I have met very few people who could do that. Next day
all the idleness and trifling were at an end, and my friends conveyed
me back to New York.
* * * * *
EPITAPH ON A DYER.
This Dyer with a dire liver tried
To earn a living dyeing, and he died.
* * * * *
THE CONFESSIONS OF A DUFFER.
NO. VIII.--THE DUFFER AS A HOST.
Of course I don't try to give dinners at home. The difficulties and
anxieties are too enormous. First there is inviting the people. I like
to have none but very clever men and very pretty women, but nobody's
acquaintance is limited to those rare beings, and, if I did invite
them, they would all have previous engagements: I do not blame them.
But suppose that two or three of the wits and beauties accept, that
is worse than ever, because the rest are a Q.C. (who talks about
his cases) and his wife, who talks about her children. An old
school-fellow, who has no conversation that does not begin, "I say, do
you remember old JACK WILLIAMS." This does not entertain the beauty,
who sits next him.
A Dowager Duchess, she knows none of the other people and wonders
audibly (to me) who they are. A clever young man, whose language is
the language of the future, and whose humour is of a date to which I
humbly hope my own days may not be prolonged.
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