But from being farmers, we turn gleaners, gleaning The scanty but right-well thresh’d ears of truth; And, gentle reader! when you gather meaning, You may be Boaz, and I—modest Ruth. Farther I’d quote, but Scripture intervening Forbids. Its great impression in my youth Was made by Mrs. Adams, where she cries, ‘That Scriptures out of church are blasphemies.’ But what we can we glean in this vile age Of chaff, although our gleanings be not grist. I must not quite omit the talking sage, Kit-Cat, the famous Conversationist, Who, in his common-place book, had a page Prepared each morn for evenings. ‘List, oh, list!’— ‘Alas, poor ghost!’—What unexpected woes Await those who have studied their bon-mots! Firstly, they must allure the conversation By many windings to their clever clinch; And secondly, must let slip no occasion, Nor bate (abate) their hearers of an inch, But take an ell—and make a great sensation, If possible; and thirdly, never flinch When some smart talker puts them to the test, But seize the last word, which no doubt ’s the best. Lord Henry and his lady were the hosts; The party we have touch’d on were the guests: Their table was a board to tempt even ghosts To pass the Styx for more substantial feasts. I will not dwell upon ragouts or roasts, Albeit all human history attests That happiness for man—the hungry sinner!— Since Eve ate apples, much depends on dinner. Witness the lands which ‘flow’d with milk and honey,’ Held out unto the hungry Israelites; To this we have added since, the love of money, The only sort of pleasure which requites. Youth fades, and leaves our days no longer sunny; We tire of mistresses and parasites; But oh, ambrosial cash! Ah! who would lose thee? When we no more can use, or even abuse thee! The gentlemen got up betimes to shoot, Or hunt: the young, because they liked the sport— The first thing boys like after play and fruit; The middle-aged to make the day more short; For ennui is a growth of English root, Though nameless in our language:—we retort The fact for words, and let the French translate That awful yawn which sleep can not abate. The elderly walk’d through the library, And tumbled books, or criticised the pictures, Or saunter’d through the gardens piteously, And made upon the hot-house several strictures, Or rode a nag which trotted not too high, Or on the morning papers read their lectures, Or on the watch their longing eyes would fix, Longing at sixty for the hour of six. But none were ‘gêné:’ the great hour of union Was rung by dinner’s knell; till then all were Masters of their own time—or in communion, Or solitary, as they chose to bear The hours, which how to pass is but to few known. Each rose up at his own, and had to spare What time he chose for dress, and broke his fast When, where, and how he chose for that repast.