from Canto XIII

91

Proud of his “Hear hims!” proud too of his vote
     And lost virginity of oratory,
Proud of his learning (just enough to quote)
    He revel’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.

92

These 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 potatoe,—
While Strongbow’s best things might have come from Cato.

93

Strongbow was like a new-tuned harpsichord;
    But Longbow wild as an Aeolian 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.

94

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

95

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.

96

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

97

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!

98

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.

99

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 ragots or roasts,
     Albeit all human history attests,
That happiness for Man—the hungry sinner!—
Since Eve ate apples, much depends on dinner.

100

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!