Thursday.—­Nothing but “Epidemic”—­“Arrival in England”—­“Precautions Everywhere.”  Let the boom go!  It feeds itself!  Nearly as good as a foreign war!

Friday.—­Still “the Epidemic,” but requires strengthening.  “Spreading in the Provinces,” but still, not like it was.  Falling flat.

Saturday.—­A good sensational Murder!  The very thing for the Contents Bills.  Exit “the Epidemic,” until again wanted.

* * * * *

SONGS OF SOCIETY;

I.—­INTRODUCTORY.  TO MY LYRE.

["Smoothly written vers de Societe, where a boudoir decorum is, or ought always to be, preserved; where sentiment never surges into passion, and where humour never overflows into boisterous merriment.”—­Frederick Locker’s Preface to “Lyra Elegantiarum."]

[Illustration]

  Dear Lyre, your duty now you know! 
  If one would sing with grace and glow
          Songs of Society,
  One must not dream of fire, or length,
  Or vivid touch, or virile strength,
          Or great variety.

  Among the Muses of Mayfair
  A Bacchanal with unbound hair,
          And loosened girdle,
  Would be as purely out of place
  As Atalanta in a race
          O’er hedge or hurdle: 

  Our Muse, dear Lyra, must be trim,
  Must not indulge in vagrant whim,
          Of voice or vesture. 
  Boudoir decorum will allow
  No gleaming eye, no glowing brow,
          No ardent gesture.

  Society, which is our theme,
  Is like a well-conducted stream
          Which calmly ripples. 
  We sing the World where no one feels
  Too pungently, or hates, or steals,
          Or loves, or tipples.

  And should you hint that down below
  The subtle siren all men know
          Is hiding her face,
  Our answer is:  “That may be true,
  But boudoir bards have nought to do
          Save with the surface.”

  And therefore, though Society feel
  The Proletariat’s heavy heel
          Its kibe approaching,
  Some luxuries yet are left to sing,
  The Opera-Box, the Row, the Ring,
          And Golf, and Coaching.

  Not e’en the Socialistic scare
  The dandyish and the debonair
          Has quite demolished;
  Whilst Privilege hath still a purse,
  There’s yet a chance for flowing verse,
          And periods polished.

  If IBSEN, BELLAMY, and GEORGE,
  Raise not the boudoir critic’s gorge
          Beyond all bearing,
  Light lyrics may she not endure,
  On social ills above her cure,
          Below her caring?

  Muse, with Society we may toy
  Without impassioned grief or joy,
          Or boisterous merriment;
  May sing of Sorrow with a smile;
  At least, it may be worth our while
          To try the experiment.