MRS. RABOTHEM'S PARTY.

'When we are alone with nature, the feeling of the infinite forces itself irresistibly upon us. When the universe with its inexhaustible variety opens before us, when we contemplate the myriads of stars moving in ever-mystic harmony through the limitless immensity of space, when we gaze upon the ocean mingling with the sky in the boundless distance of the far horizon, when the earth and sea are rocked into profound calm, and creation itself seems wrapped in mystic contemplation—an undefinable feeling of melancholy seizes upon us, unknown desires awaken in the soul, they seem to call us into other countries far beyond the limits of the known—must it not then be the vague feeling after, the dim longing for, the infinite, which at such moments we feel strangely stirring in the calm depths of the divining soul?'

We find the same yearning breathingthrough the following beautiful poem of Mrs. Osgood's:

'As plains the home-sick ocean shellFar from its own remembered sea,Repeating, like a fairy spell,Of love, the charmed melodyIt learned within that whispering wave,Whose wondrous and mysterious toneStill wildly haunts its winding caveOf pearl, with softest music-moan—'So asks my home-sick soul below,For something loved, yet undefined;So mourns to mingle with the flowOf music from the Eternal Mind;So murmurs, with its childlike sigh,The melody it learned above,To which no echo may replySave from thy voice, Eternal Love!'

It is to his fervent and fiery expression of this longing for the infinite, characterizing, whether pure or perverted, almost the whole of Byron's poetry, breaking out sometimes in imprecations and despair, and not to his immorality, that his great popularity is to be attributed. Even in the midst of the most unhappy scepticism, it was the haunting passion of his soul. Alas! that this longing for the food of heaven should have been fed on husks until the lower rungs of the heaven ladder became so covered with the corruption of matter and fiery sparks of evil, that it seemed rather meant for the foul feet of demons, than for the elastic tread of the redeemed human soul to God! We quote from him in proof:

'Blue rolls the water, blue the skySpreads like an ocean hung on high,Bespangled with those isles of light,So wildly, spiritually bright;Who ever gazed upon them shiningNor turned to earth without repining,Nor wished for wings to flee away,And mix with their eternal ray?''Oh, thou beautifulAnd unimaginable ether! andYe multiplying masses of increasedAnd still increasing lights! what are ye?WhatIs this blue wilderness of interminableAir, wherein ye roll along as I have seenThe leaves along the limpid streams ofEden?Is your course measured for ye? or do yeSweep on in your unbounded revelryThrough an aerial universe of endlessExpansion, at which my soul aches to think—Intoxicated with eternity?''All heaven and earth are still—though not in sleep,And breathless, as we grow when feeling most;And silent, as we stand in thoughts too deep;—All heaven and earth are still: from the high hostOf stars, to the lulled lake and mountain coast,All is concentred in a life intense,Where not a beam, nor air, nor leaf is lost,But hath a part of being, and a senseOf that which is of all Creator and Defence.'Then stirs thefeeling infinite, so feltIn solitude, where we are least alone;A truth, which through our being then doth melt,And purify from self: it is a toneThe soul and source of music, which makes knownEternal harmony, and sheds a charm,Like to the fabled Cytherea's zone,Binding all things with beauty; 'twould disarmThe spectre Death, had he substantial power to harm.'

In some of the most forcible lines ever penned, Byron has given us the whole psychological analysis of the effects of human passion, when, in its insane perversion, and misdirected thirst for the infinite, it pours upon the dust that love and worship which is due to God alone. No one who has thus sinned, will refuse to acknowledge their force and truth. Fearful in their Medusa-like beauty, they fascinate the heart, only to turn its warm pulses into ice. They are actually withering in their despair. Poor Byron! did he never, never cry with the repentant but happy St. Augustin: 'Oh, eternal beauty! too late have I known thee!'

'Alas! our young affections run to waste,Or water but the desert; whence ariseBut weeds of dark luxuriance, tares of haste,Rank at the core, though tempting to the eyes,Flowers whose wild odors breathe but agonies,And trees whose gums are poison; such the plantsWhich spring beneath her steps, as Passion fliesO'er the world's wilderness, and vainly pantsFor somecelestial fruitforbidden to our wants.'O Love! no habitant of earth thou art—An unseen seraph, we believe in thee;A faith whose martyrs are the broken heart,But never yet hath seen, nor e'er shall seeThe naked eye, thy form, as it should be;The mind hath made thee, as it peopled heavenEven with its own desiring phantasy,And to a thought such shape and image given,As haunts the unquenched soul—parched—wearied—wrung and riven.'Of its own beauty is the mind diseased,And fevers into false creation:—where,Where are the forms the sculptor's soul hath seized?In him alone. Can Nature show so fair?Where are the charms and virtues which we dareConceive in boyhood and pursue as men,The unreached Paradise of our despair,Which o'er informs the pencil and the pen,And overpowers the page where it would bloom again?'Who loves, raves—'tis youth's frenzy—but the cureIs bitterer still; as charm by charm unwindsWhich robed our idols, and we see too sureNor worth nor beauty dwells from out the mind'sIdeal shape of such; yet still it bindsThe fatal spell, and still it draws us on,Reaping the whirlwind from the oft-sown winds;The stubborn heart, its alchemy begun,Seems ever near the prize—wealthiest when most undone.'We wither from our youth, we gasp away—Sick—sick; unfound the boon—unslaked the thirst,Though to the last, in verge of our decaySome phantom lures, such as we sought at first—But all too late, so are we doubly cursed.Love, fame, ambition, avarice—'tis the same,Each idle—and all ill—and none the worst—For all are meteors with a different name,And Death the sable smoke where vanishes the flame.'Few—none—find what they love or could have loved,Though accident, blind contact, and the strongNecessity of loving, have removedAntipathies—but to recur, ere long,Envenomed with irrevocable wrong;And circumstance, that unspiritual godAnd miscreator, makes and helps alongOur coming evils with a crutch-like rod,Whose touch turns hope to dust—the dust we all have trod.'Our life is a false nature—'tis not inThe harmony of things,—this hard decree,This uneradicable taint of sin,This boundless Upas, this all blasting tree.Whose root is earth, whose leaves and branches beThe skies which rain their plagues on men like dew—Disease—death—bondage—all the woes we see—And worse—the woes we see not—which throb throughThe immedicable soul, with heartaches ever new.'

Again:

'What is the worst? Nay, do not ask—In pity from the search forbear:Smile on—nor venture to unmaskMan's heart, and view the hell that's there!'

Merciful God! how men suffer when they fly from Thee. When they refuse to listen to the sublime voice implanted within, which calls them to Thee, forever reminding them that they were made for things infinite, eternal! O ye men of pleasure, it is the very greatness of your nature which torments you: there is nothing save God capable of filling the immeasurable depths of your longing! How different the language of Klopstock, as already quoted: 'What recompense could I ask? I have tasted the cup of angels in singing of my Redeemer!'

One of the most dangerous, yet most brilliant among the novelists of the present day, says:

'Properly speaking, love is not a violent aspiration of every faculty toward a created being; it is rather a holy thirst of the most ethereal part of our being for the unknown. Tormented with intuitions of an eternal love,filled with torturing and insatiate desires for the infinite, we vainly seek their gratification in the dying forms which surround us, and obstinately adorn our perishable idols with that immaterial beauty which haunts our dreams. The emotions of the senses do not suffice us; in the treasure house of the simple joys of nature there is nothing sufficiently exquisite to fill our high demands; we would fain grasp heaven, and it is not within our reach. Then we seek it in a creature fallible as ourselves; we expend upon it all the high energies given us for far nobler ends. We refuse to worship God, and kneel before a worm like ourselves! But when the veil falls, when we see behind the clouds of incense and the halos woven by love, only a miserable and imperfect creature—we blush for our delusion, overturn our idol in our despair, and trample it rudely under foot. But as we must love, and will not give our hearts to God, for whom they were created, we seek another idol—and are again deceived! Through this bitter, bitter school we are purified and enlightened, until, abandoning all hope of finding perfection on earth, we are at last ready to offer God that pure, but now broken-hearted worship, which should never have been given save to Him alone.'—George Sand.

Thus is it that 'love's best interpreter is still a sigh.'

Let him who would in safety delight his soul with mystic intuitions of the infinite, turn to that most exquisite of all poems, the Apocalypse, for 'blessed is he that readeth and heareth the words of this prophecy, and keepeth those things which are written in it.' St. Jerome says 'it contains as many mysteries as words'—as many truths as mysteries—and these truths are all revelations of the infinite. 'Be thou faithful unto death, and I will give thee the crown of life,' says He who can bring thee into that heavenly city which needeth no temple: 'For the Lord God Almighty is the temple thereof, and the Lamb! And the city hath no need of the sun, nor of the moon to shine in it. For the glory of God hath enlightened it, and the Lamb is the lamp of it.' There shall we feed upon the infinite!

The pantheisticfeelinginto which the imaginative mind so readily falls, is thus sketched by a poet of our own times:

'I seated myself, after sunset, by the water's side; nothing was to be heard save the dash of the waves as they broke upon the lonely shore; and I gradually fell into that state so well known among solitary travellers:—no distinct remembrance of my own separate being remained to me: I seemed to be but a part of some great whole, to undulate with the lake, to vegetate with the trees, to sigh with the winds, to blossom with the flowers.'

This feeling of the infinite so pervaded antiquity, that man almost lost the consciousness of his own personality in the immensity of the universe, regarding himself but as an element of the absolute unity of the world. His imagination fell into profound reverie, he felt himself but as an integral part of a universal movement drawing all things to a single centre, confounding all beings with one sole substance. We have only to open the Vedas to convince ourselves how deeply this feeling pervaded the early philosophy of the Hindoos. For example:

'Brahma is eternal, the only substantial being, revealing himself in happiness and joy. The universe is his name, his image; this primal existence, containing all in itself, is the only one substantially existing. All phenomena have their cause in Brahma: he is not subjected to the conditions of time and space. He is imperishable; he is the soul of the world; the soul of every individual being. The universe is Brahma—it comes from Brahma—it subsists in Brahma—Bramah, or the sole self-existing being, is the form of all science, the form of systems of worlds, without end forever. The universes of stars are one with him; they have no being but as they exist in the supremacy of his will. This eternal will is the central heart of all that is. It reveals itself in creation, in preservation, in destruction, in motion, in rest, in space, in time.'

Such an absorption of all things in the infinite, with the consequent lossof personality, individuality, and all moral responsibility, had a most depressing effect upon the character of the people who embraced this strange system. This is so manifest that it may be plainly read in the sombre character of their architectural remains.

'In their subterranean, vast, and dim excavations; in the gigantic proportions of their colossal architecture, always impressing us with sadness and with the nothingness of man; in their long, still, damp, dreary cities of sepulchres; in their half-shrouded and mummy-like statues, which, in their corpse-like immobility, seem struck with eternal death, or in slowly detaching themselves in their vast and unfinished forms from primeval and gigantic rocks, grow into a kind of dull, embryonic, and stagnant life, far more abhorrent than death itself—do we not clearly recognize the idea of the infinite absorbing all things into itself, crushing the soaring spirit of man under a blind fatalism, robbing him of all hope and aim in life, of the dignity of personal effort and moral responsibility, presenting as the only aim of all his glowing desires, the utter absorption of his own individuality in the bosom of the limitless whole—thus reducing the vivid action of his varied life to the stillness of the grave, without its repose?'

It is a strange fact, which we will view more closely when we treat of Unity, that the quest for variety which led men into polytheism, or the fractioning of the Deity into false and wicked gods and goddesses, necessarily forced man to the creation of a Fate, to which Jupiter himself was subjected, more blind, more crushing, more appalling to the imagination (because while retaining his entire individuality, man was yet forced to submit to its irrational and pitiless decrees) than was even the hopeless fatalism consequent upon the pantheistic absorption of the East.

What a step from the vague yet crushing, abstract yet deadening dreaming of a fearful and misinterpreted infinite; from the cruel rigors of an unreasoning and implacable fate—to that full revelation that the Infinite is apersonalGod, cognizant of the human, gifting it with a free will to choose good or evil, and united with it in mercy and love through the mystic life and still more mystic death of the Divine Redeemer!

In sculpture, the thirst for the infinite is manifest in the various statues of the gods which it has given us; in painting, an art more closely related to Christianity, in the numberless figures of angels and heads of cherubs, in the countless pictures upon holy subjects with which it has presented us. The marble speaks, the canvas glows with human aspirations toward the infinite.

It is certainly a very significant fact, too, that there must be a point of escape in every picture, a window to let in the light, a glimpse of the sky: an idea ofdistancemust in some way be given, or the painting will oppress us like a prison. No amount of beauty in a nearer form will make us content to remain with it, so long as we are shut down to it alone, nor is any form so cold but that we may look upon it with kindness, so that it rise against the infinite light of hope beyond. Gaze into Vernet's pictures: always sunrises or sunsets, calms or tempests, nights of moonlight, misty horizons in which it is quite impossible to distinguish the limiting lines—the infinite is always suggested in them: hence their hold upon the popular imagination.

It is really wonderful in how many ways this feeling appeals to us; it seems to be the background of our whole finite being. Saint Pierre says:

'The reason of the pleasure we experience in the sight of an immense tree, springs from the feeling of the infinite which is excited in us by its pyramidal form. The decrease in the different tiers of its branches; the infinitesimal gradations in its shades of green, always lighter at the extremity of the tree than in the rest of its foliage—give it an elevation apparently without limit. We experience the samesensations in the horizontal lines of landscapes, where we see row after row of hills unrolling one behind the other, until the last appears to melt into the blue of the distant heavens. Nature seems to love to produce the same effect upon extended plains or rolling prairies through the means of the mists and vapors so frequently rising from the bosoms of lakes and rivers. Sometimes these mists hang like curtains along the skirts of isolated forests, sometimes they rise like armed columns, and move in serried ranks along the beds of rivers; sometimes they are gray, gloomy, and motionless, sometimes moving with startling rapidity; their sombre hues changing into glowing rose, or penetrated and permeated with the glittering and golden light of the sun. Under all these shifting aspects they open for us perspective after perspective of the infinite into the infinite itself.'

Indeed nature seems never wearied in her varied suggestions of the infinite. Ruskin says, Is not the pleasure we receive from the effects of calm and luminous distance at the hour of sunset and sunrise among the most memorable and singular of which we are conscious; and is not all that is dazzling in color, perfect in form, gladdening in expression, of evanescent and shallow appealing when compared with the still small voice of the level twilight behind purple hills, or the scarlet arch of dawn over the dark and troublous edged sea? Almost all poets and painters have depicted sunrises and sunsets; every heart responds—there must then be something in them of a peculiar character, which must be one of the primal and most earnest motives of beauty to human sensation. Do they show us finer characters of form than can be developed by the broader daylight? Not so—for their power is almost independent of the forms they assume or display; it matters little whether the bright clouds be simple or manifold, whether the mountain line be subdued or majestic; the fairer forms of earthly things are by them subdued and disguised, the round and muscular growth of the forest trunks is sunk into skeleton lines of quiet shade, the purple clefts of the hillside are labyrinthed in the darkness, the orbed spring and whirling wave of the torrent have given place to a white, ghastly, interrupted gleaming. Have they more perfection or fulness of color? Not so—for their effect is often deeper when their hues are dim than when they are blazoned with crimson and pale gold; and assuredly in the blue of the rainy sky, in the many tints of morning flowers, in the sunlight on summer foliage and field, there are more sources of mere sensuous color-pleasure than in the single streak of the wan and dying light of sunset. It is not then by nobler form, it is not by positiveness of hue, it is not by intensity of light, that this strange distant apace possesses its attractive power. But there is one thing which it has or suggests, which no other object of sight suggests in an equal degree, and that is—infinity. It is of all visible things the least material, the least finite, the farthest withdrawn from the earth prison-house, the most typical of the nature of God, the most suggestive of the glory of His dwelling place. For the sky of the night, though we may know it is boundless, is dark; it is a studded vault, a roof that shuts us in and down; but the transparent distance of sunrise and sunset has no limit; we feel its infinity as we rejoice in its purity of light. That this has been deeply felt by artists, is evident in their works.

'And can the sun so rise,So bright, so rolling back the clouds intoVapors more lovely than the unclouded sky,With golden pinnacles and snowy mountains,And billows purpler than the ocean's, makingIn heaven a glorious mockery of the earth,So like, we almost deem it permanent,So fleeting, we can scarcely call it aughtBeyond a vision, 'tis so transientlyScattered along the eternal vault; and yetIt dwells upon the soul, and soothes the soul,And blends itself into the soul, untilSunset and sunrise form the haunted epochOf sorrow and of love; which they who mark notKnow not the realm where these twin genii(Who chasten and who purify our hearts,So that we would not change their sweet rebukesFor all the boisterous joys that ever shookThe air with clamor) build the palacesWhere their fond votaries repose and breatheBriefly;—but in that brief cool calm inhaleEnough of heaven to enable them to bearThe rest of common, heavy, human hours,And dream them through in placid sufferance.'Byron.

No work of art in which this expression of infinity is possible, can be very elevated without it; and in proportion to its presence it will exalt and render impressive themes in themselves tame and trivial. If we will but think of it, it is very strange in how many unexpected places we shall find it lurking: for example, the painter of portraits is unhappy without his conventionalwhitestroke under the sleeve or beside the armchair; the painter of interiors feels like a caged bird unless he can throw a window open or set a door ajar; the landscapist dare not lose himself in the forest without a gleam of light under its farthest branches, nor ventures out in the rain unless he may somewhere pierce to a better promise in the distance, or cling to some closing gap of variable blue above—escape from the finite—hope—infinity—by whatever conventionalism sought—thedesireis the same in all.

Our ideas of beauty are intuitive, and it is only in a dim way that we read the types, the powers for whoseimmediatecognition we lost in the fall; but it is certain that acurveof any kind is far more agreeable to us than a right line; may not the reason of this fact be: every curve divides itself infinitely by its changes of direction?

What curvature is to lines, gradation is to shade and color; it is their infinity—dividing them into an infinite number of degrees.

Such examples might be indefinitely multiplied, but having placed thekeyin the hands of the reader, we leave him to unlock the treasure houses of suggestive thought, which he will find profusely lying in his daily paths. This key will not only open for him many of the rarest caskets in which art stores her gems, but will also unclose some of the ineffable wonders of God's mystically tender creation. 'My son, give me thy heart!' is written in God's own hand on everything He hath made.

'To me, the meanest flower that blows can giveThoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.'

The absence of that mental vision which unites the visible to the invisible is not only ruinous to the art of the present age, but also to its faith, and, consequently, to its happiness. Thousands, feeling themselves in a narrow world while they unceasingly long for the infinite, rush into rash and wicked suicide, that they may thus escape from the contradictions and complicated pangs of the finite. The rays of light from the everlasting sun of wisdom and love are indeed forever falling round us, but we no longer bear the prism of faith which would decompose them for us, giving them such direction as they fall upon the symbolic, the relative, that we might read in their three-fold splendor the symbolized, the Absolute. The human soul was created for the enjoyment of God, and, consequently, touches the infinite at every point, and the health and well being of the spirit are far more concerned in its exploration than in any of the vaunted discoveries which it is at present making for the comfort of the body in the material world.

As the limits of the horizon are constantly enlarging before the eyes of one who ascends a mountain, so does the moral world, of which the physical is but the symbol, unroll its immense perspectives of light and love before the gaze of the rapt seeker of truth.

'Deep love lieth underThese secrets of time;They fade in the light ofTheir meaning sublime.'

The infinite is the vast background from which all life projects; upon whose unity the immense variety of the world is sketched. As understood or sought by the finite, it is the central fire, the burning heart of art; it is thelastline in all our horizons; thelastshade in all our colors; thelastnote in all our concerts; the alpha and omega of all true genius. It aspires in the last sigh of the mortal as he lingeringly leaves its dim manifestations upon earth: it lightens in the first smile of the immortal as its full fruition greets him in the presence of his God!

'I am alpha and omega, the first and the last, the beginning and the end. To him that thirsteth, I will give of the water of life freely.'

There dwelleth in sumptuous state and in GothamA merchant of character surnamed Rabothem.His wife, once a letterless rustic in Needham,Now leadeth the circles of great Upper-Threedom.[12]There's nothing surprising in such a transition;For many a creature, of humbler positionIn the scale of creation, can shift its condition.For instance, the wriggling, despised pollywogIn time may become a respectable frog;Then, perched on a stump, he may croak his disdainAt former companions, who never can gainHis present distinguished, sublime elevation,So greatly above their inferior station.And so, too, a worm, though the meanest of things,Becomes a most beautiful creature with wings,That bear it for many a sunshiny hourThrough redolent meadows, from flower to flower.And surely if changes like these may occur,Ye men who have reason, how could ye demurAt change in superior orders of nature?And least in a species so sure to create yourFelicity (if it is not the reverse:In such an event she is rather a curse).No one, that possesses a spark of the human,Would think of opposing the progress of woman;But all would be happy when one of her kindA sphere more refined and exalted should find—Should gracefully 'merge from a chrysalis state,To bask in the light of a loftier fate.But (those hateful digressions, I heartily loathe 'em)I was telling you something of Mrs. Rabothem.She's a mouthpiece of Fashion. Whatever she wears,The closest and carefullest scrutiny bears;And, backed by her husband's munificent pile,Whatever she does is accomplished in style.A wonderful party was given one seasonBy this excellent dame, for the excellent reasonThat wonderful parties were greatly in vogue,And a man was accounted as worse than a rogueWhose wife did not follow the prevalent fashion,And make what is commonly known as 'a dash' inThe choicest society found in the city.(That the choice is not better is more than a pity.)The writer, who happened to be a relationTo Mrs. Rabothem, though lower in station,Was blest in receiving a kind invitation—A delicate note, with a delicate scent on,Whose accurate, well-chosen sentences went on,In gentlest of terms, to 'solicit the favor,'Et cetera, and so on. She couldn't, to save her,Have been any more condescending; and soI gratefully reached the decision to go.And yet my decision was quite a concession,As I'll have to explain by another digression,In which, at the cost of some time and chirography,I'll give you a taste of an autobiography.And in its beginning, 'tis proper to stateThat, somehow, it chanced to be part of my fateTo be born far remote from the populous town,And therefore, perhaps, I've a spice of the clown.Be this as it may, I acquired a tasteFor joys which, though simple, are equally chaste.In rural employments expended, my yearsKnew not the unnatural pleasures, nor fears,Which fall to the fortune of one who is bredWhere men on unwholesome excitements are fed,And horrible vices their poisons distil;Where Peace, from her home on the verdure-crowned hill,The whispering grove, or the tapestried mead,With the bright troop of blessings that follow her lead,Comes seldom to gladden the wearisome hours,And raise to new vigor the languishing powers,But when I arrived at the age of discretion(I find I must hasten my rambling digression),With the popular error my mind was deludedThat life is not life from the city excluded;So I followed the bent of my new inclination,With the liveliest hopes of improving my station.'Twas easy deciding, and easy to do it;'Tis easy, when thinking it over, to rue it.To Gotham the writer with joy was transported,Where people in lots, either mixed or assorted,Are found in abundance, 'kept always on hand,'Of every conceivable texture and brand;Exposed at the mart and awaiting their sale,Like the cotton that lies in the corpulent bale.A thousand of such may be bought in a trice—Some dearly, and some at a moderate price.I mingled among them; I met them on 'Change,And elsewhere, and surely it isn't so strangeIf sometimes, contracting to buy or to sell,Ishouldbe contracting their habits as well.But, though the temptations about me were rife,I kept from the perils of 'fash'nable life,'So that, at the time when my story begins,I never had placed in the list of my sins(Though often invited, declining each call)The crime of attending a party or ball.For, early in life, I was taught to believeThat pleasures are pitfalls prepared to deceiveBy wily old Satan (who constantly triesTo catch you by throwing his dust in your eyes,Thus, blinding his victim, securing his prize);That the dance is a maelstrom, where sinners are whirledAround a few times, and then suddenly hurledFrom daylight to darkness, from pleasure to woe,From terrestrial regions, to regions—below:But now was afforded a fine opportunityFor taking some pleasure with perfect impunity;—Ostensibly pleasing a worthy relation,But really seeking a gratification.I went, and, arriving at nine of the clock,I found that the guests werebeginningto flock.I could but conclude—though 'twas early, they said—That when folks go to parties they should go—to bed.Ere long the magnificent parlors were throngedBy radiant beauties and gents, who belongedTo the circles composed of the loftyélite,Whose presumption or pride 'twere not easy to beat.'Twas a splendid, a gorgeous, a 'glorious' sightTo be viewed in that parlor on that winter night.There were beaux, who the finest of broadcloth were dressed in—Invested in vestments they always invest in—And belles, who assisted to fill up the sceneWith roods upon roods of their huge crinoline.Such flounces! they seemed to my wondering eyesLike Alps upon Alps that in majesty rise.The costliest jewels and handsomest lacesImparted their charms to embellish their graces.And the men seemed to float through the mazes of girls,Like sharks in an ocean of mermaids and pearls.But soon, as the evening began to advance,A movement was made to engage in a dance;And, being invited to join in a set,With a young demoiselle whom I never had met,I took a position to dance with the rest,And soon I was doing the thing with a zest.For an hour the divinest sensations were mine;But then my enjoyment commenced to decline.In halting to rest, I but wearied the more,So I finally 'vowed that the dance was a bore.Exhausted at length, I collapsed in a chair,And studied the various characters there.Together they formed a remarkable show;For further particularsvidebelow.There was Trickster, a merchant of physical leanness,Distinguished alike for his means and his meanness;And Sharper, a lawyer, with manners as courtly,And practice as large, as his person was portly.There was Aderman Michaels, the head of his faction,Who had learned, it was whispered, the rule of subtraction,And practised it often in 'grinding his axes,'Which helped to account for the rise in the taxes.And there was a man with a rubicund nose,As bright as the bud of an opening rose,Disclosing a liking to 'live and be merry,'With a strong fellow feeling for brandy and sherry.And then there was one with elongated face,Who seemed to have made a mistake in the place.Not a jest, nor a pleasure, was known to beguileHis lugubrious countenance into a smile;But he moved through the dance, from beginning to end,Like a man on his way to the grave of a friend.Again, there was Simpkins, a clerk and a fop,Who sported a very luxuriant cropOf whiskers, cut clearly for 'cutting a dash,'And flanked by a stylishly twisted mustache,Adorning the uppermost part of the gashIn his meaningless face, like a regular hedgeOf russety foliage skirting the edgeOf a cavern, containing a prominent ledgeOf rocky projections, above and below(Though the charge was not 'cast in his teeth,' as I know).Arrayed, with intent to astonish the vision,In garments whose 'set' was the pink of precision;—His chain was of workmanship costly and cunning,And the stone on his bosom was really stunning.The taste of which no one could doubt his possession,Had found in his waistcoat a fitting expression;Nor less in his neck tie, 'a neat institution,'And collar, which threatened to do execution.A marvel, indeed—from the soles of his bootsTo the hair, that was scented and greased to its roots—A something for silly young damsels to scan,And sighingly say—'What a love of a man!'And then there was one sentimental young man,Got up on a rather irregular planOf features and form, with a wandering air,A collar Byronic, and very long hair.'Twas whispered about—'He's a genius and poet;And as for myself, I was happy to know it,For a package of genuine mental precocityIs certainly always a great curiosity,And worthy the cost and the toil of a visit—Like Barnum's astonishing creature—'What is it?'(A good advertisement for Phineas, that is,And kind of the author to put it in gratis:I hope he'll observe my benign disposition,And send for the season a card of admission.)Of course there was that unavoidable myth,Who is everywhere known by thenomenof Smith—For there never was aught in the way of sensation,From a horrible crime to a great celebration,But that somehow, before they had time to get through with itMr. Smith has had something or other to do with it.Now Smith was a sensible sort of a fellow,With a beard that in color was nearest a yellow,And a visage denoting his faith in the creedThat man is a creature intended to feed.Another one still we must certainly mention—'Tis Mr. McFudgins, who claims our attention.In mould of plebeian he never was cast(His caste was of gentlemen, wealthy and 'fast').Not noted for morals, nor even sobriety,He always had moved in the 'highest society.'I had seen him so 'high' as to hiccough and stutter,And once I had noticed him low in the gutter;Yet he was a 'very respectable' man;And into whatever excesses he ran,His riches and impudence safely would carry him,And plenty of ladies were dying to marry him.The ladies assembled were wondrously fine(Young Sentimentality called them 'divine').So graceful and pleasing, I could but confessNot one of the galaxy wanted address(For dress was abundant, nor lacking in taste,Though the waist was reduced, there was plenty of waste).My attention was called to a dashing young widow,Whose husband, when living, knew not what hedidowe;For he helped her attempt to keep up with the fashion,Which hurried him on to a terrible crash inHis business, which tended to shorten his lifeAnd the means that were left to his sorrowing wife.She, taken in charge by a wealthy relation,Still lived in the style that befitted her station;Displaying her charms with astonishing care,In hopes of enticing a man to her snare,Who, struck by her beauty, might hasten to court her,Then marry, and afterward finely support her.Of many, whose fortunes were said to be ample,Miss Lily De Lusian may serve as a sample:She'd a smatter of French, and a languishing air,While of sense she possessed but a limited share.She played the piano remarkably well,And by all of her friends was considered a belle.And perhaps it was so, for she certainly 'told,'In the set where she moved, on account of her gold.And then there was old Mr. Spriggins's daughter,Who wondered that no one in marriage had sought her(A trivial bait would have easily caught her);And now she had reached the mysterious ageWhen maidens are far less attractive than sage.By staying so long, she had come to be staid,And appeared to be doomed to be always a maid.The generous hostess was all in her glory—A fact it is fair to infera priori—The costly apparel in which she paradedWas the best to be found in the store where she traded(The splendid establishment kept by a peerAnd the ninth of a man, as is ever so clear,If you only will notice the names on their palace—A fact that is stated with nothing of malice;For a Lord and a Taylor no doubt you will findA match for two men of the average kind).She moved through the rooms with a beautiful dignity,Conversing with all with the greatest benignity;Convincing her guests of a flow of geniality,As great as the stream of her large hospitality.Her dutiful husband was close at her side;And, though in his house, it could scarce be denied,He wasn't 'at home,' in the splutter and jargon,As much as in driving an excellent bargain.He suited his wife pretty well, for, at times,She found he was useful to furnish 'the dimes.'The most of his value she found in his pocket,And now he was playing the Stick to the Rocket.But while I was noting the forms and the facesOf those who were present—their faults and their graces—Reposing my arm on a volume of Tupper,I was startled to hear the announcement of 'Supper.'Rejoiced at the news of a change in the bill,I sprang from my seat with an excellent will,Presented my arm to a feminine guest,And marched to a neighboring room with the rest.O Ceres and Bacchus! would I were but ableTo picture e'en faintly the scene on the table!There was every conceivable thing, beyond question,That could tickle the palate and ruin digestion.Of course there were oysters in various styles,And sandwiches ranged in appropriate piles;And turkey was present in lavish abundance,And of lobster there seemed to be quite a redundance.The cakes on the board were amazingly nice—The largest encased in their saccharine ice,While some, that with nuts or with fruit were embellished,Expectant appeared to be tasted and relished.The light was reflected in many a gleamFrom mountains of jelly and towers of cream,With castles of Russes (I'd scorn to enlarge)Which, like Yorktown, were taken without any charge.And then there were several baskets of fruit—Of such as were held in the highest repute—With nuts, that in reckless profusion were stacked,And (like most of the jokes) had already been cracked.The liquors were all of the costliest brands(They had all been obtained at 'respectable stands');And as quickly were bottles deprived of champagne,As ever were clouds of their treasures of rain.Some lauded the Heidsick, while others concurredIn the settled opinion that 'Mumm' was the word.The sires and the matrons, the lads and the lasses,Were pledging each other and clicking their glasses;And several gentlemen present were fainTheir goblets of stronger potations to drain:On trifles they certainly never could bandy,So great was their liking for excellent brandy.For those who might happen to be in the throngWhose nerves should be weak, or their principles strong,A due preparation was graciously madeIn the shape of a bowl of the best lemonade.They ate and they drank, and they laughed and they chattered,They simpered, and bantered, and lavishly flattered,Till, finally, weary of such an employment,They left for the scene of their former enjoyment.And now, I had hoped there would be a variety,For dancing, I thought, had been done to satiety;But, as soon as the party reëntered the room,My hopes were consigned to a terrible doom;For I saw, to my horror, a body of dancers,Who were clearly intent on performing 'The Lancers.'Terpsichore ruled with unlimited sway,While, moment by moment, the night wore away.To me, 'twas an agony sadly prolonged,To stay in that parlor, so heated and thronged,And witness the sickening, senseless parade,Which people, who claimed to be sensible, made.I stood it as long as I could, and as well,And struggled my rising emotions to quell,But hotter my blood momentarily grew,Till objects about me were changing their hue,And, just as my brain was beginning to totter,I rushed from the room for some air and some water.Returning refreshed, my composure resumed,I awaited the end, like a criminal doomed.With one demoiselle I essayed to converse,Whose sense I discovered was not worth a—purse.Disgusted with one so insipidly brainless,I turned from a task that was tedious and gainless,Adapted myself to my strange situation,And buried my mind in profound cogitation.O Fashion, thou tyrant! adored as a god,By such as obey thy imperious nod—How mortals their 'sweet independence' resign,When all that is precious they bring to thy shrine!Thy altar they grace with the fruit of their lives,Themselves and their fortunes, till nothing survivesTo prove to the world that they ever were free;—Their souls and their bodies they offer to thee.And thou! how unworthy thou art of their trust!Thou givest them nought but a damnable lustOf silly, deceitful, contemptible show—A lust that is stronger as older they grow.For this they surrender their faith and their truth,The artless, ingenuous goodness of youth,The strength that belongs to maturity's years:Exchanging their peace for the paltriest fears,Lest something, they happen to do or to say,Should not be considered exactlyau fait;Or lest their attempts should be wholly surpassedBy others who claim to belong to theircaste.Thy fiat, O Fashion, their questions decides;Thy wisdom all needed direction providesFor spending their time in genteel dissipations,For cutting their garments, and—poorer relations.Controlled by thy will, they select their society;Thou art their instructor in manners and piety.And thus they obey the decrees of a power,To which, in a servile allegiance, they cower—A power that binds them in thraldom, and thenMakes puppets of women and puppies of men.Reflections like these were absorbing my mind,As I sat on the sofa, or partly reclined,While promiscuous edibles recently 'bolted,'In assiduous dancing were carelessly jolted.The people about me my senses would strike,In spite of the facts, as extremely alike;—In physical aspect dyspeptic or bilious,In manners affected, or quite supercilious,In mind, rather flippant—of false education—In heart, scarcely worthy of recommendation.There was clearly a lack of the highest ability,With a splendid array of the 'purest gentility.'Of course I was not in condition to judge,And some would pronounce an emphatical 'fudge'At such an opinion as mine, and would scout it,Insisting that I 'could know nothing about it.'To which the narrator would humbly submit—He has written what seemed to his mind as a fitAnd truthful recountment of all that he saw,Without a regard for the general lawFor stuccoing statements, to give them, forsooth,A pleasanter face than is worn by the truth.The end came at last. I was glad, I avow;—As glad—well, as glad as the reader is now,When he knows that I'll shortly be making my bow.The company left, and I marched in the van,A wiser, though hardly a happier, man.Of course there are 'morals' attached to my poem,Though it may be a difficult matter to show 'em.Well, first (let me see, now), the foolishest passionOf mortals is that for obeying the fashion.It has been, and now is, a curse to humanity,A sinful, ridiculous species of vanity,The very quintessence of perfect inanity,And is likely to lead to a 'moral insanity.'A second we'll have, and I think that will do—(You will probably not recollect more than two):If you have any taste for the honest and hearty,Don't go to a GRAND METROPOLITAN PARTY.

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