Excerpt
"'The Humours of the Town!' Archaic phrase,
Breathing of Brummel and the dandy days
Of curly hats and gaiters!
'Humours' seem rarer now, at least by night,
In this strange world of gilt and garish light,
And bibulous wits and waiters."
So I. The Shadow smiled. "There's food for mirth
In every nook of the sun-circling earth
That human foot hath trodden.
Man, the great mime, must move the Momus vein,
Whether he follow fashion or the wain,
In ermine or in hodden.
"A City of Strange Meetings! Motives strong
Why men in well-dressed multitudes should throng,
Abundant are and various.
Strongest, perhaps, the vague desire to meet;
No animal as Man so quick to greet,
So aimlessly gregarious.
"In Council, Caucus, Causerie, there's an aim
Which many know and some might even name;
But see yon motley muster,
Like shades in Eblis wandering up and down!
Types there of every 'Show Class' in the Town
Elbow and glide and cluster."
I see long rooms, en suite, with lofty walls,
And portières sombre as Egyptian palls;
I hear the ceaseless scuffle
Of many trim-shod feet; the thin sweet sound
Of stricken strings which faintly echoes round
Those draperied vistas muffle.
Susurrus of a hundred voices blent
In the bland buzz of cultured chat; intent
Set faces mutely watching
From cushioned corner or from curtained nook;
Hands that about old ears attentive crook,
The latest scandal catching.
Cold rock-hewn countenances, shaven clean,
Hard lips, and eyes alert with strength and spleen;
Visages vain and vapid,
All wreathed with the conventional bland smile
That covers weary scorn or watchful guile,
Shift here in sequence rapid.
"Why is this well-dressed mob thus mustered here?"
I asked my guide. "On every face a sneer
"Curls—when it is not smirking.
Scorn of each other seems the one sole thing
In which they sympathise, the asp whose sting
Midst flowery talk is lurking."
"Friend, mutual mockery, masked as mutual praise,
Is a great social bond in these strange days.
Rochefoucauld here might gather
Material for new maxims keen and cold.
They meet, these convives, if the truth be told,
For boredom and bland blather.
"Royston's Reception,—ah! yes; beastly bore!
But must drop in for half an hour, no more.
The usual cram,—one knows it.
Big pudding with a few peculiar "plums."
Everyone kicks, but everybody comes.
Don't quite know how he does it!'
"So Snaggs, the slangy cynic. See him there
With pouching shirt-front and disordered hair,
Talking to Cramp the sturdy,
Irreverent R. A. And he,—that's Joyce,
The shaggy swart Silenus, with a voice
Much like a hurdy-gurdy.
"You see him everywhere, though none knows why;
Every hand meets his grip, though every eye
Furtively hints abhorrence.
Society's a gridiron; fools to please,
Wise men must sometimes lie as ill at ease
As might a new St. Lawrence."
A buzz, a bustle! How the crowd makes way,
And parts in lines as on some pageant day!
'Tis the Great Man, none other,
"Bland, beaming, bowing quick to left and right;
One hour he'll deign to give from his brief night
To flattery, fuss and pother....