"So SNAGGS, the slangy cynic. See him there With pouching shirt-front and disordered hair, Talking to CRAMP the sturdy, Irreverent R. A. And he,--that's JOYCE, The shaggy swart Silenus, with a voice Much like a hurdy-gurdy. "You see him everywhere, though none knows why; Every hand meets his grip, though every eye Furtively hints abhorrence. Society's a gridiron; fools to please, Wise men must sometimes lie as ill at ease As might a new St. Lawrence." A buzz, a bustle! How the crowd makes way, And parts in lines as on some pageant day! 'Tis the Great Man, none other, "Bland, beaming, bowing quick to left and right; One hour he'll deign to give from his brief night To flattery, fuss and pother. "Though the whole mob does homage, more than half Behind their hands indulge in sorrel chaff, And venomous invective. And he, the hard-faced Cleon with his ring Of minor satellites? Could glances sting _His_ were not ineffective! "Crouched in yon corner, huddled chin to knees, Like some old lion sore and ill at ease Left foodless in the jungle, Sits GRUMPER, growling oaths beneath his breath At CLEON, who--to him--sums party-death And diplomatic bungle. "'Beshrew him for a----!'" "GRUMPER'S speech is strong; Flanders and screeds of old satiric song Blend in his vigorous diction. Around, in lounging groups or knots apart, Are lesser lights of thought, small stars of art, And petty chiefs of fiction. "Hosts of the nameless, fameless, 'Small Unknown'; Men who can form a 'corner', float a loan, Wire-pull a local Caucus, But cannot paint poor pictures, write bad plays, Or on a platform wildly flame or praise In rolling tones or raucous. "These lounge and hover, sip champagne and whiff Mild cigarettes; these too, in secret sniff At 'the whole queer caboodle.' _Why_ do they meet? How shall I say, good friend? Modern symposiasts seem a curious blend Of porcupine and poodle. "'In these Saturnian days Amphitryon spreads His meshes wide, and counts not brains but heads. The Tadpoles and the Tapers Are scorned by the few Titans; true; but aims Differ; to some 'tis much to see their names Strung in the morning papers. "So Private Views are popular, and men Meet just to prompt the social scribe's smart pen. Taste too austerely winnows Town's superflux of chaff from its scant wheat: Our host prefers to mix, in his Great Meet, The Tritons and the minnows!" "With mutual scorn!" I cried. "Has Fashion power Thus to unhumanise the 'Social Hour,' Theme of old poets' vaunting? Gregarious spites and egotisms harsh!-- Foregathering of frog-swarms in a marsh Yields music as enchanting." (_To be continued._) * * * * * HOLIDAY CATECHISM. _Mr. Punch._ Well, Master JACK HORNER, where have you been _this_ time?