Maine, Blackstone, Sandars, all were there,
And Hallam's Middle Ages,
And Austin with his style so rare,
And Poste's enticing pages.
We started well: the little inn
Was deadly dull and quiet,
As dull as Mrs. Wood's East Lynne,
Or as the verse of Wyatt.
Without distraction thus we read
From nine until eleven,
Then rowed and sailed until we fed
On potted char at seven.
Two hours of work! We could devote
Next day to recreation,
Much illness springs, so doctors note,
From lack of relaxation.
Let him read law on summer days,
Who has a soul that grovels;
Better one tale of Thackeray's
Than all Justinian's novels.
At noon we went upon the lake,
We could not stand the slowness
Of our lone inn, so dined on steak
(They called it steak) at Bowness.
We wrestled with the steak, when lo!
Rose Jack in such a hurry,
He saw a girl he used to know
In Suffolk or in Surrey.
What matter which? to think that she
Should lure him from his duty!
For Jack, I knew, would always be
A very slave to beauty.
And so it proved, alas! for Jack
Grew taciturn and thinner,
Was out all day alone, and back
Too often late for dinner.
What could I do? His walks and rows
All led to one conclusion;
I could not read; our work, heaven knows,
Was nothing but confusion.