The Antiquaries

To London, to the noise and to the throng,
To London, theme of ev'ry poet's song,
Must I direct my Muse's aery flight—
To PICCADILLY on a Thursday night.

Here, where the gilded multitude is found
To dinner, dancing, or the playhouse bound;
Where as the traffic-lights their progress bars,
Synthetic lovelies may be glimpsed in cars—
Frail amateurs!—while, plying the same trade,
Less lucky pro's, whose shame is to be paid,
Seek business in the Burlington Arcade.

But not for us tonight these fleshly joys,
Nor may we go a-boozing with 'the boys';
For us the lasting joys that LEARNING brings
From contemplation of the HIGHER THINGS.
For us the chance is given now to see
The meeting of the great Society,
Far-famed for learning, steep'd in curious lore,
And dedicated Britain's past t'explore.

A massive arch and awe-inspiring gate
Give entrance to this session of the great
Across the courtyard with uncertain tread
We walk, elate with honour, cowed with dread,
Past where great REYNOLDS stands with fixèd stare
And paints a portrait on the empty air
And reach our goal where, through that doorway bright
The ANTIQUARIES welcome us tonight.
Mute rows of savants! Terror grips our throats,
Oh no they're not, they're hanging overcoats!

But now slow-moving figures meet our gaze
With stately carriage, as of long-past days
Moving devoutly to a lighted shrine
Where by a Book two gracious candles shine
Each to take up the Pen and each to sign.

And now the meeting-room is safely gained
We sit down quickly: rise, our senses pained
By violent impact on a rigid seat
Of which the padded leather's all deceit,
So carefully we settle down once more
As the last Fellow scuttles through the door.
Behind him comes, in scarlet and in gold
A flunky proud the Sacred Book to hold,
On a great cushion reverently it's placed
Already with a mouldy COCK'D HAT graced,

. . .

But still the lecturer with conscious pride
Exhibits fuzzy slide on fuzzy slide:
With owlish earnestness reads out his text—
A typing error, and he halts perplexed,
Dares a shy smile, then, picking up the thread,
Portentous rolls the phrase he's just misread.

The Fellows sigh and shift about in vain
To ease cramped buttocks, and then doze again.
One quietly snores, another strives to con
The Evening Standard while a bright slide's on.

But while relentlessly the discourse flows
Insensibly the smell of coffee grows.
At first a dubious hint of joys to be,
It soon becomes a fragrant certainty,
And as to ten the hour grows ever near,
Faint tinkling teaspoons greet th' expectant ear.

The discourse ends. Lights up. It's nearly ten.
The lecturer, applauded, sits again.
The President stands up and makes his speech—
'Our Fellow' and his lecture—praise to each—
In words so vague that none would think he could
Have slept through half, and half not understood.
'At this late hour discussion's no concern
Of ours. The Society will now adjourn . . .'
Then, longed-for words that dissipate the gloom—
'There's tea and coffee served in the next room.'

Like hounds that eagerly pursue the fox,
Towards refreshment all the conclave flocks,
And soon the fragrant brew is handed round
And compensation for past boredom found.

c.1930