from Canto XIII

101

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.

102

The elderly walked through the library,
    And tumbled books, or criticised the pictures,
Or sauntered 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.

103

But none were “gn”: 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.

104

The ladies—some rouged, some a little pale—
     Met the morn as they might. If fine, they rode,
Or walked; if foul, they read, or told a tale,
     Sung, or rehearsed the last dance from abroad;
Discussed the fashion which might next prevail,
    And settled bonnets by the newest code,
Or cramm’d twelve sheets into one little letter,
To make each correspondent a new debtor.

105

For some had absent lovers, all had friends.
     The earth has nothing like a She epistle,
And hardly heaven—because it never ends.
     I love the mystery of a female missal,
Which, like a creed, ne’er says all it intends,
     But full of cunning as Ulysses’ whistle,
When he allured poor Dolon:—you had better
Take care what you reply to such a letter.

106

Then there were billiards; cards too, but no dice;—
     Save in the Clubs no man of honour plays;—
Boats when ‘twas water, skaiting when ‘twas ice,
    And the hard frost destroy’d the scenting days:
And angling too, that solitary vice,
     Whatever Isaac Walton sings or says:
The quaint, old, cruel coxcomb, in his gullet
Should have a hook, and a small trout to pull it.

107

With evening came the banquet and the wine;
    The conversazione; the duet,
Attuned by voices more or less divine,
     (My heart or head aches with the memory yet).
The four Miss Rawbolds in a glee would shine;
     But the two youngest loved more to be set
Down to the harp—because to music’s charms
They added graceful necks, white hands and arms.

108

Sometimes a dance (though rarely on field days,
     For then the gentlemen were rather tired)
Display’d some sylph-like figures in its maze:
     Then there was small-talk ready when required;
Flirtation—but decorous; the mere praise
     Of charms that should or should not be admired.
The hunters fought their fox-hunt o’er again,
And then retreated soberly—at ten.

109

The politicians, in a nook apart,
     Discuss’d the world, and settled all the spheres;
The wits watched every loop-hole for their art,
    To introduce a bon mot head and ears:
Small is the rest of those who would be smart,
     A moment’s good thing may have cost them years
Before they find an hour to introduce it,
And then, even then, some bore may make them lose it.

110

But all was gentle and aristocratic
     In this our party; polish’d, smooth and cold,
As Phidian forms cut out of marble Attic.
     There now are no ‘Squire Westerns as of old;
And our Sophias are not so emphatic,
     But fair as then, or fairer to behold.
We have no accomplish’d blackguards, like Tom Jones,
But gentlemen in stays, as stiff as stones.