  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 cannot 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 hothouse several strictures; Or rode a nag which trotted not too high, 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. The ladies—some rouged, some a little pale— Met the morn as they might. If fine, they rode, Or walk’d; if foul, they read, or told a tale, Sung, or rehearsed the last dance from abroad; Discuss’d 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. 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 Then there were billiards; cards, too, but no dice— Save in the clubs, no man of honour plays; Boats when ’twas water, skating when ’twas ice, And the hard frost destroy’d the scenting days: And angling, too, that solitary vice, Whatever Izaak Walton sings or says: The quaint, old, cruel coxcomb, in his gullet Should have a hook, and a small trout to pull it. 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. Sometime 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. The politicians, in a nook apart, Discuss’d the world, and settled all the spheres: The wits watch’d every loophole for their art, To introduce a bon mot, head and ears. 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. 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. They separated at an early hour— That is, ere midnight, which is London’s noon; But in the country, ladies seek their bower A little earlier than the waning moon. Peace to the slumbers of each folded flower— May the rose call back its true colour soon! Good hours of fair cheeks are the fairest tinters, And lower the price of rouge—at least some winters. Lord Byron. |
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