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.