Part 60

The noble guests, assembled at the Abbey, Consisted of—we give the sex the pas— The Duchess of Fitz-Fulke; the Countess Crabby; The Ladies Scilly, Busey;—Miss Eclat, Miss Bombazeen, Miss Mackstay, Miss O’Tabby, And Mrs. Rabbi, the rich banker’s squaw; Also the honourable Mrs. Sleep, Who look’d a white lamb, yet was a black sheep:

With other Countesses of Blank—but rank; At once the ‘lie’ and the ‘elite’ of crowds; Who pass like water filter’d in a tank, All purged and pious from their native clouds; Or paper turn’d to money by the Bank: No matter how or why, the passport shrouds The ‘passee’ and the past; for good society Is no less famed for tolerance than piety,—

That is, up to a certain point; which point Forms the most difficult in punctuation. Appearances appear to form the joint On which it hinges in a higher station; And so that no explosion cry ‘Aroint Thee, witch!’ or each Medea has her Jason; Or (to the point with Horace and with Pulci) ‘Omne tulit punctum, quae miscuit utile dulci.’

I can’t exactly trace their rule of right, Which hath a little leaning to a lottery. I’ve seen a virtuous woman put down quite By the mere combination of a coterie; Also a so-so matron boldly fight Her way back to the world by dint of plottery, And shine the very Siria of the spheres, Escaping with a few slight, scarless sneers.

I have seen more than I’ll say:—but we will see How our villeggiatura will get on. The party might consist of thirty-three Of highest caste—the Brahmins of the ton. I have named a few, not foremost in degree, But ta’en at hazard as the rhyme may run. By way of sprinkling, scatter’d amongst these, There also were some Irish absentees.

There was Parolles, too, the legal bully, Who limits all his battles to the bar And senate: when invited elsewhere, truly, He shows more appetite for words than war. There was the young bard Rackrhyme, who had newly Come out and glimmer’d as a six weeks’ star. There was Lord Pyrrho, too, the great freethinker; And Sir John Pottledeep, the mighty drinker.

There was the Duke of Dash, who was a—duke, ‘Ay, every inch a’ duke; there were twelve peers Like Charlemagne’s—and all such peers in look And intellect, that neither eyes nor ears For commoners had ever them mistook. There were the six Miss Rawbolds—pretty dears! All song and sentiment; whose hearts were set Less on a convent than a coronet.

There were four Honourable Misters, whose Honour was more before their names than after; There was the preux Chevalier de la Ruse, Whom France and Fortune lately deign’d to waft here, Whose chiefly harmless talent was to amuse; But the clubs found it rather serious laughter, Because—such was his magic power to please— The dice seem’d charm’d, too, with his repartees.

There was Dick Dubious, the metaphysician, Who loved philosophy and a good dinner; Angle, the soi-disant mathematician; Sir Henry Silvercup, the great race-winner. There was the Reverend Rodomont Precisian, Who did not hate so much the sin as sinner; And Lord Augustus Fitz-Plantagenet, Good at all things, but better at a bet.

There was Jack Jargon, the gigantic guardsman; And General Fireface, famous in the field, A great tactician, and no less a swordsman, Who ate, last war, more Yankees than he kill’d. There was the waggish Welsh Judge, Jefferies Hardsman, In his grave office so completely skill’d, That when a culprit came far condemnation, He had his judge’s joke for consolation.

Good company ’s a chess-board—there are kings, Queens, bishops, knights, rooks, pawns; the world ’s a game; Save that the puppets pull at their own strings, Methinks gay Punch hath something of the same. My Muse, the butterfly hath but her wings, Not stings, and flits through ether without aim, Alighting rarely:—were she but a hornet, Perhaps there might be vices which would mourn it.

I had forgotten—but must not forget— An orator, the latest of the session, Who had deliver’d well a very set Smooth speech, his first and maidenly transgression Upon debate: the papers echoed yet With his debut, which made a strong impression, And rank’d with what is every day display’d— ‘The best first speech that ever yet was made.’

Proud of his ‘Hear hims!’ proud, too, of his vote And lost virginity of oratory, Proud of his learning (just enough to quote), He revell’d in his Ciceronian glory: With memory excellent to get by rote, With wit to hatch a pun or tell a story, Graced with some merit, and with more effrontery, ‘His country’s pride,’ he came down to the country.

There also were two wits by acclamation, Longbow from Ireland, Strongbow from the Tweed, Both lawyers and both men of education; But Strongbow’s wit was of more polish’d breed: Longbow was rich in an imagination As beautiful and bounding as a steed, But sometimes stumbling over a potato,— While Strongbow’s best things might have come from Cato.

Strongbow was like a new-tuned harpsichord; But Longbow wild as an Æolian harp, With which the winds of heaven can claim accord, And make a music, whether flat or sharp. Of Strongbow’s talk you would not change a word: At Longbow’s phrases you might sometimes carp: Both wits—one born so, and the other bred— This by his heart, his rival by his head.

If all these seem a heterogeneous mas To be assembled at a country seat, Yet think, a specimen of every class Is better than a humdrum tête-à-tête. The days of Comedy are gone, alas! When Congreve’s fool could vie with Molière’s bête: Society is smooth’d to that excess, That manners hardly differ more than dress.

Our ridicules are kept in the back-ground— Ridiculous enough, but also dull; Professions, too, are no more to be found Professional; and there is nought to cull Of folly’s fruit; for though your fools abound, They’re barren, and not worth the pains to pull. Society is now one polish’d horde, Form’d of two mighty tribes, the Bores and Bored.

But from being farmers, we turn gleaners, gleaning The scanty but right-well thresh’d ears of truth; And, gentle reader! when you gather meaning, You may be Boaz, and I—modest Ruth. Farther I’d quote, but Scripture intervening Forbids. Its great impression in my youth Was made by Mrs. Adams, where she cries, ‘That Scriptures out of church are blasphemies.’

But what we can we glean in this vile age Of chaff, although our gleanings be not grist. I must not quite omit the talking sage, Kit-Cat, the famous Conversationist, Who, in his common-place book, had a page Prepared each morn for evenings. ‘List, oh, list!’— ‘Alas, poor ghost!’—What unexpected woes Await those who have studied their bon-mots!

Firstly, they must allure the conversation By many windings to their clever clinch; And secondly, must let slip no occasion, Nor bate (abate) their hearers of an inch, But take an ell—and make a great sensation, If possible; and thirdly, never flinch When some smart talker puts them to the test, But seize the last word, which no doubt ’s the best.

Lord Henry and his lady were the hosts; The party we have touch’d on were the guests: Their table was a board to tempt even ghosts To pass the Styx for more substantial feasts. I will not dwell upon ragouts or roasts, Albeit all human history attests That happiness for man—the hungry sinner!— Since Eve ate apples, much depends on dinner.

Witness the lands which ‘flow’d with milk and honey,’ Held out unto the hungry Israelites; To this we have added since, the love of money, The only sort of pleasure which requites. Youth fades, and leaves our days no longer sunny; We tire of mistresses and parasites; But oh, ambrosial cash! Ah! who would lose thee? When we no more can use, or even abuse thee!

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.

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 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.

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 Take care what you reply to such a letter.

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.