Volume 100 — MEN WHO HAVE TAKEN ME IN—TO DINNER.

To share with men the prandial gloom Of union forced that fatal custom Decrees to wither "youth and bloom," (The phrase is from Sohrab and Rustum) I've suffered boredom to the full; Professors dull—of Hindostani! Dull wits, dull statesmen, dandies dull— He wasn't dull—was Don GIOVANNI. A widower fêted far and wide, The jauntiest Rake who drinks the waters, Smartest of "smart" vulgarians, pride And terror of his decent daughters; Old Don GIOVANNI, fraught with warm Flirtations, free to fling his cash on The dining Duchess, "mould of form!" Antique, good-looking "glass of fashion." He gossiped how the Viscount bets (Some heiress he must really "pick up"), How noble dames smoke cigarettes And noble heels in ballets kick up. How "H.R.H."—n'importe! my friend Experience shows me that the laches Of such as air these letters tend In the direction of their "H"'s. He chatted next of German Spas, Of Continental, English "P.B.'s," And how our matchmaking Mammas Are scared by Transatlantic Hebes, How he with Royalties had graced The latest function—genial patrons— While Beauty, perched on barrows, raced Before the virtuous British matrons. And then his compliments began To rain like drops of Frangipanni, A most insinuating man He was, this ancient DON GIOVANNI. You felt, if you could half believe, You'd but to word a whim to find it, You quite forgot he owned a sleeve, And several teeth to laugh behind it. There may be kindness, lofty souls, Great Brains, and whatso ne'er grows older, Him the Material controls: He shrugs a sleek, good-natured shoulder. Time scatters dalliance, joy, and joke; Your choicest vintage passes; e'en your Supreme tobacco ends in smoke— And so will poor DON JUAN, Senior.

What's Love, and all that Love can bring, Youth's earliest illusion: What tender words she used to sing, And blush with sweet confusion. How you would hang upon each word, When under spells of Cupid; When half she said was most absurd, And all extremely stupid. You loved her for her hair of gold. Unwitting that she dyed it; She vowed her love could ne'er grow cold, Though Time had never tried it. Your worship came to such a pass, That, when you calmly view it, You feel you were an utter ass, Though then you never knew it. What happened? Why, the usual thing: While round her you would linger, Her love was fragile as the ring You bought to grace her finger. She went off with another man, And so you had to sever: Thus women since the world began Have done, and will do ever.

Lights and bouquets—flush and flare— Motley medley—splash affair— Deft disguises—flute and fife— Half the world without his wife— Dominos, and masks, and faces— Graces three—and three Disgraces. Jacks-in-boxes—tambour-majors— Janes in office—ancient stagers— REYNOLDS' Duchess—Shepherdesses; (Burlington) Arcadian tresses— Primrose damsels,—clowns and follies,— Organ-grinders—Flemish dollies— Macaronis, rather muddy, Of the central stud a study— England's mashers, Afric's dark sons— NATHAN's stock-in-trade and CLARKSON's— All costumes not apt the back to, Some of them inclined to crack too— Martyred revellers in upper Rooms, and singing for their supper. Bright confusion—many a mad hunt— Five o'clock—and wish I hadn't.

"What are you doing, my pretty Maid?" "I'm coming from voting, Sir," she said. "May I question you, my pretty Maid?" "Yes, if you please, kind Sir," she said. "Who is your father, my pretty Maid?" "JOHN BULL is my father, Sir," she said. "And what is your fortune, my pretty Maid?" "My race is my fortune, Sir," she said. "Then I can't annex you, my pretty Maid!" "Nobody axed you, Sir!" she said.