Guests were assembled—formal, prim, and staid—
The conversation did not yet come pat in;
The bachelor found speeches _ready made_,
The _ready maid_ looked twice as hard as Latin;
The lord was stiff—the lady half afraid
To spoil her _silk_ dress with the chair she _sat in_!
A dreadful dull demureness fill'd the place;
_Room-attics_ might be caught on that _first-floor_;
No _racy_ word from all the human _race_
There gathered—nothing to create a roar—
Weather and poetry their themes of grace—
They talked of snow, and _Byron_,—nothing _Moore_.
There broke no pun upon the startled ear—
Nothing the soul of etiquette to smother;
None were at home, but each on each did leer,
As who should say, "You're out," and "Does your mother?"
Their words were _dry_, and yet they did appear
To _throw cold water upon one another_!
They stood, or sat, like lumps of social stone,
Their _wheel_ of life went round, yet _no one spoke_;
Or, if they did, _not speeches from the thrown_
From horse or gig, were more devoid of joke;
The _little_ fire that, in the _grate_ had grown
Dim, had a longing for a stir, or poke.
The _hes_ were stupid, and, it might be said,
The _shes_ were as un_easy_ as the _hes_:
It was all _heavy_ there, and nothing _led_
To anything, but minding Q's and P's;
While every heart was absent, every head
Ran upon "soup, fish, flesh, fowl, tart, and cheese."
Nothing was _on the carpet_, when there came
This bright announcement:—"_Dinner on the table!_"
Then wagg'd the tongues, which soon began to frame
A young confusion, like to bees, or Babel,
And each face wore a smile, that quite became,
Just as a doctor's bottle wears a label.
[Illustration:
Before dinner and after.
]
Dinner pass'd over—they were quite genteel;
The wine went very fast and freely round;
None vulgarly, that day, took _malt_ with _meal_,
But still in _the best spirits_ all were found;
As they sat at the table, they did feel
As if their _soles_ would never touch the ground.
The _cloth_ was _cut_, and the dessert was spread,
Fresh bottles crown'd the hospitable board,
Their jolly cheeks grew fast from _white_ to _red;_
So pass'd the wine—their bark of life was _moor'd_
Quite safe in _port_, while head did nod to head
Familiar as the scabbard to the sword.
Now grew the conversation fast to fruit,
The fruit had grown already very fine;
The _wine_ produced no _whining_, and, to boot;
No epicure repined about the _pine_;
But Love did all around his _arrows_ shoot,
Lanced from his _beaux_ against the ladies fine.
Each Miss's joke now made a pleasant hit,
No lover's _sally_ could be deem'd _a miss_;
Less stately, too, the dowagers did sit—
They let their feelings loose on that and this;
Their tongues, in fact, were _bridled_ not a _bit_—
The prude would have said "thank ye" for a kiss.
The guests gave out a host of best good things,
By way of compliment to their good host;
Brim full of eloquence, a friend upsprings,
And hopes that he will always rule the roast
The praises of the _belles_ another _rings_,
And turns, at once, "the Ladies" to a toast.
So freedom reigns; whereby it seemeth clear
That people grow most cordial after dinner;
Till then, the dearest woman seems less dear,
The thinnest gentleman's thin wit grows thinner;
The cheerful will be cheerless, without cheer—
You must have meat and drink, as you're a sinner!
[Illustration]