize and print ? 
 Would you to me the mysteries disclose 
 Of Sophie's boudoir, diary of Rose, 
 Or ha ! you start ! your own arcana tell, 
 Gods ! how my verses would surprise and sell ! 
 But no : whilst men alarmedly declare 
 " He hits too hard it really is not fair " 
 You, they think hit, are laughing in your sleeves : 
 " He thinks he knows." Well honour among 
 thieves. 
 
THE SEASON. 25 
 
 . 
 
 So, though I own that even men have specks, 
 Like you, I spare the secrets of my sex. 
 And then, who sees our eyes not thus de- 
 signed 
 
 His own base parts of body or of mind ? 
 Though, chance, 'twere well if all, however loth, 
 Caught now and then a passing glimpse of both. 
 Still, by severe induction may we guess, 
 If yours are great, our faults will scarce be less. 
 
 Besides : as Sex, h in embryotic state, 
 Is always female till a certain date, 
 
 h This is a fact which the investigations of recent 
 embryologists have made sufficiently certain. In the 
 method of producing males, or sterile females, from the 
 larvae of bees, may be recognized an analogous if not an 
 exactly similar occurrence. For a short but intelligible 
 account, the reader may consult that popular work, the 
 " Vestiges of Creation." 
 
26 THE SEASON. 
 
 So are our manly virtues,, be assured, 
 But female vices only more matured ; 
 And just as they, who, armed with lens and knife, 
 Seek in our frames the principle of life, 
 Find that the foetus best assists their aim, 
 So have / found my method is the same. 
 We best shall learn from foetal forms ; besides, 
 'Gainst forms developed Decency decides. 
 Our Figleaf Age shrinks, cognizant of blame, 
 From honest Manhood with a sickly shame ; 
 Though the whole difference moralists admire 
 Is Men but do what women all desire. 
 
 You doubt it ? Why, this moment, see a sign. 
 All go : but these to dress, whilst those to dine. 
 Divergence, think you ? Be not duped : their 
 
 aim, 
 In seeming diverse, is in substance same. 
 
THE SEASON. 27 
 
 They each require and ply their sensual sport; 
 The one for praise, the others hunt for port. 
 And all must own that neither act their best 
 Till the half-drunk lean over the half-dressed. 
 
 O blessed moment ! . . . Critics ! duns ! 
 
 and Fate ! 
 
 Do do your hardest but I dine ' at eight. 
 My thoughts are stolen ? and my lines are halt ? 
 Well, very likely : please to pass the salt. 
 Jones won't accept your bills : he funks the 
 
 risk. 
 
 Does he ? By Heavens ! potage b, la bisque ! 
 You recollect what Titus used to say ? 
 Did Titus dine ? he could not lose a day. 
 
 1 Qu'on me meprise, pourvu que je dine ! was the excla- 
 mation of one (which?) of the revolutionary sensualists of 
 A.D. 1789. 
 
28 THE SEASON. 
 
 dear old boy ! you ransack all the Rhine 
 
 To line your bins, then make their contents 
 
 mine. 
 
 Who would be rich, so long as he is young 
 And boasts a generous but temperate tongue ? 
 
 1 bring my hat, my anecdote, my laugh, 
 And need but kindly criticise and quaff, 
 Plutus repays my frequent presence here 
 With grasp unchanging, ever-changing cheer. 
 Long may the Gods preserve my palate clean 
 To do due justice to his deft cuisine I 
 
 And, O kind, compensating Time ! increase 
 My Banker's Balance as my youth you fleece ; 
 So that, a seasonable change at most, 
 The slender guest may smile the portly host. 
 And when, dear boys ! Life's Vintage slightly 
 
 sours, 
 With taste discreet and temper wholly ours, 
 
THE SEASON. 29 
 
 Not even Death is able to deprave, 
 
 Invert the wine-cup o'er a gourmet's grave ! 
 
 Why, Life itself a dinner is indeed, 
 Where each contributes so that all may feed. 
 We all give something : some give more, some 
 
 less; 
 
 None are excluded from the social mess : 
 And he who finds the bread or beverage sour, 
 Should send us better or should cease to lour. 
 I hate your churls who strut, and sulk, and 
 
 swear 
 
 Go where they will they ever foully fare. 
 Believe me, friend ! you '11 always find that such 
 Provide but little who exact so much. 
 Your true cosmopolite, Life's well-bred guest, 
 Scorns not plain dishes, though he serves the 
 
 best; 
 
30 THE SEASON. 
 
 And should there hap disaster, even dearth, 
 Mends the misfortune or the want with mirth. 
 Does not, when some rude grumbler mars the 
 
 rout, 
 
 Instinctive justice mutter " Turn him out " ? 
 Would we were rid of all whose gall deflowers 
 Their own existence and would poison ours ! 
 
 But the clock strikes : the carriage waits : be 
 
 trite. 
 
 Pocchini dances, Titiens sings, to-night. 
 Sure, you mistake ? For Lumley k promise 
 
 made 
 Of voice not heard, limbs never yet displayed. 
 
 k An anachronism, surely ? Ah ! I know too well that 
 we are under bondage to Smith, E. T. No more wax 
 candles and 1,500 worth of plate on " Her Majesty's " 
 stage, as in the golden gone-away days of Lumley the 
 
THE SEASON. 31 
 
 Better and better : sharp 's the word. The 
 
 tier? 
 
 The first, of course the best for eye and ear. 
 Gods ! what a show ! Right, left, the House is 
 
 crammed : 
 Our new danseuse won't, here at least, be 
 
 damned. 
 
 What is this living, passion -prompting zone 
 But Venus' Caestus once again our own ? 
 Who prates of rainbows ? By this iris bold 
 Prismatic hues were colourless and cold. 
 
 Magnificent. But I introduce his name for auld lang 
 syne's sake. Woe is all of us ! Who remembers who 
 can forget ? last year's representation of Oberon ? Bat- 
 tered, bare-legged ballet-girls, and blue fire, composed the 
 framework of Weber's imaginative opera. Why cannot 
 Mr. E. T. Smith transfer his energies from Theatres to 
 Parliament ? Judging from his scenic successes, I should 
 surmise that no one would so fitly represent the intelli- 
 gence of a Metropolitan Borough. 
 
32 THE SEASON. 
 
 Above, around, below, are houris' eyes, 
 
 Flashing with quick, intelligent surprise, 
 
 And houris' blushes rapidly respond 
 
 To murmurous whispers deftly- dropped and 
 
 fond, 
 
 Spread from the temples, eddy to the neck, 
 Break on the breast, and, turning at the check, 
 In ripples weaker rally from restraint, 
 Creep up the cheek and on the features faint. 
 Their rounded, pliant, silent-straying arms 
 Seem sent to guard, yet manifest their charms. 
 Mark how the lorgnettes cautiously they raise 
 Lest points, no pose so thoughtless but displays, 
 A too quick curiosity should hide 
 For they who gaze must gazed at be beside. 1 
 
 1 " On voit une foule de petites mains, les unes prendre, 
 les autres demander leur lorgnettes, lesquelles montent 
 
THE SEASON. 33 
 
 Now, o'er the box their beauteous busts they bend, 
 A foe to welcome, criticise a friend, 
 Unfolding or obscuring charms at will 
 With all the calm unconsciousness of skill, 
 Solving the doubt that sometimes will arise 
 Whilst women wantons are, can men be wise ? 
 Let your eyes stray from sensuous row to row 
 Of nude parade, and flash an honest no ! 
 
 a la hauteur des yeux sans que le bras oublie la pose qu'il 
 doit avoir pour etre gracieux ; car tandis qu'on lorgne 
 on pent etre lorgnee, et il ne faut pas se laisser sur- 
 prendre." 
 
 I trust that all will appreciate my generosity, in point- 
 ing out what will doubtless now be called the source of 
 my lines though it certainly was not as the extract is 
 from " La Dame aux Perles," by Monsieur Alexandre 
 Dumas, fils ; a book which honest folks would never 
 think of reading, since it would probably be condemned 
 to the purgatory (or hell, perhaps?) of Literature, 
 designated by the National Review as " The Lowest Deep." 
 Has the National Reviewer any idea that there is in 
 Literature "than this lowest deep a lower deep?" and 
 lias he any suspicion what it is ? 
 
34 THE SEASON. 
 
 What can be Man's, whilst Woman deems her 
 
 part 
 To bare her bosom, but to hide her heart ? 
 
 Hush ! pretty prattlers ! Waving arms apart, 
 jEolus frees the fettered winds of Art. 
 Be dumb, ye dawdlers ! whilst his spells con- 
 found" 1 
 
 The gathered scattered symphonies of sound. 
 Cymbals barbaric clang; cowed flutes complain 
 As the sharp, cruel clarion cleaves the strain : 
 To drum deaf-bowelled, drowning sob and wail, 
 Scared viols shriek, that pity may prevail ; 
 Till, with tumultuous purpose, swift and strong, 
 Sweeps the harmonious hurricane of Song ! 
 
 m For the benefit of literal people, I annex the primary 
 meaning of Confundere ; viz., to unite, mingle, combine. 
 " Riddle's Lat.-Eng. Dictionary." 
 
THE SEASON. 35 
 
 The curtain lifts. Behold the "Lost One" n 
 
 lain 
 
 'Mid all the woes of suitors and champagne : 
 Of the whole crowd the cynosure and queen, 
 The best-dressed woman in this sumptuous scene. 
 Wit beauty bearing graciousness restraint, 
 Gifts few possess and none can wholly feint ; 
 Not wife, yet woman hurt, but not debased 
 If vain, unselfish modest, if not chaste ; 
 Wealth, worship, fashion, prostrate at her feet, 
 Yet fled with Alfred to profound retreat 
 For him the World abandoned quite, again 
 For him endured the pantomime of men 
 
 11 The story of "La Traviata" is too well known to 
 require further reference than what is made to it in the 
 Text. That the reference therein is faithful, may be tested 
 by a glance at the Argument prefixed to the English 
 version of the libretto, which epitomises the Lost One's 
 history. 
 
 c 2 
 
36 THE SEASON. 
 
 Her life's one chance, one yearning, straight fore- 
 gone,, 
 
 To save the father, sister, in the son 
 Wronged, as can wrong alone a lover's skill, 
 For her fidelity, yet faithful still 
 Doomed by disease which modifies, not mars, 
 Dying like light in some transparent vase 
 At last in Alfred's penitent embrace, 
 Held to his heart and fondled to his face 
 Clinging to life, but with untroubled tone 
 Claiming the Heaven of Virgins for her own 
 Is not this, nothing heightened, nothing glozed, 
 The vocal Drama but this instant closed ? 
 
 In the last scene, Violetta, made acquainted with her 
 certain fate, exclaims in agony : " Great God ! to die so 
 young ! " But, submitting to the inevitable, she gives 
 Alfred a portrait of herself, for the benefit of some future 
 wife, whom he is to tell " that she who gave it thee, 'midst 
 the Saints in Heaven, prays for her and thee." 
 
THE SEASON. 37 
 
 Hark ! how fresh plaudits plaudits fresh repeat, 
 And purest posies kiss the " Lost One's " 
 feet! 
 
 Do I complain our maidens should acquire 
 Her story ? Ah ! I nought could more desire 
 Than they should know, and, knowing, would 
 
 reclaim 
 At once their sex, their sisters, and their 
 
 shame. 
 
 But by what moral or dramatic laws 
 Bare you the consequence, but veil the cause ? 
 Vicious results prompt vice, beheld alone : 
 Let all be hidden or let all be known. 
 The henbane's flower poisons whom it lures ; 
 Pluck you but deeper, 'tis the root that cures. 
 Whom noble still in infamy we saw, 
 In frailty faithful, fair despite her flaw, 
 
38 THE SEASON. 
 
 Why was this woman with the world at 
 
 strife,. 
 
 Nor maid revered, nor consecrated wife ? 
 Why the song silent on the only part 
 Of her career that might instruct the heart, 
 But that the story of her early years 
 Were sure to stir (beyond those surface tears 
 Which straightway dry beneath to-morrow's 
 
 drought) 
 
 A fertile pity and an active thought ? 
 And thus the partial Drama you applaud 
 Is a mere flaunting falsity and fraud. 
 What is the spell that 'twixt a saint and sinner 
 The difference makes ? a sermon? bah! a dinner. 
 The odds and ends our silken Claras waste 
 Would keep our calico Clarissas chaste. 
 Celia ! the lace from off your parasol 
 Had held Celinda's sunburnt virtue whole : 
 
THE SEASON. 39 
 
 A hundred pounds would coy have made the 
 
 nude, 
 
 A thousand pounds the prostitute a prude, 
 And little more expenditure of pelf 
 Fanny a bigot bitter as yourself! 
 
 Hence ! surpliced sophists ! who with fasts and 
 
 cries 
 
 Would fain compel Omniscience to be wise ! 
 What if, instead of craving drought or rain, 
 You built a reservoir or delved a drain ? 
 Instead of prayers and platitudes demure, 
 Diffused the wealth that keeps peers' daughters 
 
 pure? 
 With scorn the stalwart pauper's prayers you 
 
 spurn, 
 Yet whine to God for wage yourselves might 
 
 earn. 
 
40 THE SEASON. 
 
 There is nor tempest, torrent, drouth, nor 
 
 wind, 
 
 Which is not big with blessings to mankind ; 
 And each fomenting passion in the breast 
 Might add to life a sparkle and a zest : 
 Yet those you let devastate and deflower, 
 And these but make existence flat and sour ! 
 Blaspheming fools ! with shrieks the skies you 
 
 rend 
 
 Against the very benefits they send ; 
 And howl to God, Who meant you for 
 
 divine, 
 
 For grace to sink your species into swine ! 
 This earth is man's : not God's, except as 
 
 man's : 
 
 And man's the action in it that He plans. 
 True to his scheme, He never intervenes : 
 The end being human, human are the means. 
 
THE SEASON. 41 
 
 What is man's end ? To know and to be free. p 
 Think you to compass it by tracts and tea ? 
 Labour q is prayer the only prayer that serves 
 And all beside it but disordered nerves. 
 Your God, you point to, paused not till He could 
 Feel His work done, and see that it was good. 
 Then did He rest. Your work done, so may 
 
 you : 
 
 But "days of rest/' whilst work remains to do ! 
 The hungry feed : dismiss the thirsty slaked : 
 Take you the stranger in, and clothe the naked : 
 Visit the sick, the prison-house, the slum ; 
 And then, " ye blessed of my Father, come ! " r 
 
 p " You shall know the truth, and the truth shall make 
 you free." St. Paul. 
 
 q Qui laborat, orat : is one of the oldest aphorisms of 
 the Catholic Church. 
 
 r " Then shall the King say to them that shall be on his 
 
42 THE SEASON. 
 
 Oh ! when shall Toil assert its proper price, 
 At once prayer, fasting, alms, and sacrifice ? 
 And Men the workers proffer, as they plod, 
 A jubilation and a hymn to God ? 
 
 Truce to this moral thunder : for advance 
 Fleet-footed laurelled Daphnes s of the Dance. 
 What first but vaguely Opera designs, 
 The Ballet next developes and defines : 
 The sentimental to the sensuous grows, 
 And pointless trilling into pointed toes. 
 
 right hand : Come, ye blessed of my Father, possess the 
 kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the 
 world. 
 
 " For I was hungry, and you gave me to eat : I was 
 thirsty, and you gave me to drink : I was a stranger, and 
 you took me in. 
 
 " Naked, and you clothed me : sick, and you visited 
 me : I was in prison, and you came unto me." Matt. xxv. 
 3436. 
 
 * Daphne, a maiden loved and pursued by Apollo ; and 
 
THE SEASON. 43 
 
 Now wake the fathers who securely slept 
 Whilst Alfred wooed and Violetta wept, 
 Rub up their spectacles and strain their gaze 
 At bounding Zina dressed in shoes and 
 
 stays : 
 
 Now love-struck boys transfer their fickle eyes 
 From Mary's trinkets to Morlacchi's thighs ; 
 Whilst mothers, sisters, sweethearts, wives, ap- 
 plaud 
 
 The tight proportions of a twirling bawd. 
 Must we then stop it ? no : unleash the Town 
 To hunt a Nicholson or Warton down ; t 
 
 when overtaken by the erotic Song-god, tantalisingly 
 transformed into a laurel. The legend does not say if it 
 was a prickly one ; but we may presume it was. 
 
 * Nicholson . . . Warton. Caterers for the taste of what 
 my hair-dresser calls "the lower orders of people what 
 exist." The owners of Walhallas, Rainbow Nymphs, 
 Days of Rhodes Revived, &c. 
 
44 THE SEASON. 
 
 The scent will take, the Cider Cellars close, 
 And Haddo, u hoodwinked, not insist on hose. 
 Thus, with the prudent chastity of clique, 
 Protect the Ballet 'gainst the Poses Plastiques. 
 
 Whilst we, surveying this decorous stage, 
 Admire the pastimes of a modest age, 
 An errant curiosity inquires 
 Whither the Drama, England's boast, retires. 
 Let bounding profligates their limbs display 
 Where "further off" x chaste Hermia's lover "lay." 
 
 v Lord Haddo, now Earl of Aberdeen, has made violent 
 efforts in the House of Commons to put a stop to the use 
 of nude models in Schools of Art. I hope that I do not 
 wrong his lordship in concluding that he extends his moral 
 indignation to the nude, when exhibited before a larger 
 and more public assemblage. 
 
 x SCENE-T .4 wood near Athens. 
 
 Hermia. But, gentle friend, for love and courtesy 
 LIE FURTHER OFF ; in human modesty 
 
THE SEASON. 
 
 Let figurante trip where Siddoris stepped, 
 And jugglers y grin where once Macready wept; 
 Yet High Art surely somewhere makes a stand. 
 Somewhere ! Well, where ? in Wych Street or 
 
 the Strand ? 
 
 Is it where saucy Wilton 2 winks her way, 
 And says the more the less she has to say ? 
 
 Such separation, as may well be said 
 Becomes a virtuous bachelor and a maid, 
 So far be distant ; and good night, sweet friend ; 
 Thy love ne'er alter till thy sweet life end. 
 
 Lysander. Amen, amen, to that fair prayer, say I ; 
 And then end life, when I end loyalty. 
 
 (They sleep.) 
 Midsummer's Night's Dream. 
 
 ' By " Jugglers," I do not refer to the Administrative 
 Reformers, who also performed at Drury Lane Theatre, 
 but to the Chinese ditto, who delighted crowded houses 
 by innocuously flinging knives at each others' heads. 
 
 z Miss Marie Wilton is every way charming, and can 
 act only in those parts which are written for her ; and it is 
 no fault but rather talent of hers, that she creates a 
 
46 THE SEASON. 
 
 Is it where Robson/ servile to the Town, 
 Discards the Actor and adopts the Clown ? 
 Where Toole or Compton, perfect in his part, 
 Touches each sense except the head and heart ? 
 Where mobs " recal ;J the wit of Rogers' wig, 
 Applaud a pun and recompense a jig ? 
 Seek where you will, you still will fail to find 
 More than a grinning, mountebank mankind. 
 Conscious of paltry purpose or of none, 
 No pride in winning, peace in having won ; 
 Craving a respite from pursuit of pelf, 
 Our age in shows seeks shelter from itself. b 
 
 more lively sensation when she is not speaking than when 
 she is. 
 
 a The great the only tragic actor we have : who, as 
 Mazeppa, lies in tights on a bare-backed steed stuffed with 
 straw, and requests a hungry vulture of the same material 
 to " keep up his pecker." 
 
 b II faut des spectacles dans les grandes villes, et des 
 romans aux peuples corrompus. -Jean Jacques Rousseau. 
 

 THE SEASON. 47 
 
 It strains at mirth, but like abandoned Boy 
 
 Debauched by sports that shatter whom they cloy, 
 
 Has lost its healthy appetite for joy : 
 
 And yet too slothful to arise and scan 
 
 The splendid toils allotted to the Man, 
 
 Toys with remorse, and as it supine lies, 
 
 " O give me back my youth ! " unblushing cries. 
 
 Put out the lights : rub off the paint : the Play, 
 Sir, is performed ; your carriage stops the way. 
 Well then, good night : the morn will soon be up : 
 You go to slumber ? No ! I go to sup. 
 Bah ! I forgot. First Hansom ! double fare ! 
 Drive fast as Fate to 50, Belgrave Square. 
 
 c One of my (I have many) literal friends comes and asks 
 me, " Why 50, Belgrave Square?" And when I answer, 
 " Because there are only forty-nine numbers," he goes 
 away, offended at my rudeness. 
 
48 THE SEASON. 
 
 Botanic Shows, where crowds and tactics 
 
 tear 
 
 Too yielding daughters from a mother's chair : 
 Water excursions, when full boats divide 
 Some pretty novice from a sister's side ; 
 Or garden-fetes, when, after absence spent 
 The whole time, really, in the public tent 
 An anxious niece a careless aunt pursues, 
 Conscious of wrong, so ready to accuse : 
 To these be honour; but the Ball the Ball 
 Combines, continues, and excels them all. 
 Here, with complacency, strict matrons see 
 Maids and Moss-troopers d polking, knee to knee. 
 Their kindly gaze examines and exalts 
 The closer contact of the chaster waltz. 
 
 d " Free Lances" is a recognized pseudonym. Surely, 
 <; Moss-troopers" rings more like home coinage. 
 
THE SEASON. 49 
 
 Look where they smile, the grey-haired guardians 
 
 set 
 
 To scout decorum, sanction etiquette. 6 
 Louder, ye viols ! shrilly, cornets ! blow ! 
 Who is this prophet that denounces woe ? 
 
 e I find by my " Spectator," that matters were not 
 much better a hundred and fifty years ago ; for on the 
 17th day of May, A.D. 1711, the following complaint is 
 laid before him by one who says that he " is not yet old 
 enough to be a fool." 
 
 " I was amazed to see my girl handled by and handling 
 young fellows with so much familiarity ; and I could not 
 have thought it had been in the child. They very often 
 made use of a most impudent and lascivious step, called 
 * setting,' which I know not how to describe to you, but by 
 telling you that it is the very reverse of ' back to back.' 
 At last an impudent young dog bid the fiddlers play a dance 
 called f Moll Pately,' and after having made two or three 
 capers, ran to his partner, locked his arms in hers, and 
 whisked her round cleverly above ground in such a 
 manner, that I, who sat upon one of the lowest benches, 
 saw further above her shoe than I could think fit to 
 acquaint you with. I could no longer endure these enor- 
 mities ; wherefore, just as my girl was going to be made a 
 whirligig, I ran in, seized on the child, and carried her 
 home." 
 
50 THE SEASON. 
 
 > 
 
 Whirl fast ! whirl long ! ye gallants and ye 
 girls ! 
 
 Cling closer still; dance down these cursed 
 churls. 
 
 Be crowned, ye fair ! with poppies, newly- 
 blown, 
 
 Fling loose your tresses, and relax your zone ! 
 
 From floating gauze let dreamy perfumes rise, 
 
 Infuse a fiercer fervour in your eyes ! 
 
 Whirl faster, closer, until passion's drouth 
 
 Play in the tell-tale muscles of the mouth, 
 
 The furious Circle bid a truce to masks, 
 
 And Nature answer all that Nature asks ! 
 
 Bless us and save us ! What tirade is this ? 
 My choleric friend ! is anything amiss ? 
 This scene, your anti-sensual strictures doom, 
 Is not an Orgy, but an auction-room. 
 
THE SEASON. 51 
 
 These panting damsels, dancing for their lives, 
 
 Are only maidens waltzing into wives. 
 
 Those smiling matrons are appraisers sly 
 
 Who regulate the dance, the squeeze, the 
 
 sigh, 
 
 And each base cheapening buyer having chid, 
 Knock down their daughters to the noblest bid. 
 
 An honest time there was, when girl and 
 
 boy 
 
 Might love and yet not jeopardise their joy : 
 When, in faint laughs were fainter whispers 
 
 drowned, 
 
 Yet was no ill suspected in the sound. 
 'Chance, did they stray to sit and smile apart, 
 No frowns arraigned their vagrancy of heart : 
 Unfettered but unforced, instinctive Youth 
 Erred into right, and trembled into truth. 
 D 2 
 
52 THE SEASON. 
 
 No jealous frames, no artificial fires, 
 
 Stunted their growth, but hurried their desires. 
 
 Their graceful fondness gradually grew, 
 
 By drouth of absence, by reunion's dew ; 
 
 Cheered by the sun, or saddened by the 
 
 shower, 
 
 On each it throve, and fretted into flower. 
 Not e'en a parent prematurely pressed 
 The yet young secret from a basking breast ; 
 Ripened by outer warmth, by inner sap, 
 It fell, spontaneous, in a mother's lap. 
 " You do not blame us, mother ? will not 
 
 part? 
 
 'Tis not to-day I give him up my heart : 
 He stepped across its threshold long before, 
 And is its household god for evermore." 
 Could he scarce yet sustain a husband's charge, 
 (His fortune narrow, though his love was large) 
 
THE SEASON. 53 
 
 He was not exiled by a venal Fate : 
 
 A boy might work, a maiden sure might wait. 
 
 Love mingled with the grave concerns of Life, 
 
 Tempered the toil and sanctified the strife : 
 
 No danger difficult, no hardship hard, 
 
 Risked for the promise of that rich reward. 
 
 It made his dullest drudgery divine, 
 
 That brave resolve, " my darling shall be mine ! " 
 
 While she could feel she helped him in his part, 
 
 Strengthened his purpose, purified his heart. 
 
 Till, aims accomplished, youth's brisk battle 
 
 won, 
 They rushed together, mystic Two-in-Qne. 
 
 How is it now ? Morality's advance 
 Demands for Love the strictest surveillance. 
 We banish with the glare of vulgar eyes 
 The lights and shadows of Love's coy disguise : 
 
54 THE SEASON. 
 
 Rude ears invade (Propriety insists) 
 Her would-be secret, solitary lists ; 
 Spoil all her tender tournay ; put to rout 
 Those skilful skirmishers the heart sends out 
 In boldly-cautious converse, to make known 
 Another's weakness, but to screen its own : 
 No sweet lane-loiterings, no twilight strolls, 
 Induce the gradual intercourse of souls. 
 Two Balls three Dinners one Botanic Fete 
 " You mean to try the matrimonial state ? 
 Sir ! your intentions ? Marry, or depart ; 
 You must not trifle with my daughter's 
 
 heart." 
 
 " I did intend, but truth to tell as yet 
 My means are " " Hold ! you mean you are 
 
 in debt. 
 
 You're much mistaken, let me tell you, sir ! 
 If you conceive you'll ever marry her." 
 
THE SEASON. ' 55 
 
 He goes : consoles himself as best he can : 
 
 And she ? she marries money and a man. 
 
 A female and no fortune it is just; 
 
 So nought is left of Love except its lust. 
 
 All Love is lust, but Love is something more : 
 
 Each girl 's at heart a woman or a whore. 
 
 Hard words? hard laws. The words have been 
 
 revised : 
 There are some sores which must be cauterized. 1 
 
 Just as unskilled equestrians restrain 
 All healthful action, but give vice the rein, 
 So do these social laws unwisely err, 
 They check the angel but the demon spur, 
 
 f I am haunted by the belief that Voltaire has some- 
 where said the same thing. However, it is so true, that 
 it is worth saying again ; especially to people to whom 
 Voltaire is more or less a sealed writer. 
 
56 THE SEASON. 
 
 Making e'en kindly courtesies a curse, 
 Manners no better and our morals worse. 
 
 You knew Blanche Darley? could we but once 
 
 more 
 
 Behold that belle and pet of '54 ! 
 Not e'en a whisper, vagrant up to Town 
 From hunt or race-ball, augured her renown. 
 Far in the wolds sequestered life she led, 
 Fair and unfettered as the fawn she fed : 
 Caressed the calves, coquetted with the colts, 
 Bestowed much tenderness on turkey poults, 
 Bullied the huge ungainly bloodhound pup, 
 Tiffed with the terrier, coaxed to make it up : 
 The farmers quizzed about the ruined crops, 
 The fall of barley, and the rise of hops : 
 Gave their wives counsel, but gave flannel too, 
 Present where'er was timely deed to do; 
 
THE SEASON. 57 
 
 Known, loved, applauded, prayed for far and wide 
 The wandering sunshine of the country side. 
 So soft her tread, no nautilus that skims 
 With sail more silent than her liquid limbs. 
 Her hair so golden that, did slanting eve 
 With a stray curl its sunlight interweave, 
 Smit with surprise, you gazed but could not guess 
 Which the warm sunbeam, which the warmer 
 
 tress. 
 
 Her presence was low music : when she went, 
 She left behind a dreamy discontent, 
 As sad as silence when a song is spent. 
 
 She came we saw were conquered : one and 
 
 all, 
 
 We donned the fetters of delicious thrall ; 
 We fetched, we carried, dawdled, doffed, and did, 
 Just as our Blanche the beautiful would bid. 
 
58 THE SEASON. 
 
 Such crowds petitioned her at every ball 
 
 For "just one waltz/' she scarce could dance 
 
 at all! 
 Besieged her card with such intrigues and 
 
 sighs, 
 
 It might have been the pass-book to the skies. 
 We lost our heads. Have women wiser grown ? 
 A marvel surely, had she kept her own. 
 
 But brief our madness. Had we heard the 
 
 news? 
 Vaux has proposed. Vaux ! reeking from the 
 
 stews ; 
 That remnant, Vaux ! shrunk, tottering, palsied, 
 
 wan ! 
 
 An Earl by right, by courtesy a man. 
 That soldier-sycophant, with seam and scar 
 Gashed deep, but not in battle's joyful jar ! 
 
THE SEASON. 59 
 
 He with the cannon's never blent his breath, 
 Nor gaily galloped up the gaps of death : 
 Too rich to roam, in bloodless fields and fights 
 A lie at Brooks's, black-ball drops at White's. 
 Senilely supple if you lure or warn, 
 Now prowls the Quadrant, now confers with 
 Kahn. 
 
 Romantic boys ! be still. Will angry names 
 Like "battered beast" annul an Earldom's 
 
 claims ? 
 
 Life is not wholly sentiment and stars : 
 Venus wed Mercury as well as Mars. 
 Hush your lewd tattle ! seek your slighted 
 
 beds! 
 
 A cornet waltzes, but a colonel weds. 
 The Countess comes. Before her marriage vow, 
 Only men praised her : women praise her now. 
 
60 THE SEASON. 
 
 See what avail a carriage and a pair ! 
 You lose a lover, but you gain a stare. 
 The world, to kindly compensation prone, 
 Gives you its honour when you lose your own. 
 Corrupt in heart, in head-dress if correct, 
 Our well-bred race rewards you with respect. 
 Who more respected than my Lady Vaux? 
 The Town collects and wonders as she walks. 
 What if the Earl be absent from her side, 
 Whilst others near it gouty Earls must ride. 
 Let those, whose line but yesterday began, 
 Crave for the coarse capacities of man ; 
 Vaux gave his wealth, his peerage, Blanche her 
 
 face 
 
 Your vulgar wants invade not Chesham Place. 
 Is it so sad to have one's husband old ? 
 The mother's milk but mars the maiden's 
 
 mould ; 
 
THE SEASON. 61 
 
 And Blanche, whilst fruitful spouses fade so 
 
 fast, 
 Shall bear her barren beauty to the last ! 
 
 What ! . . So they say . . Bah ! Nonsense . . 
 But it's true : 
 
 True, sure enough will lay you ten to two. 
 
 Jack saw the brief, Kespondent's name en- 
 dorsed. . . . 
 
 Great God in heaven ! Blanche to be divorced ! 
 
 i 
 
 O scalding shame ! that name, last season's 
 
 toast, 
 
 Is never mentioned, or is mourned at most ; 
 Save where lewd lawyers, on their benches 
 
 perched, 
 In joke obscene send round the name that's 
 
 smirched ; 
 
62 THE SEASON. 
 
 Or, fouler still, amidst lascivious roar, 
 The Coal Hole g travesties one trial more ! 
 
 But what of Frank? to whom she early 
 
 gave 
 
 Her love, that guardian- angel sent to save : 
 To whose kind counsels would we list alone, 
 We ne'er should dash our foot against a stone. 
 A truer, braver bosom never throbbed 
 Than that poor boy's, whom fashion foully robbed. 
 In camps begot, his earliest desire 
 Turned to the sabre of his slaughtered sire. 
 But Peace, oppressive Peace becalmed the world : 
 Fluttered no pennon, not a wave was curled. 
 
 * In the " Coal-Hole" is or was held, a mimic Court of 
 Law, under the Presidency of Baron Nicholson, with the 
 avowed occupation of parodying celebrated Matrimonial 
 
 Causes. 
 
THE SEASON. 63 
 
 When would War's lances tear the welkin 
 
 dun? 
 
 When battle's bugles summon up the sun ? 
 The barrack life in stagnant country town, 
 The bootless charge o'er undefended down, 
 He chafed at all court-martial, march, parade, 
 And almost cursed the choice himself had 
 
 made. 
 
 He met with Blanche. Complaint began to 
 
 cease : 
 Who knows? Her smile might compensate for 
 
 Peace. 
 
 He was too poor to prate as one that woos, 
 But not who is ? too poor to love and lose. 
 That devil Circumstance, who smooths the way 
 To those who " may not/' blocks to those who 
 
 " may," 
 
64 THE SEASON. 
 
 Threw them together : wheresoever they went, 
 
 They met as though by purposed accident. 
 
 A pettish parting by a wicker gate 
 
 Unsealed their secret, but to seal their fate. 
 
 He called her back : she turned on him her 
 
 eyes 
 
 With a most swift significant surprise, 
 Gazed straight into his soul, that moment bare, 
 And saw her own bright image trembling there ; 
 But in that gaze unmasked she to his view 
 Eyes that, though piercing his, reflected too ! 
 
 Did they not part ? Ah ! lips, which once have 
 
 kissed, 
 
 Are impotent to reason or resist. 
 Who ne'er was tempted knows not how to 
 
 teach, 
 And he who falls will soon forget to preach. 
 
THE SEASON. 65 
 
 The Scribe may scowl, the Pharisee may chide 
 But Human Nature 's always Justified. 
 
 Did they not part ? When Europe's wild alarms 
 Tore him from hers to Conflict's sterner arms, 
 And proud fair England gave her boys to guard 
 From Tartar maw what Turkish lust hath marred, 
 Joyful he went : ere long he would return 
 Whom most would sigh for, none besought would 
 
 spurn. 
 
 The foe-fleshed hand, the decorated brow 
 Might seize the spoil they dared not sue for, 
 
 now. 
 
 In the Light Charge the gallant won his spurs, 
 And prized his laurels, since his laurels hers. 
 Now might he write, and with unchallenged claim 
 Fling at her feet the fulness of his fame. 
 
66 THE SEASON. 
 
 I saw that bright broad face shrink cold and hard : 
 Blanche Barley's answer ? Lady Vaux's card ! 
 
 A first babe draining a young mother's breast, 
 A kneeling Catholic maiden just confessed, 
 Are not more pure, more welcome to the 
 
 wise, 
 Than hapless Love in Courtesy's disguise. 
 
 How courteous he ! A smile, a look, from 
 
 Blanche 
 Swayed him as breeze a young lithe willow 
 
 branch. 
 
 Yet none could guess, save only those who knew, 
 What flogged-down fondness whined and crouched 
 
 from view. 
 
 No longer love, but worship, warped his mind ; 
 He held her holy worship made him blind. 
 
THE SEASON. 67 
 
 He did not see, what others saw and scanned, 
 A rich prize ready for the boldest hand. 
 Or seeing, spared the Fruit of Good-and-Ill, 
 With Her to dwell within his Eden still ; 
 Perchance not jealous now that man and 
 
 wife, 
 
 Plucking, had proved the nakedness of life. 
 Oh, what a dawn, when first he waked to own 
 He walked his fond Fool's Paradise alone ! 
 
 He who, despite his sorely baffled aim, 
 Survived his loss, could not survive her shame. 
 In that vast Empire fastened-on by fraud, 
 And since by clanking sabres overawed, 
 Rebellion brake like storm-clouds in the night ! 
 He asked a sword, and hurried to the fight ; 
 Rang out the war-cry with his Spartan wont 
 " Cravens to rear ! rough-riders to the front ! " 
 E 2 
 
68 THE SEASON. 
 
 Stern to the last, stemmed triumph's torrent tide ; 
 And if un conquering, unconquered died. 
 
 But Blanche ? Oh ! surely the unblemished 
 
 snow 
 Was not Hush ! Hush ! Enough for you to 
 
 know 
 
 That she, who once such curt refusal gave 
 To share Frank's bed, would gladly share his 
 
 grave. 
 
 Darkness retreats, its misty banners furled ; 
 The Sun's couched lances scour along the world. 
 Skulk to your beds, ye Bacchanals of Night ! 
 The Day stalks in and stares upon your rite. 
 On wine-stains, crumpled wreaths, and clammy 
 
 lips, 
 And eyes bedimmed with surfeit's foul eclipse, 
 
THE SEASON. 69 
 
 On cheeks where roses blown have ceased to 
 
 smile, 
 
 Or stay to show how false they were the while, 
 On slattern hair, whose short thin wisps make 
 
 known 
 
 How much of former fulness was its own, 
 On broken fans and irritated corns, 
 Brows steeped in sweat that earns not nor 
 
 adorns : 
 
 Away ! away ! let sleep such sleep as hies 
 To Fashion's fagged yet feverish votaries 
 With lurements fresh to-morrow's limbs invest, 
 And friendly paint and padding do the rest. h 
 
 h Written with whatever dissimilar meaning, the lines 
 of Ovid upon Echo may, without strain, be applied to the 
 disordered figures of three o'clock in the morning. 
 
 Et neque jam color est misto candore rubori ; 
 Nee vigor, et vires, et quse modo visa placebant ; 
 Nee corpus remanet. 
 
70 THE SEASON. 
 
 Why further follow,, flogging Fashion's faults ? 
 The Muse will flag, but Folly never halts. 
 Write as I will, the prurience of men 
 Invents new vice, to paralyze my pen. 
 From class to class the rnummery descends : 
 I seek in vain for contrast or for friends. 
 All ranks to equal turpitude aspire ; 
 Those make the mode, these mimic in the mire. 
 See salon morals vagrant on the flags, 
 Vice's torn tawdry shown as Virtue's rags, 
 Pure, simple Woman, brazen, scented, curled, 
 And God-like Man, the clothes-horse of the 
 world ! 
 
 Who think by verse to better make the bad, 
 I grant it freely, must be vain or mad. 
 From Horace downwards, monitory rhymes 
 Have but amused, and mended not the times. 
 
THE SEASON. 71 
 
 Yet in an Age when each one strives to hide 
 
 The scorn he feels for every one beside, 
 
 I claim the precious privilege of youth, 
 
 Never to speak except to speak the truth. 
 
 Urge you that youth should ne'er presume to 
 
 scold, 
 
 Since Satire suits the wise alone, and old, 
 Ah ! age is not invariably nice, 
 And wisdom oft grows lenient to vice. 
 Besides : much more impartially the boy 
 May scowl at sports himself could yet enjoy. 
 Perforce should impotent repentant rake 
 Denounce the havoc he no more can make, 
 Dyspeptic pauper against feasts protest 
 His purse can't reach, his stomach can't 
 
 digest, 
 
 Or paralytic moralists condemn 
 The lips that now no longer lust for them, 
 
72 THE SEASON. 
 
 Would you not say the fable of the grapes 
 Fitted these censors in their sober shapes ? 
 Not rich nor beggared, blase nor a child, 
 Not quite unblemished, yet not quite denied, 
 Neither too old to want, too young to win, 
 Acquainted but not surfeited with sin, 
 A guest sometimes where meats and wines abound, 
 And yet, thank God ! my head and stomach 
 
 sound, 
 
 Rich human blood redundant in my veins, 
 And Beauty 's bounties my most grateful gains, 
 By none befooled, I abdicate my age 
 To lash the pastimes which my peers engage. 
 
 Let purists frowning at my verse pretend 
 To mourn the means and not to see the end, 
 Deny the sore, so deprecate the knife 
 But as our ballet, so our social life. 
 
THE SEASON. 73 
 
 Whilst quite enough is deftly bared to sight 
 To lend to lust a lecherous delight, 
 As deftly too is just so much obscure 
 As makes the good (but timid) half endure. 
 Strip off this insincerity of gauze 
 Which baulks the hiss and sanctions the ap- 
 plause. 
 
 Perchance and thither is my satire aimed 
 When all is naked, some will feel ashamed. 
 
 Welcome release ! The Season gasps and 
 
 dies, 
 
 And Fashion's Crowd to seaside quarters flies. 
 What though the Tide's uncompromising roar 
 Thunders its truths, terrific, on the shore, 
 Deaf to its voice, they only there prolong 
 The kill-time shifts recorded in my song. 
 
74 THE SEASON. 
 
 Not them I follow : but that dear old beach 
 Will I seek out, where, far beyond the reach 
 Of flirts and flippants, will the faithful foam 
 Fawn at my feet and gambol round my home. 
 Vagrant, I surely shall the lesson learn, 
 To prize results, but recompense to spurn ; 
 Since every breaker, how supreme soe'er 
 The wealth its individual bosom bear, 
 Impelled by no poor egotist desires, 
 To the community of waves retires 
 Wholly as undistinguished as before, 
 When it has cast its corals on the shore. 
 
 THE END. 
 
 ROBERT HARDWICKE, PRINTER, 192, PICCADILLY. 
 
14 DAY USE 
 
 RETURN TO DESK FROM WHICH BORROWED 
 
 LOAN DEPT. 
 
 This book is due on the last date stamped below, or 
 
 on the date to which renewed. 
 Renewed books are subject to immediate recall. 
 
 LD 21A-45m-9,'67 
 (H5067slO)476B 
 
 General Library 
 
 University of California 
 
 Berkeley 
 
m ' I ' 1 I 
 
 ' ' ;.''" 
 
 I - 1 i 
 
 
 ".;" sgjni 
 
 ;:-.-' '" 
 
 i * 
 
 -' I : '. 
 
 '.--..'.-;-: 
 
 I . 1 i --, 
 
 ' 
 
 /: : -'^ --':. 
 
 i '-.-- 1 
 
 --'-- 1 1 
 
 . 
 
 -:' - m mm , - 
 
 '" r '^ :