Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 98, February 1, 1890

Excerpt

UNTILED; OR, THE MODERN ASMODEUS.

"Très volontiers," repartit le démon. "Vous aimez les tableaux changeans: je veux vous contenter."
Le Diable Boiteux.

XVIII.

"'Mrs. Mæcenas!' So some would-be wit
Dubbed the fair dame. The title may not fit
With accurate completeness;
It soars some shades too high, this modishmot,
As 'Mrs.Lyon-Hunter' sinks too low;
Both nick-names fail in neatness.
"The 'acu tetigisti,' tribute rare,
Not oft is earned, in Fleet Street or Mayfair,
In these hot days of hurry.
Salons, Symposia, both have met their doom,
And wit, in the Victorian drawing-room,
Finds a fell foe in flurry."
So spake the Shadow, with the covert sneer
That struck so coldly on the listening ear.
Soft was his speech, as muffled
By some chill atmosphere surcharged with snow,
In unemphatic accents, level, low,
Unhasting and unruffled.
"Mrs.Mæcenas, then, noHoracefinds
In all her muster of superior minds,
Her host of instant heroes?
That's hard!" I said. "She does not greatly care,"
My guide rejoined. "Behold her seated there!
Her court's as full asNero's.
"Senecastands beside her. He's a prim,
Sententious sage. If she is bored by him,
The lady doth not show it.
But there's a furtive glancing of her eye
Toward the entry. There comesMarx M'Kay,
The Socialistic Poet.
"His lyric theories mean utter smash
To all his hostess cares for. Crude and rash,
But musically 'precious.'
His passionate philippics against Wealth
Mammon's own daughters read, 'tis said, by stealth,
And vote them 'quite delicious!'
"All that makes life worth living to the throng
Of worshippers who mob this Son of Song,
Money, Monopoly, Merriment,
He bans and blazes at in 'Diræ' dread;
But then they know his Muse is merely Red
In metrical experiment.
"Well-dressed and well-to-do, the flaming Bard
Finds life in theory only harsh and hard.
Hischevelurelooks shaggy,
But his black broad-cloth's glossy and well-brushed,
And he'd feel wretched if his tie were crushed,
His trousers slightly baggy.
"Karl Marxin metre orLassallein verse,
The vampire-horde of Capital he'll curse,
And praise the Proletariat;
But having thus delivered his bard-soul,
He finds it, practically, nice to loll
WithDivesin his chariot.
"Lyrical Communism will not fright
Those 'Molochs of the Mart' this Son of Light
Keeps his poetic eye on.
'Who takes a Singerau grand sérieux?'
Mrs.Mæcenasasks. So he's on view,
Her Season's latest lion.
"But not alone," I said. "If all this host
Are right authentic Leos, she must boast
As potent charm asCirce's.
What is her wand? Is't wit, or wealth, or both?"
"Listen! That'sMumpsthe mimic, nothing loth,
Rolling outVamper'sverses!
"Vamperlooks on and smiles with veiled delight.
Boredom's best friends are fellows who recite.
None like, not many listen,
But all must make believe to stand about
And watch a man gesticulate and shout,
With eyes that glare and glisten.
"'Tis hard indeed to hold in high esteem
The man who mouths outEugene Aram's Dream
In guttural tones and raucous.
All these have heard a hundred times before
Young Vox, the vain and ventriloquial bore
They'd fain despatch to Orcus....