Volume 100 — A PANTOMIMIC REVERIE.

Tax-gatherers molest one's door, The streets are choked with messy mist; I'm the proverbial Bachelor, An old, prosaic Pessimist. Yet somehow—who can tell me why?— Urged by the Past's dim Phantom, I'm Disposed my cosy Club to fly, And prank it at the Pantomime. A Phantom weird of things forgot! My mother, proud of me at her Sweet side—our yellow chariot— The long, long drive—the theatre— My fear to miss—my thrill when in— The Fairy Queen, the jolly King— The laughter flung at Harlequin, And Pantaloon arollicking. And sister PRUE, and brother TIM, (I scarcely recollected them), Magnificent in gala trim: Dear me, how I respected them! I deemed them quite grown up, so bold Seemed they, glared so defiantly: Yet they, too, cowered to behold Prone before JACK the Giant lie. Yes! Where is TIM, where PRUE, alack! Where mother fondly pliant now? Where for that matter too is JACK, And where the grisly Giant now? In lonely stall, with vacant brow I sit and eye the coryphées: In my time they were Fairies; now They seem to me but sorry fays. The pageantry is twice as grand, The wealth of wealth embarrasses; And yet this is not elfinland But great AUGUSTUS HARRIS's. The blasé children vote it flat, When Mister Clown cries, "Here's a go!" Yes, there's the box where erst we sat And laughed so, sixty years ago. The very box: I think, you know, The reason I'm so queer to-night Is merely because long ago Here faces were not here to-night. I'd best be off—Bless me! no Clown? No Stage?—no Past invidious? No Orchestra?—but simply BROWN Snoring the midnight hideous! No Drury Lane?—no tinsel flare?— No pirouetting Bogeydom?— Only a Club, and one who there Forgot in sleep his Fogeydom! Welcome my Transformation Scene; I'm dull once more, and every Old Bachelor like me, I ween, May muse at times his reverie.