UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA AT LOS ANGELES & THE SEASON A SATIRE. ALFRED AUSTIN, AUTHOR OF "THE HUMAN TRAGEDV," " AN ARTIST'S PROOF," ETC. NEW AND REVISED EDITION. (f.ring the £bu&.) LONDON: JOHN CAMDEN HOTTEN, 74 & 75 PICCADILLY, 1869. S To the Right Hon. Benjamin Disraeli, M.P. by one •who reveres his genius and exults in his success, This Book is, with permission, dedicated. June, 1 86 1 PREFACE TO THE PRESENT EDITION. It is now more than nine years since the author conceived the plan of " The Season," and more than eight since it was first published. It passed rapidly through two editions, and has since remained out of print. Two considerations have decided him to per- mit of its republication. The first is, that during those eight years there has been a constant demand for it.* The second is, that whilst the * He has also been requested to sanction its trans- lation into French verse. That, he conceives, would be viii PREFACE TO PRESENT EDITION. social follies — to use here no harsher term — glanced at in its verse have increased rather than abated, there at present prevails a dis- position to canvass them with frankness, which scarcely existed at the date of its original appearance. But there still remained a grave question for him to determine. Was he to republish the satire, exactly as it stood eight years ago, or was he to recast it entirely ? There were serious objections to either course. Adopting the former, he might naturally enough be sup- posed to be perfectly satisfied with it. Fixing no easy matter With what felicity it may be rendered into French prose has been shown by M. Forgues, in his article on the author's works in the Revue des Deux Mondes, Sept. 15, 1865 PREFA CE TO PRESENT EDITION. ix on the latter, it might be presumed that he was dissatisfied with it altogether. Neither conclu- sion would have represented his feelings on the ubject. He has accordingly pursued a middle course. The poem now presented afresh to the public is substantially the same poem as that which was published in 1861 ; but those who care to com- pare it with the first or second edition, will perceive that the author has expunged a con- siderable amount of old matter, and introduced a considerable amount of new. He begs, how- ever, to add that, even as he has now left it, it seems to him in certain passages still to require qualification, and in several passages to be far from expressing his full mind. He was induced x PREFACE TO PRESENT EDITION. to desist from further tampering with it by the friendly reminder that too scrupulous alterations might almost wholly obliterate the original text, whilst at the end of another eight years those alterations might just as little con- tent him as the original text contents him now. So much by way of showing that he is neither obstinately attached to the language or drift of a composition, simply because it happens to have been his, nor indolently averse from the labor lima;, which assuredly was not spared on its inception. But, having protected himself, he trusts, against either imputation, he feels himself more at liberty to add that, speak- ing generally of those things which compose the diversions of the Season, what he then PREFACE TO PRESENT EDITION. xi thought frivolous he now equally thinks friv- olous, and what he once regarded as mis- chievous he now more than ever regards as mischievous. Indeed, it is the seemingly semi- tolerant levity of his satire, and not what some people have called its severity, with which he is most disposed to quarrel. " No youth can be a master," says Goethe ; and the author of " The Season " was, nine years ago, not much more than a youth. It does not follow that even an advance in years has brought with it a capacity for ethical teaching, especially in the arduous region of satiric verse ; but if, as is not impro- bable, the author should ere long attempt to deal once more with the proclivities of the age, in the form and metre most familiar to him, it xii PREFACE TO PRESENT EDITIOX. is quite certain that he will not be able to be less censorious than formerly. He fears the Muse will be equally severe ; only the serious- ness of her intention will be made more obvious. May 1869. PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION. The first words of my Preface shall be a frank acknowledgment that " The Season " has been treated, on the whole, with a toleration more liberal than I anticipated. The usages of speech being now such as they are, it could have escaped censure only by escaping notice. The latter I was anxious that it should receive, or I should not have published it : that I was therefore prepared to accept the former, may be inferred. xiv PREFACE TO SECOND EDITION. It has been said in the press, by a critic severe but pleasant, that I do not " pretend to be very desperately in earnest." I would assure this courteous gentlemen, and all those whose suspicions he may have interpreted, that they unintentionally do me grievous wrong. The "something in the world amiss" which easy-going folks console themselves by imagin- ing " will be unriddled by and by," I would alter' if I could, at once ; and though, so far, I have felt myself unable to assist in its alter- ation further than by calling attention to its existence, to this incipient but surely necessary portion of the task I will unaffectedly say that I did feel myself not altogether unequal. But how was I to make people consider PREFACE TO SECOND EDITION. xv what I believed to be the fact — that the well- dressed drones of society, assisted by the at times no less splendidly caparisoned honey- bees of the 'Change and the Forum, occupy themselves with pastimes not ennobling to the initiated, and neither edifying nor encouraging to outsiders ? The world has become so large, so noisy, and so indifferent, that he who first ad- dresses it in a whisper has not the smallest chance of being heard. Of this convinced, I addressed it in tinted paper, attractive frontispiece, Ma- genta binding, and language loud, strong, and insolent. That I am addressing it again so soon (and now, I trust, with more of gentle- ness), proves, at least, that my method of gain- inor its ear was not ill-devised. I knew well xvi PREFACE TO SECOND EDITION. enough that no other method would avail ; that no modest apparition in print, no sleek sentences, no orthodox tropes, no polished re- proaches, would wake from their drowsy Sab- bath disregard, or startle from their week-day feux-de-joie the well-to-do optimists who, not seeing their way to making themselves or their neighbours any better, seek their consolation in making both ineffably worse. I saw, or thought I saw, that the company of the world, which the wisest authority has pronounced to be a stage, and which I will presume to add, is a stage essentially dramatic and sad with pathos, has assumed the attitudes and costume of the ballet, with gauze somewhat more mali- ciously arranged ; and I was ambitious to re- PREFACE TO SECOND EDITION. xvii mind them that, in spite of warm approval from the young, and more cautious though per- haps not more frigid countenance from the old, life is a very "serious business" after all. A comic side it has, no doubt ; and occasionally, though seldom surely, its aspect is somewhat farcical But never, I most solemnly believe, does it present a front so utterly degraded that the impertinent may presume to take liberties with its dormant dignity ; since, however often forgetting that it is divine, it can never consent to be less than human. When an outrageous acrobat plays a happy-go-lucky game of pitch- and-toss with a frame coined, we are assured, in God's majestic mint, the public, though fas- cinated into evanescent applause, returning to xviii rREFACE TO SECOND EDITION. the simple walks of every-day occupation, are far too mindful of its value not to condemn. But this poor offensive rope-walker has the excuse that he risks his own body in order to maintain the bodies of others ; whilst they who, satirized in " The Season," outrage by " their fantastic tricks " the dignity of humanity, have not even the insufficient plea of an empty purse. All that they can appeal to for their justification is a shallow heart or a vacant brain. This it was, I conceived, that stood — that stands yet — in such imperative need of alter- ation. All I have attempted has been to make people see it — not such as it strives to seem, but — such as it really is : to see it, not through the delicious dreamy atmosphere of PREFACE TO SECOND EDITION. xix gauze, but with this wanton bewildering gauze torn pitilessly off. Is a reductio ad absurdum illegitimate in verse ? " Les Amours de Diane," says the Covent Garden play-bill. No ! say I : " Salvioni's legs." The phraseology of the play-bill is elegant, but it is a sham, a blind — out with it ! — a lie. My phraseology is startling and unpleasant, but — true. Call a spectacle by the classical and abstract title of " Diana's loves,"' and who shall not go and have a look at it ? But call this same spec- tacle by the name I have given it — its real name, mind you, — and who is going — I will not say, as some folks say, to take these little ones, but — who is going at all ? This I said in " The Season ;" this I say again ; xx PREFACE TO SECOND EDITION. to this I appeal as my complete justifica- tion. To be colloquial, but laconic : " Here," I say, " is a disease, a death-bringing wind, and its name is Scirocco." " Not a bit of it," I get for answer ; " it is no disease, no killing blast, but a pleasant holiday breeze, and its true appellation, if you want to know, is Zephyrus, or the West Wind." Turning about to get this matter solved, what reply do I receive ? Why, this : "Well, well, it is the scirocco, but for God's sake " (for God's sake !) " don't say so : it is an ugly word, and it frightens folks, and you had better call it West Wind too." Now, I will not call it West Wind. I have a much fiercer objection to ugly things than PREFACE TO SECOND EDITION. xxi to ugly words ; and if I can but frighten some people into an honest recognition of what they are doing, even a more brutal charge than that of " ingrained depravity " will not disturb me from my charitable mission. Between facts and their forms, between reality and appearance, between behaviour and language, there is at present woeful estrange- ment. Most people are trying hard to stretch the estrangement into a permanent divorce ; and neither by the gentle appeals of the mis- taken, the sneers of the indolent, nor the mo- notonous vocabulary of the interested, will I be balked of my purpose to bring about some- thing like a reconciliation. I have said nothing new : I have said what has been said bv hun- xx ii PREFACE TO SECOND EDITION. dreds of others ; only, I have said it differ- ently. But of all those who have said it, I verily believe I am about the first who has ever got himself listened to. Had I written with the grave decorum of a secluded moralist, I too should have gone down to the limbo of forgotten bores. This last word provokes me into pausing. I have much to say upon this matter, but will refrain from saying more upon it here. I am very young to teach, so will fortify my posi- tion with a grave quotation from an Elder. It is a Father of the Church, — if my memory serve me with fidelity, it is St Jerome, — who says, "If an offence come of the Truth, better the offence come than the PREFACE TO SECOND EDITION. xxiii Truth be concealed." Offence has come of "The Season;" but if, as I believe, Truth, practically concealed, have through it obtained some slight recognition, authorised by St Je- rome, I claim for myself a proportionate abso- lution. Some words I have altered : some lines I have expunged : not (I must be honest) from conviction, but from deference. I am not vir- tuous enough altogether to resist the perplex- ing arguments of a gentle hand, nor the con- vincing sophistry of a musical human voice. Thanks, unutterable thanks, to all such per- suasive critics, even if they have led me astray ! From the general life, from the promiscuous struggle, in which, it would appear, the pur- xxiv PREFACE TO SECOND EDITION. poses of the Great Arrangement can be at- tained only by each one's hitting hard and being hard hit back in turn, how pleasant and surely how profitable is it to seek in the indi- vidual life for the pathetic courtesies of affec- tionate disagreement. There, without weaken- ing our healthy animosity against what we conceive to be wrong, we can lovingly congre- gate with those who conceive it to be eternally right : there, though ready at the summons to strike, armour-buckled, in the behoof of Man, we are forced to acknowledge that men also have their claim : there, getting our gaping wounds bound up, we confess that our necessi- ties are human, if our aspirations are divine. Must I apologise for this garrulous egotism ? PREFACE TO SECOND EDITION. xxv There are many whom I wished to address, and for my life I could not have spoken to them what, consequently, I have written here. lyi June 1S61. " The diseases of society can, no more than corporal maladies, be prevented or cured without being spoken about in plain language." — John Stuart Mill, Prin- ciples of Political Economy. THE SEASON. In honest times, when purer manners reigned, And Virtue never save by Vice was pained, The Poet's pen might flagrant scandals call By manly names, the property of all, And, like the prophets bold of Sacred Writ, Discard the sleight of circumambient wit. Now, so corruptly chaste our ways are grown, E'en words, turned wanton," must, in prurient tone, «■ Very opportunely, the other day, I stumbled on a letter written by Miss Mary Pierrepoint, afterwards, as all the world knows, Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, to A 2 THE SEASON. Tickle our ears, or public Censure preach With euphemistic mincingness of speech. Why then so rash and bluntly spoken, pray ? Heaven save the mark ! a Satire ! and to-day ! The World, grown tolerant, endures no more Minstrels that deign to stoop, or dare to soar/ Mrs Hewet, an extract from which is much to my pur- pose. Here is what one lady writes to another lady : — " I was last Thursday at the new Opera, and saw Nico- lini strangle a lion with great gallantry. But he repre- sented nakedness so naturally, I was surprised to see those ladies stare at him without any confusion that pre- tend to be so violently shocked at a poor double entendre or two in a comedy, which convinced me that those per- sons who would cry ' Fie ! fie !' at the word naked, have no scruple about the thing:" Non meus hie sermo. b " Not in Fancy's maze I wandered long, But stooped to Truth, and moralised my song." Byron said this was the only faulty line in the whole of Pope, who should have written " soared to Truth." THE SEASON. 3 If you must needs be earnest, well, depict What none concerns, so none will contradict. Rhyme with the thunder, versify the wind, Dethrone your God, and deify Mankind. Sing the dim 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. Convert your cut-throats ; make your Phrynes chaste ; Flaunt moral diamonds ; who will guess them paste ? Spurn bastard spondees, spuriously Greek ; With modern tawdry drape the grand antique. Or write blank verse : it moveth more severe : Proper your metre, if your views be queer ; 4 THE SEASON. Industriously labour languid lays, Beloved of Courts, and snatch the Poet's bays ! Bees, swallows, wagtails, milk-and-water warm, And all that must do far more good than harm, Let themes like these monopolize your force, And leave sins, men, and women to the coarse/ c Frankness requires that I should own that the epithet u coarse " has been applied to some of the lines in " The Season" by more than one critic. Mrs Barrett Browning provides me with a reply, in words more forcible than I can hope ever to write, at the 105th page of the fifth edition of " Aurora Leigh :" — "Am I coarse? Well, Love 's coarse, Nature 's coarse . . . We fair, fine ladies, who park out our lives From common sheep-paths, cannot help the crows From flying over, — we 're as natural still As Blowsalinda. Drape us perfectly In Lyons velvet, — we are not, for that, Lay-figures, look you : we have hearts within, THE SEASON. 5 What ! when the Pulpit decorates its blame, And leaves the shameless free for fear of shame, Genteelly prunes the rugged Pentateuch, And smiles on rogues emasculate rebuke, Makes matters pleasant with a hell disguised/ And hawks about a Gospel compromised ; Warm, live, improvident, indecent hearts, As ready for outrageous ends and acts As any distressed sempstress of them all." If the discussion of one's species is to be tabooed, — it" Pope was altogether in the wrong, and " the proper study of mankind is" not "man," let us know, by all means. But so long as the old doctrine stands, I and a few more of us intend to express our meaning in the simplest language we can get hold of, not being able " to cog like lisping hawthorn buds, that come like women in men's apparel." d For fear of misinterpretation, I must avow my sym- pathy with Uncle Toby's sorrow (" I' m sorry for it," said Uncle Toby) at the announcement of the Devil being "damned long ago." But hell is not quite a place to be 6 THE SEASON. When mighty scribes wax emulous, to lull Uneasy dreamers and delude the dull, Of suppurating sores that ulcerate And draw the life-blood from the soundest State, As " social evils " elegantly prate ; When jaunty moralists in periods trim, Tricked out with every servile synonym, Hint, but to hide, of poisons that infect With subtle venom the uncircumspect, Which, worming through the blameless and the best, Blasts the poor babe, reliant, at the breast ; played with. If there be no such place at all, let us hear no more about it : but if there be, somebody will have to go there : and "somebody" had better be told of his prospects in the plainest language possible. One hears it said : " If the Devil does not get so-and-so, where is the use of keeping a Devil ?" This at least is logical. THE SEASON. 7 And when Society applauds this plot, To make each thing appear the thing 'tis not ; Why should you rudely its repose invade With sharp, short words, and call a spade a spade ? — Lift the light gauge which, accurately nice, Divides Conventionality from Vice ? Offended foes will dog you till you die, Who, if they cannot crush you, can belie ! Engaging prospect ! to parade, the mark Of each bruised mouth that slanders in the dark! Thanks, my good friends ! But I am young, and Youth Owes nought to Fear, and everything to Truth. 8 THE SEASON. Yet if some hand, more intimate than mine, Would strip these shams, and wield the knotted line, Invade the motley masquerading ranks, And pluck the masks from tinsel mounte- banks, Some nervous Censor scramble to his feet, Feel for his scourge, and terrify the cheat, How gladly I such office would eschew, To linger, comrades ! indolent, with you ! I rather far, supine, would fling me where Long lazy sedges loll against the air, Or, drenched with perfume on Sorrento's side, Invoke the quiet never there denied, And, lost to crowds, in honeysuckled haunt, Live, hidden hero of my own romaunt ! THE SEASON. 9 Yet even Solitude at times will leave The blood no rest, the pulses no reprieve. Beside a sunny rivulet aloof, Yestreen, I seemed to hear this proud reproof : Boy ! it urged, loiter not idly here, Where I am only musical and clear. Wake from your dreams, and come with me along, And what I am in stream, be you in song ! 1 loved the hills where, tiny tarn, I lay Screened from intrusion of the garish Day : I loved their patient slopes whose outstretched arms Saved me, too confident, from courted harms, Guiding my steps uncertain, till they grew Firmer and not so devious, then withdrew : io THE SEASON.- I loved the bright broad meadows where I played, I loved the woodland's transitory shade : I loved the lawns where bevies of fair girls, Pure as their robes though frolic as their curls, Tripped down from where along the trellised wall They trained their plants, themselves out- blooming all, Flowers o'er my pathway prodigally cast, Coaxed me to stay but praised me as I passed. Labour expects me on the banks below : O lagging Boy ! pursue me as I go ! Me many a solemn embassage awaits, Me the swarmed concourse of impatient freights: To me the palpitating cities call To bear the benefits of each to all. THE SEASON. n Limpid no more, I rush to court assoil, Proud of the stains of decorating Toil, Where splendid burthens dropping on my breast Dismiss me blessing, and avouch me blest. Onwards I go, to greet the whelming tide, The sad supremacy of self denied, Solicitous no more, since soon to be One with the vague irrevocable Sea ! So sings the river through the summer days, And I, submissive, follow what I praise. What if my boyish blood would rather stay Where lawns invite, where bonnibels delay, Though but a youth and not averse from these, To conflict called, I abdicate my ease, 12 THE SEASON. Bend to some honest work before I go, And prove that verse can utilize its flow. 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 hoyden yet affect the prude, But draped discreetly in a skirt and vest Which just withhold the secrets they suggest : Mistress avowed where'er Man's lofty brain Invents fresh youth for beauty on the wane. Muse, earth-begot ! equipped from hip to heel In loose array of penetrable steel : Fashion yclept ! without whose granted spell No fair lips flatter, no effusions sell, THE SEASON. 13 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 quick surprise ! 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 Phaethon sets the drive ablaze ; Or, more defiant, spurning frown and foe, Rules with loose rein Anonyma* the Row. * 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, the Anonyma of the hour is as well known, and as much an object of interest, as the last shape of Madame Elise ; and the skill H THE SEASON. Dear pretty fledgelings ! 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 desperate, 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, with which, in talk a deux, they manoeuvre the conversa- tion into speculations upon her origin, abode, and doings, fully corroborates their claim to the possession of consider- able tact, though it perhaps scarcely supports their repu- tation for delicacy of instinct. THE SEASON. 15 Who, plumpness gone, fine delicacy feint, And hide your sins in piety and paint; Answer me, all ! belle, heiress, flirt, and prue, Who has our gaze ? Anonyma or you ? " The nasty wretch ! regard her saucy leer !" Well, own her conquest, and I '11 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. No barn-door game, by fluttering mothers reared, Cooped up from dangers genuine or feared, 1 6 THE SEASON. 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, THE SEASON. 17 Preferring freedom, these forego respect ; Repute your choice, you smart beneath neglect. Alternative ordained by Moral Plan — To pine, 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 foreign marquis's accomplished colt, Sharing its owner's tendency to bolt : The nay, enough ; let Cowper's/ care attest The worth and vast importance of the rest. /The Right Hon. William Cowper, then First Com- B 1 8 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 Rights ! Bow wow ! You won our liberties ; preserve them now ! Heavens! what a hubbub doth the Town divide ! A Revolution ? No, a lengthened Ride. missioner of Public Works, whose design to extend the delights of the Row, since carried out with certain modi- fications, worked the Tribunes of the People into a fit of phrensy. s The popular London M.P., and demagogue of the comparatively mild days that preceded the second Re- form Bill, who afterwards left his country for his country's good. He has not been without successors, some of whom would do well to imitate him, at least in, this last particular. THE SEASON. 19 Oh! spare those Gardens where the leafy glade Prompts the proposal dalliance delayed ; Where tear-dewed lids, choked utterance, sobs suppressed, Tear the confession from a doubting breast ; 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 ! 20 THE SEASON. 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 : 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 wanes the day, Its rich reclining and reposeful forms/ Still as bright sunsets after mists or storms, * Alas ! the word, indeed almost the whole of this pas- sage, is already little more than historical. " There is no armour against Fate, Death lays his icy hand on Kings." * An intelligent Peruvian, whom I once took into Hyde THE SEASON. 21 Who sit and smile (their morning wranglings o'er, Or dragged and dawdled through one dull day more), 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 ? 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 Under- standing," quoting from Garcilaso de la Vega, adduces in order to prove that there are " no innate practical prin- ciples." The indignant criticism of the descendant of the Tououpinambos would seem to fortify Locke's theory, though by a retaliatory instance. 22 THE SEASON. The softest ribbon, pink-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 im- part, 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." Her pet lace shawl has grown not fit to wear, And ruined Edith dresses in despair. THE SEASON. 23 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. 24 THE SEASON. So, though I own that even men have specks, Like you, I spare the secrets of my sex. Still, by severe induction may we guess, If yours are great, our faults will scarce be less. Besides : as Sex,/ in embryotic state, Is always female till a certain date, 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, J This is a fact which the investigations of recent em- bryologists have made sufficiently certain. In the method of producing males, or sterile females, from the larvae of bees, may be recognised an analogous, if not an exactly similar, occurrence. For a short but intelligible account, THE SEASON. 25 Find that the embryo best assists their aim, So have I found — my method is the same. We best shall learn from fetal forms ; besides, 'Gainst forms developed Convenance decides. Our Vicious Age shrinks, cognisant of blame, From probing Manhood, with a sickly shame. And yet how slight the contrast we admire ! Women's hearts smoulder — men's escape in fire. You doubt it ? Why, this moment, see a sign ! All go : but those to dress, whilst these to dine. Divergence, think you ? Be not duped : their aim, In seeming diverse, is in substance same. the reader may consult that popular work, the " Vestiges of Creation." 2 6 THE SEASON. Cribbed and confined, both need some sensuous 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 ! . . . Duns ! Detractors ! Fate! Hit me your hardest — but I dine^ at eight. My thoughts are stolen ? half my verses halt ? Well, very likely : please to pass the salt. Jones won't accept your bills: he funks the risk. Does he ? What matter ? Potage a la bisque ! k " Qu'on mc meprise, pourvu que je dine!" was the exclamation of one of the sensualists of a.d. 1789. THE SEASON. 27 You recollect what Titus used to say ? Did Titus dine, he could not lose a day. Whilst kindly Plutus ransacks all the Rhine To line his bins, then makes them yours and mine, Would you be rich so long as you are young And own a ready appetite and tongue ? I 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 ! And, O kind, compensating Time ! increase My purse and cellar as my youth you fleece ; So that, a seasonable change at most, The slender guest may smile the portly host. 28 THE SEASON. And when, dear boys ! Life's Vintage slightly sours, With taste discreet and temper wholly ours, 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. THE SEASON. 29 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 ; 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. 3 o THE SEASON. Sure, you mistake ? For Lumley promise made Of voice not heard, limbs never yet displayed. Better and better. Sharp 'a 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. 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. THE SEASON. 31 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 dis- plays, A too quick curiosity should hide — For they who gaze must gazed at be beside. 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 ! 3 2 THE SEASON. What can be Man's, the while 'tis Woman's part To bare her bosom and to hide her heart ? Hush ! pretty prattlers ! Waving arms apart, ^Eolus frees the fettered winds of Art. Be dumb, ye triflers ! whilst his spells con- found l 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 ; l 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. 33 Till, with tumultuous purpose, swift and strong, Sweeps the harmonious hurricane of Song ! The curtain lifts. Behold the "Lost One"*' 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 — re- spect, Gifts few possess and none can quite affect ; >" 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 34 THE SEASON. 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 — Her life's one chance, one yearning, straight foregone, 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 — THE SEASON. 35 Clinging to life, but with untroubled tone Claiming the Heaven of Virgins for her own — « Behold, exaggerated not, nor glozed, The vocal Drama but this instant closed ! 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, should reclaim At once their sex, their sisters, and their shame. n 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." 36 THE SEASON. 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 petals poison whom they lure ; Pluck you but deeper, at the root is cure. Whom noble still in infamy we saw, In frailty faithful, fair despite her flaw, 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 ? Because the story of her early years Were sure to stir (beyond those surface tears THE SEASON. 37 Which straightway dry beneath to-morrow's drought) A fertile pity and an active thought. And thus the partial Drama you applaud Becomes mere flaunting falsity and fraud. What is the spell that 'twixt a saint and sinner The diff' rence 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 : 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! 3 S THE SEASON. Hence ! flimsy sophists ! who with fasts and cries Would fain compel Omniscience to be wise ! What if, instead of craving sun or rain, You built a reservoir or delved a drain ? Instead of looks and platitudes demure, Diffused the wealth that keeps peers' daughters pure ? Justly the stalwart pauper's prayers you spurn, Yet whine in turn for wage yourselves might earn. There is nor tempest, torrent, heat, 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 scorch, shatter, and deflower, And these but make existence flat and sour ! THE SEASON. 39 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. What is man's end ? To know and to be free." Think you to compass it by tracts and tea ? Labour/ is prayer — the only prayer that serves — And all beyond it but disordered nerves. o " You shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free." — St Paul. t " Qui laborat, orat : " is one of the oldest aphorisms of the Catholic Church. 4o THE SEASON. E'en the Creator paused not till He could Feel His work done, and saw 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 : the thirsty treat as kin ; The naked clothe, and take the stranger in ; Visit the sick, the prison-house, the slum ; And then, " ye blessed of my Father, come ! " 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 9 of the Dance. ? Daphne, a maiden loved and pursued by Apollo ; and THE SEASON. 41 What first but vaguely Opera designs, The Ballet next developes and defines. The sentimental to the sensuous grows, And pointless trilling into pointed toes. 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. when overtaken by the erotic Song-god, tantalisingly transformed into a laurel. 42 THE SEASON. Must we then stop it ? no : unleash the Town To hunt a Nicholson or Warton down ; r The scent will take, the Cider Cellars close, And Haddo/ 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, r Nicholson — Warton. — Caterers for the taste of what my hairdresser calls " the lower orders of people what exist." The owners of Walhallas, Rainbow Nymphs, Days of Rhodes Revived, &c. s 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. THE SEASON. 43 An errant curiosity inquires Whither the Drama, England's boast, retires. Let bounding profligates their limbs display Where "further off"' chaste Hermia's lover " lay." Let figuranti trip where Siddons stepped, And jugglers u grin where once Macready wept ; t Scene — A wood near Atlietis. Hermia. But, gentle friend, for love and courtesy Lie further off ; in human modesty 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 Night's Dream. u By "jugglers," I refer to the Chinese who delighted crowded houses by innocuously flinging knives at each other's heads. 44 THE SEASON. Yet High Art surely somewhere makes a stand. Somewhere ! Well, where ? in Wych Street or the Strand ? Is it where saucy Wilton v winks her way, And says the more the less she has to say? Is it where Robson,™ servile to the Town, Discards the Actor and adopts the Clown ? v Miss Marie Wilton is in every way charming, and can act only in those parts which are written for her ; and it is no fault — but rather a talent — of hers, that she creates a more lively sensation when she is not speaking than when she is. Little as our theatrical matters have changed since the above lines and note were written, Miss Marie Wilton at least has found a suitable outlet for her grace- ful abilities in Mr Robertson's Comedies, which are in turn indebted for much of their success to her intelligent man- agement. — Note to present Edition. w The great — the only — tragic actor we have : who, as Mazeppa, lies in tights on a bare-backed steed stuffed with THE SEASON. 45 Where Toole or Compton, perfect in his part, Touches each sense except the head and heart ? Where mobs " recal " 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.* It strains at mirth, but like abandoned Boy Debauched by sports that shatter whom they cloy, Has lost its healthy appetite for joy : straw, and requests a hungry vulture of the same material to " keep up his pecker." ■* " II faut des spectacles dans les grandes villes, et des romans auxpeuples corrompus." — Jean Jacques Rousseau. 46 THE SEASON. And yet too slothful to arise and scan The splendid toils allotted to the Man, Toys with remorse, and as supine it lies, " Oh 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. .? y One of my (I have many) literal friends comes and asks me, "Why 50 Belgrave Square?" And when I THE SEASON. 47 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 where skilled duennas lose Some precious charge that with like skill pursues ; 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 s polking, knee to knee. Their kindly gaze examines and exalts The closer contact of the chaster waltz. answer, " Because there are only forty-nine numbers," he goes away, offended at my rudeness. z " Free Lances" is a recognised pseudonym. Surely, " Moss-troopers " rings more like home coinage. 48 THE SEASON. Look where they smile, the grey-haired guar- dians set To scout decorum, sanction etiquette. a " 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. 171 1, 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 ' 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." THE SEASON. 49 Louder, ye viols ! shrilly, cornets ! blow ! Who is this prophet that denounces woe ? 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 ! Till, head and heart and senses all on fire, Passion presume and Modesty expire! Bless us and save us ! What tirade is this ? My choleric friend ! is anything amiss ? This sparkling scene of Beauty in its bloom Is not an Orgy, but an auction-room. D $o THE SEASON. 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 jeopardize 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. No jealous frames, no artificial fires, Forced on their growth, and hurried their desires; THE SEASON. 51 Their graceful fondness gradually grew, By thirst 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), He was not exiled by a venal Fate : A boy might work, a maiden sure might wait. 52 THE SEASON. 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, To think, "My darling shall at last be mine !" While she could feel she helped him in his part, Upheld his purpose, purified his heart. Till, aims accomplished, youth's brisk battle won, They rushed together, mystic Two-in-One. 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. THE SEASON. 53 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. 54 THE SEASON. You 're much mistaken, let me tell you, sir ! If you conceive you '11 ever marry her" He goes : consoles himself as best he can : And she ? she marries money and a man. A female and no fortune — 'tis but just ; So Love is nought save luxury and lust. Hard words ? hard laws. The words have been revised : There are some sores which must be cauterised. 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, THE SEASON. 55 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 : 56 THE SEASON. Gave their wives counsel, but gave flannel too, Present where'er was timely deed to do ; 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. THE SEASON. 57 She came — we saw — were conquered : one and all, We donned the fetters of delicious thrall. We fetched, we carried, waited, doffed, and did Just as our Blanche the beautiful would bid. Such crowds petitioned her at every ball For "just one waltz," she scarce could dance at all ! Her card besieged with such intrigues and sighs, It might have been the pass-book to the skies. W T e 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 ! 58 THE SEASON. 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 ! 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 ? THE SEASON. 59 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. See what avail a carriage and pair ! You lose a lover, but — you gain a stair. 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. 60 THE SEASON. 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 ; 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. THE SEASON. 61 Jack saw the brief, Respondent's name en- dorsed. . . . Great God in heaven ! Our Blanche to be divorced ! 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 ; Or, fouler still, amidst lascivious roar, The Coal Hole* travesties one trial more ! b In the " Coal Hole" is or was held a Court of Law, under the presidency of Baron Nicholson, with the avowed occupation of parodying celebrated Matrimonial Causes. 62 THE SEASON. 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 simpler, manlier 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. 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, THE SEASON. 63 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," Threw them together : wheresoe'er they went, They met as though by purposed accident. A pettish parting by a wicker gate Unsealed their secret, but to seal their fate. 64 THE SEASON. 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 which, 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 Scribe may scowl, the Pharisee may chide — But they will pardon who have once been tried. THE SEASON. 65 Yet did they 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. E 66 THE SEASON. Now might he write, and with unchallenged claim Fling at her feet the fulness of his fame. I saw that bright broad face shrink cold and hard : Blanche Darley's answer — Lady Vaux's card ! A first babe draining a young mother's breast, A little maid by father's hand caressed, Are not more pure, more sacred 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. THE SEASON. 67 Yet none could guess, save those alone 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. 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. 68 THE SEASON. In those vast lands first 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 ! " Stern to the last, stemmed the barbarian tide ; And if unconquering, unconquered died. But Blanche ? Oh ! surely the unblemished snow Was not more Hush ! Enough for you to know That she, who once such curt refusal gave To share Frank's bed, would gladly share his grave. THE SEASON. 69 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, 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 not adorns : 70 THE SEASON. Away ! away ! let sleep — such sleep as lies On Fashion's fagged yet feverish votaries — With lurements fresh to-morrow's limbs invest, And friendly paint and padding do the rest.' 7 Why further follow flogging Fashion's faults ? The Muse will flag, but Folly never halts. Write as I will, the rivalry of men Invents new vice to paralyse my pen. From class to class the mummery 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. c 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 quae modo visa placebant ; Nee corpus remanei." THE SEASON. J\ 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 downward, monitory rhymes Have but amused, and mended not the times. Yet in an Age when each one deftly hides The scorn he feels for every one besides, 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, n THE SEASON. 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. Perchance 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, Would you not say the fable of the grapes Fitted these censors in their sober shapes ? Not rich nor beggared, blase nor a child, By Folly's ways instructed, not beguiled, A guest sometimes where wit and mirth abound, And yet, thank God ! my head and stomach sound. THE SEASON. 7} Life still careering freely in my veins, And kindly smiles best guerdon of my pains, 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. 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 balks the hiss and sanctions the ap- plause. 74 THE SEASON. Mayhap— 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 sea-side 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. 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. There shall I surely the great lesson learn, To prize results, but recompense to spurn ; THE SEASON. 75 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. O blest Seclusion! heaven and earth combine To blend their glories, and to make them thine ! For thee Spring dries her tears — those sweet alarms — Conquers her coyness and unveils her charms. For thee the harvest, decked by Autumn's hand, Sways on the lap of the delighted land ; 76 THE SEASON. Just as — the day-toils over — you may see A fair-haired frolic girl on some proud father's knee. For thee, when Summer's festal day is done, In gracious splendour goes away the Sun, King with the purple glories round him furled, Casting his farewell largesse o'er the world. For thee the Moon on dark sequestered meres Sheds the mild lustre of celestial spheres. The spoiled and froward Ocean, all for thee, Now coaxed to love, now fretting to be free, With spume-fringed, scornful lip, and fierce delight, Hurls back defiance to rebuking Night ; Then, wearied babe on hushing parent's breast, On the soft sand-slope sobs itself to rest. THE SEASON. 77 This is my wealth : and this, thank Heaven, is such As Statesmen tax not, Envy cannot touch. My life is spent where real charms delight, Pure pastimes please, and simple joys excite, Far from the vapid glee, the restless rage, That jerks the puppets of your futile stage. I fear no Angel's sword ; no stern decree Bars the broad plains of Paradise to me. For me the Golden Gates stand open still ; I pass, and roam through Eden where I wilL FINIS. Extract from a Review by M. E. D. FORQUES of the Author's Works, in the " Revue des Deux Mondes," Sept. i$th, i865- UN ROMANCIER SATIRIQUE DE LA GRANDE-BRETAGNE. M. ALFRED AUSTIN. Parmi les jeunes e"crivains qui depuis trois ou quatre ans se sont fait un nom chez nos voisins d'outre-Manche, aucun n'est arrive plus vite que M. Alfred Austin a ce resultat essentiel. Des le premier pas, il etait au but, c'est-a-dire, qu'il s'etait fait connaitre, et, ce qui ajoutait a l'etrangete de cette bonne fortune exceptionnelle, c'est qu'il en etait redevable a une simple fantaisie de poete. Les poetes ne sont pas de nos jours habitues a faire tant de bruit, et bon nombre d'entre eux accepteraient pour salaire de longs traveaux cette renoramfe qu'un jeune satirique venait de conquerir en se presentant a ses con- temporains, comme Louis XIV devant le parlement ebahi, l'eperon sonnant, la cravache haute, en homme de haute race egare parmi des manans. II s'agissait tout simplement d'une satire, d'une satire de mceurs, et le scandale fut sans doute pour quelque chose dans le prompt eveil de la curiosite publique. Avouons que, sous ce rapport, bien des gens, parmi lesquels nous nous comptons h. regret, durent etre un peu desappointes. L'hyperbole poetique de M. Austin, dans ses licences les plus desordonnees, n'atteint pas, il s'en faut, aux cruautes du compte-rendu judiciaire. Le proces de lunatico intente au jeune Wyndham, par exemple, celui qui nous revelait hier encore, dans la personne de Miss Cross, jusqu'oii peuvent descendre les fantaisies conjugates d'une jeune personne bien nee, portent avec eux des enseignemens 8o plus terribles et jettent sur le desordre moral des classes aristocratiques en Angleterre un jour tout autrement vif que le " fouet de feu" dont le nouveau Juvenal avait cru se servir. Cette verge de feu etait tout simplement une cravache de gentleman maniee avec grace et discretion. Loin de cauteriser la plaie saignante, elle laissait a peine quelques vestiges sur l'epiderme environnant, et si quel- ques vivacites malsonnantes, — supprimees a la seconde edition, — purent motiver cette accusation, " qu'en voulant souffleter le vice le po£te avait fait rougir la vertu," somme toute, ces rougeurs ne durent naitre que sur des joues vir- ginales. En effet, les romanciers les plus accreditees dans leurs ouvrages les plus populaires, — Thackeray dans Vanity Fair, Dickens dans Hard Times, Bulwer lui-meme dans mainte de ses fictions avaient aborde le meme ordre d'idees, formula des griefs beaucoup plus graves, et donne a leur blame un relief au moins egal. Sous un seul rapport, de pure forme, leur successeur se distinguait d'eux. II avait pour lui un vers net, rapide, a l'accent byronien, rappelant tantot Pope et tantot Churchill, riche en antitheses et tout parfume de class- ique ambroisie. On ne peut done s'etonner que le poeme intitule The Season ait conquis du meme coup les privileges et subi les inconveniens d'une incontestable notoriety. A tout evenement, il ne nous parait ni premature^, ni sans profit possible, de nous occuper avec quelque detail des tentatives de M. Austin comme poete et comme ro- mancier. Le principal merite de ces ecrits satiriques est d'agiter des questions aujourd'hui pendantes, derepondre aux preoccupations contemporaines, de toucher a ce qui nous touche, et cela sous une forme toujours Elegante, quelquefois^ exquise.— Le me'rite secondaire est une sorte d'originalite cavaliere, — peut-etre plus affected que r^elle, — par laquelle ils tranchent sur le commun des productions que multipliele jeu regulier de l'industrie appliquee aux ceuvres de 1'esprit. De la deux motifs, dont un seul suffi- rait a la rigueur, pour leur accorder quelque attention. This book is DUE on the last date stamped below JUN 2 2 1933 OCT 8 t94 7 Form L-9-15m-7,'32 PR 4042 Austin - S43 The season. UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY AA 000 364 743 5