Book III

._)

When Philip, King of Macedon, enterprised the siege and ruin of Corinth, the Corinthians having received certain intelligence by their spies, that he with a numerous army in battle array was coming against them, were all of them, not without cause, most terribly afraid; and, therefore, were not neglective of their duty, in doing their best endeavors to put themselves in a fit posture to resist his hostile approach, and defend their own city. Some from the fields brought into the fortified places their movables, cattle, corn, wine, fruit, victuals and other necessary provisions. Others did fortify and rampire their walls, set up little fortresses, bastions, squared ravelins, digged trenches, cleansed countermines, fenced themselves with gabions, contrived platforms, emptied casemates, barricaded the false brayes, erected the cavalliers, repaired the contrescarpes, plaistered the courtines, lengthened ravelins, stopped parapets, mortised barbacans, new pointed the portcullises with fine steel or good iron, fastened the herses and cataracts, placed their sentries and doubled their patrol.

Every one did watch and ward, and not one was exempted from carrying the basket. Some polished corselets, varnished backs and breasts, cleaned the headpieces, mailcoats, brigandins, salads, helmets, murrions, jacks, gushets, gorgets, hoguines, brassars and cuissars, corselets, haubergeons, shields, bucklers, targets, greves, gauntlets and spurs.

Others made ready bows, slings, cross-bows, pellets, catapults, migraines or fire-balls, firebrands, balists, scorpions, and other such warlike engines, repugnatory, and destructive to the Helepolides.

They sharpened and prepared spears, staves, pikes, brown bills, halberts, long hooks, lances, zagages, quarterstaves, eelspears,

## partisans, troutstaves, clubs, battle-axes, maces, darts, dartlets,

glaves, javelins, javelots, and truncheons.

They set edges upon scimetars, cutlasses, badelairs, backswords, tucks, rapiers, bayonets, arrow-heads, dags, daggers, mandousians, poniards, whinyards, knives, skenes, chipping knives, and raillons.

Diogenes seeing them all so warm at work, and himself not employed by the magistrates in any business whatsoever, he did very seriously (for many days together, without speaking one word) consider, and contemplate the countenance of his fellow-citizens.

Then on a sudden, as if he had been roused up and inspired by a martial spirit, he girded his cloak, scarf-ways, about his left arm, tucked up his sleeves to the elbow, trussed himself like a clown gathering apples, and giving to one of his old acquaintance his wallet, books, and opistographs, away went he out of town towards a little hill or promontory of Corinth called Craneum; and there on, the strand, a pretty level place, did he roll his jolly tub, which served him for an house to shelter him from the injuries of the weather: there, I say, in a great vehemency of spirit, did he turn it veer it, wheel it, whirl it, frisk it, jumble it, shuffle it, hurdle it, tumble it, hurry it, jolt it, jostle it, overthrow it, evert it, invert it, subvert it, overturn it, beat it, thwack it, bump it, batter it, knock it, thrust it, push it, jerk it, shock it, shake it, toss it, throw it, overthrow it upside down, topsyturvy, tread it, trample it, stamp it, tap it, ting it, ring it, tingle it, towl it, sound it, resound it, stop it, shut it, unbung it, close it, unstopple it. And then again in a mighty bustle he bandied it, slubbered it, hacked it, whittled it, wayed it, darted it, hurled it, staggered it, reeled it, swinged it, brangled it, tottered it, lifted it, heaved it, transformed it, transfigured it, transposed it, transplaced it, reared it, raised it, hoised it, washed it, dighted it, cleansed it, rinsed it, nailed it, settled it, fastened it, shackled it, fettered it, levelled it, blocked it, tugged it, tewed it, carried it, bedashed it, bewrayed it, parched it, mounted it, broached it, nicked it, notched it, bespattered it, decked it, adorned it, trimmed it, garnished it, gaged it, furnished it, bored it, pierced it, tapped it, rumbled it, slid it down the hill, and precipitated it from the very height of the Craneum; then from the foot to the top (like another Sisyphus with his stone) bore it up again, and every way so banged it and belabored it, that it was ten thousand to one he had not struck the bottom of it out.

Which when one of his friends had seen, and asked him why he did so toil his body, perplex his spirit, and torment his tub? the philosopher’s answer was, that not being employed in any other office by the Republic, he thought it expedient to thunder and storm it so tempestuously upon his tub, that amongst a people so fervently busy and earnest at work, he alone might not seem a loitering slug and lazy fellow. To the same purpose may I say to myself,--

Tho’ I be rid from fear, I am not void of care.

For perceiving no account to be made of me towards the discharge of a trust of any great concernment, and considering that through all the parts of this most noble kingdom of France, both on this and on the other side of the mountains, every one is most diligently exercised and busied; some in the fortifying of their own native country, for its defence; others, in the repulsing of their enemies by an offensive war; and all this with a policy so excellent, and such admirable order, so manifestly profitable for the future, whereby France shall have its frontiers most magnifically enlarged, and the French assured of a long and well-grounded peace, that very little withholds me from the opinion of good Heraclitus, which affirmeth war to be the parent of all good things; and therefore do I believe that war is in Latin called _bellum_, not by antiphrasis, as some patchers of old rusty Latin would have us to think, because in war there is little beauty to be seen; but absolutely and simply; for that in war (_bellum_ in _Latin_) appears all that is good and graceful, _bon_ and _bel_ in French, and that by the wars is purged out all manner of wickedness and deformity. For proof whereof the wise and pacific Solomon could no better represent the unspeakable perfection of the divine wisdom, than by comparing it to the due disposure and ranking of an army in battle array, well provided and ordered.

Therefore by reason of my weakness and inability, being reputed by my compatriots unfit for the offensive part of warfare; and on the other side, being no way employed in matter of the defensive, although it had been but to carry burdens, fill ditches, or break clods, each whereof had been to me indifferent, I held it not a little disgraceful to be only an idle spectator of so many valorous, eloquent, and warlike persons, who in the view and sight of all Europe act this notable interlude or tragicomedy, and not exert myself, and contribute thereto this nothing, my all; which remained for me to do. For, in my opinion, little honor is due to such as are mere lookers on, liberal of their eyes, and of their strength parsimonious; who conceal their crowns and hide their silver; scratching their head with one finger like grumbling puppies, gaping at the flies like tithe calves; clapping down their ears like Arcadian asses at the melody of musicians, who with their very countenances in the depth of silence express their consent to the prosopopeia.

Having made this choice and election, it seemed to me that my exercise therein would be neither unprofitable nor troublesome to any, whilst I should thus set agoing my Diogenical Tub.

_THE LOST HATCHET_

There once lived a poor honest country fellow of Gravot, Tom Wellhung by name, a wood-cleaver by trade, who in that low drudgery made shift so to pick up a sorry livelihood. It happened that he lost his hatchet. Now tell me who ever had more cause to be vexed than poor Tom? Alas, his whole estate and life depended on his hatchet; by his hatchet he earned many a fair penny of the best wood-mongers or log-merchants, among whom he went a-jobbing; for want of his hatchet he was like to starve; and had Death but met him six days after without a hatchet, the grim fiend would have mowed him down in the twinkling of a bed-staff. In this sad case he began to be in a heavy taking, and called upon Jupiter with most eloquent prayers (for, you know, necessity was the mother of eloquence), with the whites of his eyes turned up toward heaven, down on his marrow-bones, his arms reared high, his fingers stretched wide, and his head bare, the poor wretch without ceasing was roaring out by way of Litany at every repetition of his supplications, “My hatchet, Lord Jupiter, my hatchet, my hatchet, only my hatchet, oh, Jupiter, or money to buy another, and nothing else; alas, my poor hatchet!”

Jupiter happened then to be holding a grand council about certain urgent affairs, and old Gammer Cybele was just giving her opinion, or, if you had rather have it so, it was young Phœbus the Beau; but, in short, Tom’s outcry and lamentations were so loud that they were heard with no small amazement at the council-board by the whole consistory of the gods. “What a devil have we below,” quoth Jupiter, “that howls so horridly? By the mud of Styx, haven’t we had all along, and haven’t we here still, enough to do to set to rights a world of puzzling businesses of consequence? Let us, however, despatch this howling fellow below; you, Mercury, go see who it is, and discover what he wants.” Mercury looked out at heaven’s trapdoor, through which, as I am told, they hear what’s said here below. By the way, one might well enough mistake it for the scuttle of a ship; though Icaromenippus said it was like the mouth of a well. The light-heeled deity saw that it was honest Tom, who asked for his lost hatchet; and, accordingly, he made his report to the Synod. “Marry,” said Jupiter, “we are finely holped up, as if we had now nothing else to do here but to restore lost hatchets. Well, he must have it for all that, for so ’tis written in the Book of Fate, as well as if it was worth the whole Duchy of Milan. The truth is, the fellow’s hatchet is as much to him as a kingdom to a king. Come, come, let no more words be scattered about it; let him have his hatchet again. Run down immediately, and cast at the poor fellow’s feet three hatchets! his own, another of gold, and a third of massy silver, all of one size; then, having left it to his will to take his choice, if he take his own, and be satisfied with it, give him t’other two. If he take another, chop his head off with his own; and henceforth serve me all those losers of hatchets after that manner.”

Having said this, Jupiter, with an awkward turn of his head, like a jackanapes swallowing pills, made so dreadful a phiz that all the vast Olympus quaked again. Heaven’s foot-messenger, thanks to his low-crowned, narrow-brimmed hat, and plume of feathers, heel-pieces, and running-stick with pigeon-wings, flings himself out at heaven’s wicket, through the empty deserts of the air, and in a trice nimbly alights on the earth, and throws at friend Tom’s feet the three hatchets, saying to him: “Thou hast bawled long enough to be a-dry; thy prayers and requests are granted by Jupiter; see which of these three is thy hatchet, and take it away with thee.”

Wellhung lifts up the golden hatchet, peeps upon it, and finds it very heavy; then staring on Mercury cries, “Gadzooks, this is none of mine; I won’t ha’t.” The same he did with the silver one, and said, “’Tis not this either; you may e’en take them again.” At last, he takes up his own hatchet, examines the end of the helve, and finds his mark there; then, ravished with joy, like a fox that meets some straggling poultry, and sneering from the tip of the nose, he cries, “By the Mass, this is my hatchet; Master God, if you will leave it me, I will sacrifice to you a very good and huge pot of milk, brim full, covered with fine strawberries, next Ides, _i.e._, the 15th of May.”

“Honest fellow,” said Mercury, “I leave it thee; take it; and because thou hast wished and chosen moderately, in point of hatchet, by Jupiter’s command I give thee these two others; thou hast now wherewith to make thyself rich: be honest.”

Honest Tom gave Mercury a whole cart-load of thanks, and paid reverence to the most great Jupiter. His old hatchet he fastened close to his leathern girdle, and girds it about his breech like Martin of Cambray; the two others, being more heavy, he lays on his shoulder. Thus he plods on, trudging over the fields, keeping a good countenance among his neighbors and fellow-parishioners, with one merry saying or other, after Patelin’s way.

The next day, having put on a clean white jacket, he takes on his back the two precious hatchets, and comes to Chinon, the famous city, noble city, ancient city, yea, the first city in the world, according to the judgment and assertion of the most learned Massoreths. In Chinon he turned his silver hatchet into fine testons, crown-pieces, and other white cash; his golden hatchet into fine angels, curious ducats, substantial ridders, spankers, and rose nobles. Then with them purchases a good number of farms, barns, houses, outhouses, thatch-houses, stables, meadows, orchards, fields, vineyards, woods, arable lands, pastures, ponds, mills, gardens, nurseries, oxen, cows, sheep, goats, swine, hogs, asses, horses, hens, cocks, capons, chickens, geese, ganders, ducks, drakes, and a world of all other necessaries, and in a short time became the richest man in all the country. His brother bumpkins, and the yeomen and other country-puts thereabout, perceiving his good fortune, were not a little amazed, insomuch that their former pity of poor Tom was soon changed into an envy of his so great and unexpected rise; and, as they could not for their souls devise how this came about, they made it their business to pry up and down, and lay their heads together, to inquire, seek, and inform themselves by what means, in what place, on what day, what hour, how, why, and wherefore, he had come by this great treasure.

At last, hearing it was by losing his hatchet, “Ha, ha!” said they, “was there no more to do, but to lose a hatchet, to make us rich?” With this they all fairly lost their hatchets out of hand. The devil a one that had a hatchet left; he was not his mother’s son, that did not lose his hatchet. No more was wood felled or cleared in that country through want of hatchets. Nay, the Æsopian apologue even saith, that certain petty country gents, of the lower class, who had sold Wellhung their little mill and little field to have wherewithal to make a figure at the next muster, having been told that this treasure was come to him by that means only, sold the only badge of their gentility, their swords, to purchase hatchets to go to lose them, as the silly clodpates did, in hopes to gain store of coin by that loss.

You would have truly sworn they had been a parcel of your petty spiritual usurers, Rome-bound, selling their all, and borrowing of others to buy store of mandates, a pennyworth of a new-made pope.

Now they cried out and brayed, and prayed and bawled, and lamented and invoked Jupiter, “My hatchet! My hatchet! Jupiter, my hatchet!” On this side, “My hatchet!” On that side, “My hatchet! Ho, ho, ho, ho, Jupiter, my hatchet!” The air round about rung again with the cries and howlings of these rascally losers of hatchets.

Mercury was nimble in bringing them hatchets; to each offering that which he had lost, as also another of gold, and a third of silver.

Everywhere he still was for that of gold, giving thanks in abundance to the great giver Jupiter; but in the very nick of time, that they bowed and stooped to take it from the ground, whip in a trice, Mercury lopped off their heads, as Jupiter had commanded. And of heads thus cut off, the number was just equal to that of the lost hatchets. --_Gargantua and Pantagruel._

There is an epigram in Martial, and one of the very good ones--for he has all sorts--where he pleasantly tells the story of Cælius, who, to avoid making his court to some great men of Rome, to wait their rising, and to attend them abroad, pretended to have the gout; and the better to color this, anointed his legs and had them lapped up in a great many swathings, and perfectly counterfeited both the gesture and countenance of a gouty person; till in the end, Fortune did him the kindness to make him one indeed.

“Tantum cura potest, et ars doloris! Desit fingere Cælius podagram.”

I think I have read somewhere in Appian, a story like this, of one who to escape the proscriptions of the triumvirs of Rome, and the better to be concealed from the discovery of those who pursued him, having hidden himself in a disguise, would yet add this invention, to counterfeit having but one eye; but when he came to have a little more liberty, and went to take off the plaster he had a great while worn over his eye, he found he had totally lost the sight of it indeed, and that it was absolutely gone. ’Tis possible that the action of sight was dulled from having been so long without exercise, and that the optic power was wholly retired into the other eye for we evidently perceive that the eye we keep shut sends some part of its virtue to its fellow, so that it will swell and grow bigger; and so, inaction, with the heat of ligatures and plaster might very well have brought some gouty humor upon this dissembler of Martial.

Reading in Froissart the vow of a troop of young English gallants, to keep their left eyes bound up till they had arrived in France and performed some notable exploit upon us, I have often been tickled with the conceit: suppose it had befallen them as it did the Roman, and they had returned with but one eye apiece to their mistresses, for whose sakes they had made his ridiculous vow.

Mothers have reason to rebuke their children when they counterfeit having but one eye, squinting, lameness, or any other personal defect; for, besides that their bodies being then so tender may be subject to take an ill bent, Fortune, I know not how, sometimes seems to delight in taking us at our word; and I have heard several examples related of people who have become really sick, by only feigning to be so. I have always used, whether on horseback or on foot, to carry a stick in my hand, and even to affect doing it with an elegant air; many have threatened that this fancy would one day be turned into necessity: if so, I should be the first of my family to have the gout.

But let us a little lengthen this chapter, and add another anecdote concerning blindness. Pliny reports of one who, dreaming he was blind, found himself so indeed in the morning without any preceding infirmity in his eyes. The force of imagination might assist in this case, as I have said elsewhere, and Pliny seems to be of the same opinion; but it is more likely that the motions which the body felt within, of which physicians, if they please, may find out the cause, taking away his sight, were the occasion of his dream.

Let us add another story, not very improper for this subject, which Seneca relates in one of his epistles: “You know,” says he, writing to Lucilius, “that Harpaste, my wife’s fool, is thrown upon me as an hereditary charge for I have naturally an aversion to those monsters; and if I have a mind to laugh at a fool, I need not seek him far, I can laugh at myself. This fool has suddenly lost her sight: I tell you a strange, but a very true thing; she is not sensible that she is blind, but eternally importunes her keeper to take her abroad, because she says the house is dark. That what we laugh at in her, I pray you to believe, happens to every one of us: no one knows himself to be avaricious or grasping: and again, the blind call for a guide, while we stray of our own accord. I am not ambitious, we say; but a man cannot live otherwise at Rome; I am not wasteful, but the city requires a great outlay; ’tis not my fault if I am choleric--if I have not yet established any certain course of life: ’tis the fault of youth. Let us not seek our disease out of ourselves; ’tis in us, and planted in our bowels; and the mere fact that we do not perceive ourselves to be sick, renders us more hard to be cured. If we do not betimes begin to see to ourselves, when shall we have provided for so many wounds and evils wherewith we abound? And yet we have a most sweet and charming medicine in philosophy; for of all the rest we are sensible of no pleasure till after the cure: this pleases and heals at once.” This is what Seneca says, that has carried me from my subject, but there is advantage in the change.

As in England, the French published many jest books containing short anecdotes or epigrams, as well as the ubiquitous noodle stories.

* * * * *

A wife said to her husband, who was much attached to reading, “I wish I were a book, that I might always have your company.” _Then_, answered he, _I should wish you an almanac, that I might change once a year_.

* * * * *

It was said of a malicious parasite, that he never opened his mouth but at the expense of others; because he always ate at the tables of others, and spoke ill of everybody.

* * * * *

The Duke of Vivonne, who was a heretic in medicine, being indisposed, his friends sent for a physician. When the Duke was told a physician was below, he said, _Tell him I cannot see him, because I am not well. Let him call again at another time_.

* * * * *

The Marechal de Faber, at a siege, was pointing out a place with his finger. As he spoke, a musket-ball carried off the finger. Instantly stretching another, he continued his discourse, _Gentlemen, as I was saying_--. This was true _sang froid_.

A man, carrying on an unjust process, was advised to pray to God for its success. _Stop, stop_, replied he, _God must hear nothing of this_.

* * * * *

Another princess of France, being espoused by the king of Spain, in passing through a town, on her way to Madrid, the magistrates of the place, which was a famous mart for stockings, waited on the queen with a present of a dozen pairs of remarkable fineness. The Spanish grandee, who attended her, full of the jealous humour of his nation, said, in a passion. “You fools, know that a queen of Spain has no legs.” The magistrates retired in terror, and the poor queen, weeping sadly, said, _Must I then have both my legs cut off?_

* * * * *

In a village of Poitou, a peasant’s wife, after a long illness, fell into a lethargy. She was thought dead; and being only wrapped in linen, as the custom of burying the poor in that country is, she was carried to the place of interment. In going to church, the body, being borne aloft, was caught hold of by some briars, and so scratched, that as if bled by a surgeon, she revived. Fourteen years after, she died in earnest, as was thought; and as they carried her to church, the husband exclaimed, _For God’s sake, do not go near the briars_.

* * * * *

A gentleman, seeing in his yard a mass of rubbish, blamed his people for not removing it. A domestic said, no cart could be got. “Why,” answered the master, “do you not make a pit beside the rubbish, and bury it?” “But,” answered the domestic, “where shall we put the earth that comes out of the pit?” _You great fool_, replied his master, _make the pit so large as to hold all_.

* * * * *

A lady sitting near the fire, and telling a long story, a spark flew on her gown, and she did not perceive it till it had burnt a good while. _I saw it at first, madam_, said a lady who was present, _but I could not be so rude as to interrupt you_.

When Rabelais lay on his death-bed, he could not help jesting at the very last moment; for, having received the extreme unction, a friend coming to see him, said, he hoped he was prepared for the next world. _Yes, yes_, answered Rabelais, _I am ready for my journey now; they have just greased my boots_.

GERMAN WIT AND HUMOR

Brandt’s _Das Narrenschiff_, or _The Ship of Fools_, a long satirical poem, was published at the close of the Fifteenth century.

It was followed by _The Boats of Foolish Women_ and other imitative works.

Among them, was _The Praise of Folly_, by Desiderius Erasmus, a Dutch classical scholar and satirist.

The following is from the Dedicatory Epistle which introduces _The Praise of Folly_, and which is addressed to Sir Thomas More.

“But those who are offended at the lightness and pedantry of this subject, I would have them consider that I do not set myself for the first example of this kind, but that the same has been oft done by many considerable authors. For thus, several ages since, Homer wrote of no more weighty a subject than of a war between the frogs and mice; Virgil of a gnat and a pudding cake; and Ovid of a nut. Polycrates commended the cruelty of Busiris; and Isocrates, that corrects him for this, did as much for the injustice of Glaucus. Favorinus extolled Thersites, and wrote in praise of a quartane ague. Synesius pleaded in behalf of baldness; and Lucian defended a sipping fly. Seneca drollingly related the deifying of Claudius; Plutarch the dialogue betwixt Gryllus and Ulysses; Lucian and Apuleius the story of an ass; and somebody else records the last will of a hog, of which St. Hierom makes mention. So that, if they please, let themselves think the worst of me, and fancy to themselves that I was, all this while, a playing at push-pin, or riding astride on a hobby-horse. For how unjust is it, if when we allow different recreations to each particular course of life, we afford no diversion to studies; especially when trifles may be a whet to more serious thoughts, and comical matters may be so treated of, as that a reader of ordinary sense may possibly thence reap more advantage than from some more big and stately argument.... As to what relates to myself, I must be forced to submit to the judgment of others, yet, except I am too partial to be judge in my own case, I am apt to believe I have praised Folly in such a manner as not to have deserved the name of fool for my pains.”

A short extract from the book follows.

“It is one farther very commendable property of fools, that they always speak the truth, than which there is nothing more noble and heroical. For so, though Plato relates it as a sentence of Alcibiades, that in the sea of drunkenness truth swims uppermost, and so wine is the only teller of truth, yet this character may more justly be assumed by me, as I can make good from the authority of Euripides, who lays down this as an axiom, ‘Children and fools always speak the truth.’ Whatever the fool has in his heart, he betrays in his face; or what is more notifying, discovers it by his words; while the wise man, as Euripides observes, carries a double tongue; the one to speak what may be said, the other what ought to be; the one what truth, the other what time requires; whereby he can in a trice so alter his judgment, as to prove that to be now white, which he had just swore to be black; like the satyr at his porridge, blowing hot and cold at the same breath; in his lips professing one thing, when in his heart he means another.

Furthermore, princes in their greatest splendor seem upon this account unhappy, in that they miss the advantage of being told the truth, and are shammed off by a parcel of insinuating courtiers, that acquit themselves as flatterers more than as friends. But some will perchance object that princes do not love to hear the truth, and therefore wise men must be very cautious how they behave themselves before them, lest they should take too great a liberty in speaking what is true, rather than what is acceptable. This must be confessed, truth indeed is seldom palatable to the ears of kings, yet fools have so great a privilege as to have free leave, not only to speak bare truths, but the most bitter ones too; so as the same reproof which, had it come from the mouth of a wise man would have cost him his head, being blurted out by a fool, is not only pardoned, but well taken, and rewarded. For truth has naturally a mixture of pleasure, if it carry with it nothing of offence to the person whom it is applied to; and the happy knack of ordering it so, is bestowed only on fools....”

However, but few individual names stand out in the early German literature that can by any stretch of definition be called humorous.

As in all other countries, legends and folk lore tales were rife, and eventually produced popular heroes about whom stories were invented.

Brother Rush, who seems to be merely a demon of darkness, is first found in print in Germany in 1515.

He is a tricksy sprite and goes through various vicissitudes of rather dull interest.

He was followed by Tyll Eulenspiegel, a far more popular personage, and translated to England under the name of Owleglas or Howleglas.

Eulenspiegel was a shrewd and cunning proposition and had many startling adventures, two of which are here given.

_EULENSPIEGEL’S PRANKS_

_The Golden Horseshoes_

Eulenspiegel came to the court of the King of Denmark, who liked him well, and said that if he would make him some diversion, then might he have the best of shoes for his horse’s hoofs. Eulenspiegel asked the king if he was minded to keep his word well and truly, and the king did answer most solemnly, “Yes.”

Now did Eulenspiegel ride his horse to a goldsmith, by whom he suffered to be beaten upon the horse’s hoofs shoes of gold with silver nails. This done, Eulenspiegel went to the king, that the king might send his treasurer to pay for the shoeing. The treasurer believed he should pay a blacksmith, but Eulenspiegel conducted him to the goldsmith, who did require and demand one hundred Danish marks. This would the treasurer not pay, but went and told his master.

Therefore the king caused Eulenspiegel to be summoned into his presence, and spoke to him:

“Eulenspiegel, why did you have such costly shoes? Were I to shoe all my horses thus, soon would I be without land or any possessions.”

To which Eulenspiegel did make reply:

“Gracious King, you did promise me the best of shoes for my horse’s hoofs, and I did think the best were of gold.”

Then the king laughed:

“You shall be of my court, for you act upon my very word.”

And the king commanded his treasurer to pay the hundred marks for the horse’s golden shoes. But these Eulenspiegel caused to be taken off, and iron shoes put on in their stead; and he remained many a long day in the service of the King of Denmark.

_Paying with the Sound of a Penny_

Eulenspiegel was at a tavern where the host did one day put the meat on the spit so late that Eulenspiegel got hungry for dinner. The host, seeing his discontent, said to him:

“Who cannot wait till the dinner be ready, let him eat what he may.”

Therefore Eulenspiegel went aside, and ate some dry bread; after that he had eaten he sat by the fire and turned the spit until the meat was roasted. Then was the meat borne upon the table, and the host, with the guests, did feast upon it. But Eulenspiegel stayed on the bench by the fire, nor would he sit at the board, since he told the host that he had his fill from the odor of the meat. So when they had eaten, and the host came to Eulenspiegel with the tray, that he might place in it the price of the food, Eulenspiegel did refuse, saying:

“Why must I pay for what I have not eaten?”

To which the host replied, in anger:

“Give me your penny; for by sitting at the fire, and swallowing the savor of the meat, you had the same nourishment as though you had partaken of the meat at the board.”

Then Eulenspiegel searched in his purse for a penny, and threw it on the bench, saying to the host:

“Do you hear this sound?”

“I do, indeed,” answered the host.

Then did Eulenspiegel pick up the penny and restore it to his purse; which done, he spoke again:

“To my belly the odor of the meat is worth as much as the sound of the penny is to you.”

* * * * *

About this time came into being the tales of the Schildburgers, or Noodles, who correspond to the Gothamites of England.

Schildburg, we are told, was a town “in Misnopotamia, beyond Utopia, in the kingdom of Calecut.” The Schildburgers were originally so renowned for their wisdom, that they were continually invited into foreign countries to give their advice, until at length not a man was left at home, and their wives were obliged to assume the charge of the duties of their husbands. This became at length so onerous, that the wives held a council, and resolved on despatching a solemn message in writing to call the men home. This had the desired effect; all the Schildburgers returned to their own town, and were so joyfully received by their wives that they resolved upon leaving it no more. They accordingly held a council, and it was decided that, having experienced the great inconvenience of a reputation of wisdom, they would avoid it in future by assuming the character of fools. One of the first evil results of their long neglect of home affairs was the want of a council-hall, and this want they now resolved to supply without delay. They accordingly went to the hills and woods, cut down the timber, dragged it with great labour to the town, and in due time completed the erection of a handsome and substantial building. But, when they entered their new council-hall, what was their consternation to find themselves in perfect darkness! In fact, they had forgotten to make any windows. Another council was held, and one who had been among the wisest in the days of their wisdom, gave his opinion very oracularly; the result of which was that they should experiment on every possible expedient for introducing light into the hall, and that they should first try that which seemed most likely to succeed. They had observed that the light of day was caused by sunshine, and the plan proposed was to meet at mid-day when the sun was brightest, and fill sacks, hampers, jugs, and vessels of all kinds, with sunshine and daylight, which they proposed afterwards to empty into the unfortunate council-hall. Next day, as the clock struck one, you might see a crowd of Schildburgers before the council-house door, busily employed, some holding the sacks open, and others throwing the light into them with shovels and any other appropriate implements which came to hand. While they were thus labouring, a stranger came into the town of Schildburg, and, hearing what they were about, told them they were labouring to no purpose, and offered to show them how to get the daylight into the hall. It is unnecessary to say more than that this new plan was to make an opening in the roof, and that the Schildburgers witnessed the effect with astonishment, and were loud in their gratitude to the new comer.

The Schildburgers met with further difficulties before they completed their council-hall. They sowed a field with salt, and when the salt-plant grew up next year, after a meeting of the council, at which it was stiffly disputed whether it ought to be reaped, or mowed, or gathered in in some other manner, it was finally discovered that the crop consisted of nothing but nettles. After many accidents of this kind, the Schildburgers are noticed by the emperor, and obtain a charter of incorporation and freedom, but they profit little by it. In trying some experiments to catch mice, they set fire to their houses, and the whole town is burnt to the ground, upon which, in their sorrow, they abandon it altogether, and become, like the Jews of old, scattered over the world, carrying their own folly into every country they visit.

Another tale relates how the boors of Schilda contrived to get their millstone twice down from a high mountain:

The boors of Schilda had built a mill, and with extraordinary labour they had quarried a millstone for it out of a quarry which lay on the summit of a high mountain; and when the stone was finished, they carried it with great labour and pain down the hill. When they had got to the bottom, it occurred to one of them that they might have spared themselves the trouble of carrying it down by letting it roll down. “Verily,” said he, “we are the stupidest of fools to take these extraordinary pains to do that which we might have done with so little trouble. We will carry it up, and then let it roll down the hill by itself, as we did before with the tree which we felled for the council-house.”

This advice pleased them all, and with greater labour they carried the stone to the top of the mountain again, and were about to roll it down, when one of them said, “But how shall we know where it runs to? Who will be able to tell us aught about it?” “Why,” said the bailiff, who had advised the stone being carried up again, “this is very easily managed. One of us must stick in the hole [for the millstone, of course, had a hole in the middle], and run down with it.” This was agreed to, and one of them, having been chosen for the purpose, thrust his head through the hole, and ran down the hill with the millstone. Now at the bottom of the mountain was a deep fish-pond, into which the stone rolled, and the simpleton with it, so that the Schildburgers lost both stone and man, and not one among them knew what had become of them. And they felt sorely angered against their old companion who had run down the hill with the stone, for they considered that he had carried it off for the purpose of disposing of it. So they published a notice in all the neighbouring boroughs, towns, and villages, calling on them, that “if any one come there with a millstone round his neck, they should treat him as one who had stolen the common goods, and give him to justice.” But the poor fellow lay in the pond, dead. Had he been able to speak, he would have been willing to tell them not to worry themselves on his account, for he would give them their own again. But his load pressed so heavily upon him, and he was so deep in the water, that he, after drinking water enough--more, indeed, than was good for him--died; and he is dead at the present day, and dead he will, shall, and must remain!

The earliest known edition of the history of the Schildburgers was printed in 1597, but the story itself is no doubt older. It will be seen at once that it involves a satire upon the municipal towns of the middle ages.

ITALIAN WIT AND HUMOR

Of Italian wit and humor up to and through the Sixteenth Century there is little to be said. Translators who have given us in English the early literature of Italy have been so concerned with the serious poetry and prose that they neglected the lighter veins.

If, indeed, there were any worth while.

The outstanding name of the Fourteenth Century is that of Giovanni Boccaccio.

But though the Decameron, a collection of one hundred stories, is a mirror of the humorous taste of that time, the stories are for the most part, long, dull and prosy.

They relate the intrigues of lovers in a freely licentious way, but both humorous description and witty repartee are consciously lacking.

One of the most amusing of the decent tales is here given, also a sonnet of Boccaccio’s translated by Rossetti.

_OF THREE GIRLS AND THEIR TALK_

By a clear well, within a little field Full of green grass and flowers of every hue, Sat three young girls, relating (as I knew) Their loves. And each had twined a bough to shield Her lovely face; and the green leaves did yield The golden hair their shadow,--while the two Sweet colours mingled, both blown lightly through With a soft wind for ever stirr’d and still’d. After a little while one of them said (I heard her)--“Think! if ere the next hour struck Each of our lovers should come here to-day, Think you that we should fly or feel afraid?” To whom the others answer’d--“From such luck A girl would be a fool to run away!”

_THE STOLEN PIG_

Calandrino had a little farm, not far from Florence, which came to him through his wife. There he used to have a pig fatted every year, and some time about December he and his wife went always to kill and salt it for the use of the family. Now it happened once--she being unwell at the time--that he went thither by himself to kill his pig; which Bruno and Buffalmacco hearing, and knowing she was not to be there, they went to spend a few days with a great friend of theirs, a priest in Calandrino’s neighborhood. Now the pig had been killed the very day they came thither, and Calandrino, seeing them along with the priest, called to them and said, “Welcome, kindly; I would gladly you should see what a good manager I am.” Then, taking them into the house, he showed them this pig. They saw that it was fat, and were told by him that it was to be salted for his family. “Salted, booby?” said Bruno. “Sell it, let us make merry with the money, and tell your wife that it was stolen.” “No,” said Calandrino, “she will never believe it; and, besides, she would turn me out of doors. Trouble me, then, no further about any such thing, for I will never do it.” They said a great deal more to him, but all to no purpose. At length he invited them to supper, but did it in such a manner that they refused.

After they had come away from him, said Bruno to Buffalmacco, “Suppose we steal this pig from him to-night.” “How is it possible?” “Oh, I know well enough how to do it, if he does not remove it in the meantime from the place where we just now saw it.” “Then let us do it, and afterward we and the parson will make merry over it.” The priest assured them that he should like it above all things. “We must use a little art,” quoth Bruno; “you know how covetous he is, and how freely he drinks when it is at another’s cost. Let us get him to the tavern, where the parson shall make a pretense of treating us all, out of compliment to him. He will soon get drunk, and then the thing will be easy enough, as there is nobody in the house but himself.”

This was done, and Calandrino, finding that the parson was to pay, took his glasses pretty freely, and, getting his dose, walked home betimes, left the door open, thinking that it was shut, and so went to bed. Buffalmacco and Bruno went from the tavern to sup with the priest, and as soon as supper was over they took proper tools with them to get into the house; but finding the door open, they carried off the pig to the priest’s and went to bed likewise.

In the morning, as soon as Calandrino had slept off his wine, he rose, came down-stairs, and finding the door open and his pig gone, began to inquire of everybody if they knew anything of the matter; and receiving no tidings of it, he made a terrible outcry, saying, “What shall I do now? Somebody has stolen my pig!” Bruno and Buffalmacco were no sooner out of bed than they went to his house to hear what he would say; and the moment he saw them he roared out, “Oh, my friends, my pig is stolen!” Upon this Bruno whispered to him and said, “Well, I am glad to see you wise in your life for once.” “Alas!” quoth he, “it is too true.” “Keep to the same story,” said Bruno, “and make noise enough for every one to believe you.”

Calandrino now began to bawl louder, “Indeed! I vow and swear to you that it is stolen.” “That’s right; be sure you let everybody hear you, that it may appear so.” “Do you think that I would forswear myself about it? May I be hanged this moment if it is not so!” “How is it possible!” quoth Bruno; “I saw it but last night; never imagine that I can believe it.” “It is so, however,” answered he, “and I am undone. I dare not now go home again, for my wife will never believe me, and I shall have no peace this twelve-month.” “It is a most unfortunate thing,” said Bruno, “if it be true; but you know I put it into your head to say so last night, and you should not make sport both of your wife and us at the same time.”

At this Calandrino began to roar out afresh, saying, “Good God! you make me mad to hear you talk. I tell you once for all it was stolen this very night!” “Nay, if it be so,” quoth Buffalmacco, “we must think of some way to get it back again.” “And what way must we take,” said he “to find it?” “Depend upon it,” replied the other, “that nobody came from the Indies to steal it; it must be somewhere in your neighborhood, and if you could get the people together I could make a charm, with some bread and cheese, that would soon discover the thief.” “True,” said Bruno, “but they would know in that case what you were about; and the person that has it would never come near you.” “How must we manage, then?” said Buffalmacco. “Oh!” replied Bruno, “you shall see me do it with some pills of ginger and a little wine, which I will ask them to come and drink. They will have no suspicion what our design is, and we can make a charm of these as well as of the bread and cheese.” “Very well,” quoth the other. “What do you say, Calandrino? Have you a mind we should try it?” “For Heaven’s sake do,” he said; “if I only knew who the thief is, I should be half comforted.” “Well, then,” quoth Bruno, “I am ready to go to Florence for the things, if you will only give me some money.” He happened to have a few florins in his pocket, which he gave him, and off went Bruno.

When he got to Florence, Bruno went to a friend’s house and bought a pound of ginger made into pills. He also got two pills made of aloes, which had a private mark that he should not mistake them, being candied over with sugar like the rest. Then, having bought a jar of good wine, he returned to Calandrino, and said, “To-morrow you must take care to invite every one that you have the least suspicion of; it is a holiday, and they will be glad to come. We will finish the charm to-night, and bring the things to your house in the morning, and then I will take care to do and say on your behalf what is necessary upon such an occasion.”

Calandrino did as he was told, and in the morning he had nearly all the people in the parish assembled under an elm-tree in the churchyard. His two friends produced the pills and wine, and, making the people stand round in a circle, Bruno said to them, “Gentlemen, it is fit that I should tell you the reason of your being summoned here in this manner, to the end, if anything should happen which you do not like, that I be not blamed for it. You must know, then, that Calandrino had a pig stolen last night, and, as some of the company here must have taken it, he, that he may find out the thief, would have every man take and eat one of these pills, and drink a glass of wine after it. Whoever the guilty person is, you will find he will not be able to get a bit of it down, but it will taste so bitter that he will be forced to spit it out. Therefore, to prevent such open shame, he had better, whoever he is, make a secret confession to the priest, and I will proceed no further.”

All present declared their readiness to eat; so, placing them all in order, he gave every man his pill and coming to Calandrino, he gave one of the aloe pills to him, which he straightway put into his mouth, and no sooner did he began to chew it than he was forced to spit it out. Every one was now attentive to see who spit his pill out, and while Bruno kept going round, apparently taking no notice of Calandrino, he heard somebody say behind him, “Hey-day! what is the meaning of its disagreeing so with Calandrino?” Bruno now turned suddenly about, and seeing that Calandrino had spit out his pill, he said, “Stay a little, honest friends, and be not too hasty in judging; it may be something else that has made him spit, and therefore he shall try another.” So he gave him the other aloe pill, and then went on to the rest that were unserved. But if the first was bitter to him, this he thought much more so. However, he endeavored to get it down as well as he could. But it was impossible; it made the tears run down his cheeks, and he was forced to spit it out at last, as he had done the other. In the meantime Buffalmacco was going about with the wine; but when he and all of them saw what Calandrino had done, they began to bawl out that he had robbed himself, and some of them abused him roundly.

After they were all gone, Buffalmacco said, “I always thought that you yourself were the thief, and that you were willing to make us believe the pig was stolen in order to keep your money in your pocket, lest we should expect a treat upon the occasion.” Calandrino, who had still the taste of the aloes in his mouth, fell a-swearing that he knew nothing of the matter. “Honor bright, now, comrade,” said Buffalmacco, “what did you get for it?” This made Calandrino quite furious.

To crown all, Bruno struck in: “I was just now told,” said he, “by one of the company, that you have a mistress in this neighborhood to whom you are very kind, and that he is confident you have given it to her. You know you once took us to the plains of Mugnone, to look for some black stones, when you left us in the lurch, and pretended you had found them; and now you think to make us believe that your pig is stolen, when you have either given it away or sold it. You have played so many tricks upon us, that we intend to be fooled no more by you. Therefore, as we have had a deal of trouble in the affair, you shall make us amends by giving us two couple of fowls, unless you mean that we should tell your wife.”

Calandrino, now perceiving that he would not be believed, and being unwilling to have them add to his troubles by bringing his wife upon his back, was forced to give them the fowls, which they joyfully carried off along with the pork.

--_The Decameron._

Rather earlier than Boccaccio lived Rustico di Filippo, who gives us the following satirical bit.

_THE MAKING OF MASTER MESSERIN_

When God had finished Master Messerin, He really thought it something to have done: Bird, man, and beast had got a chance in one, And each felt flattered, it was hoped, therein. For he is like a goose i’ the windpipe thin, And like a camelopard high i’ the loins, To which for manhood, you’ll be told, he joins Some kind of flesh hues and a callow chin. As to his singing, he affects the crow, As to his learning, beasts in general, And sets all square by dressing like a man. God made him, having nothing else to do, And proved there is not anything at all He cannot make, if that’s a thing He can.

Among other collections of tales was the _Novellino_, collected by Massuchio di Salerno, about the middle of the Fifteenth Century.

We quote

_THE INHERITANCE OF A LIBRARY_

Jeronimo, who had inherited the place of master and head of the house, found himself in possession of many thousand florins in ready money. Wherefore the youth, seeing that he himself had endured no labor and weariness in gathering together the same, forthwith made up his mind not to place his affection in possessions of this sort, and at once began to array himself in sumptuous garments, to taste the pleasures of the town in the company of certain chosen companions of his, to indulge in amorous adventures, and in a thousand other ways to dissipate his substance abroad without restraint of any kind. Not only did he banish from his mind all thought and design of continuing his studies, but he even went so far as to harbor against the books, which his father had held in such high esteem and reverence and had bequeathed to him, the most fierce and savage hatred. So violent, indeed, was his resentment against them that he set them down as the worst foes he had in the world.

On a certain day it happened that the young man, either by accident or for some reason of his own, betook himself into the library of his dead father, and there his eye fell upon a vast quantity of handsome and well-arranged books, such as are wont to be found in places of this sort. At the first sight of these he was somewhat stricken with fear, and with a certain apprehension that the spirit of his father might pursue him; but, having collected his courage somewhat, he turned with a look of hatred on his face toward the aforesaid books and began to address them in the following terms:

“Books, books, so long as my father was alive you waged against me war unceasing, forasmuch as he spent all his time and trouble either in purchasing you, or in putting you in fair bindings; so that, whenever it might happen that there came upon me the need of a few florins or of certain other articles, which all youths find necessary, he would always refuse to let me have them, saying that it was his will and pleasure to dispense his money only in the purchase of such books as might please him. And over and beyond this, he purposed in his mind that I, altogether against my will, should spend my life in close companionship with you, and over this matter there arose between us many times angry and contumelious words. Many times, also, you have put me in danger of being driven into perpetual exile from this my home. Therefore it cannot but be pleasing to God--since it is no fault of yours that I was not hunted forth from this place--that I should send you packing from this my house in such fashion that not a single one of you will ever behold my door again. And, in sooth, I wonder more especially that you have not before this disordered my wits, a feat you might well have accomplished with very little more trouble on your part, in your desire to do with me as you did with my father, according to my clear recollection. He, poor man, as if he had become bemused through conversing with you alone, was accustomed to demean himself in strange fashion, moving his hands and his head in such wise that over and over again I counted him to be one bereft of reason. Now, on account of all this, I bid you have a little patience, for the reason that I have made up my mind to sell you all forthwith, and thus in a single hour to avenge myself for all the outrages I have suffered on your account and, over and beyond this, to set myself free from the possible danger of going mad.”

After he had thus spoken, and had packed up divers volumes of the aforesaid books--one of his servants helping him in the work--he sent the parcel to the house of a certain lawyer, who was a friend of his, and then in a very few words came to an agreement with the lawyer as to the business, the issue of the affair being that, though he had simply expelled the books from his house, and had not sold them, he received, nevertheless, on account of the same, several hundred florins. With these, added to the money which still remained in his purse, he continued to pursue the course of pleasure he had begun.

* * * * *

Another ironical skit is by Francesco Berni, entitled

_LIVING IN BED_

Yet field-sports, dice, cards, balls, and such like courses, Things which he might be thought to set store by, Gave him but little pleasure. He liked horses, But was content to let them please his eye-- Buying them, not squaring with his resources. Therefore his _summum bonum_ was to lie Stretch’d at full length--yea, frankly be it said, To do no single thing but lie in bed.

’Twas owing all to that infernal writing. Body and brains had borne such grievous rounds Of kicks, cuffs, floors, from copying and inditing, That he could find no balsam for his wounds, No harbor for his wreck half so inviting As to lie still, far from all sights and sounds, And so, in bed, do nothing on God’s earth But try and give his senses a new birth.

“Bed--bed’s the thing, by Heaven!” thus would he swear. “Bed is your only work, your only duty. Bed is one’s gown, one’s slippers, one’s armchair, Old coat; you’re not afraid to spoil its beauty. Large you may have it, long, wide, brown, or fair, Down-bed or mattress, just as it may suit ye. Then take your clothes off, turn in, stretch, lie double; Be but in bed, you’re quit of earthly trouble!”

Borne to the fairy palace then, but tired Of seeing so much dancing, he withdrew Into a distant room, and there desired A bed might be set up, handsome and new, With all the comforts that the case required: Mattresses huge, and pillows not a few Put here and there, in order that no ease Might be found wanting to cheeks, or arms, or knees.

The bed was eight feet wide, lovely to see, With white sheets, and fine curtains, and rich loops Things vastly soothing to calamity; The coverlet hung light in silken droops; It might have held six people easily; But he disliked to lie in bed by groups. A large bed to himself, that was his notion, With room enough to swim in--like the ocean.

In this retreat there joined him a good soul, A Frenchman, one who had been long at court, An admirable cook--though, on the whole, His gains of his deserts had fallen short. For him was made, cheek, as it were, by jowl, A second bed of the same noble sort, Yet not so close but that the folks were able To set between the two a dinner-table.

Here was served up, on snow-white table-cloths, Each daintiest procurable comestible In the French taste (all others being Goths), Dishes alike delightful and digestible. Only our scribe chose sirups, soups, and broths, The smallest trouble being a detestable Bore, into which not ev’n his dinner led him. Therefore the servants always came and fed him.

Nothing at these times but his head was seen; The coverlet came close beneath his chin; And then, from out the bottle or tureen, They fill’d a silver pipe, which he let in Between his lips, all easy, smooth, and clean, And so he filled his philosophic skin. And not a finger all the while he stirred, Nor, lest his tongue should tire, scarce uttered word.

The name of that same cook was Master Pierre; He told a tale well--something short and light. Quoth scribe, “Those people who keep dancing there Have little wit.” Quoth Pierre, “You’re very right.” And then he told a tale, or hummed an air; Then took a sip of something, or a bite; And then he turned himself to sleep; and then Awoke and ate. And then he slept again.

One more thing I may note that made the day Pass well--one custom, not a little healing, Which was, to look above him, as he lay. And count the spots and blotches in the ceiling; Noting what shapes they took to, and which way, And where the plaster threatened to be peeling; Whether the spot looked new, or old, or what-- Or whether ’twas, in fact, a spot or not. --From _Roland Enamored_.

Francho Sacchetti, poet and novelist, wrote many stories and verses in lighter vein.

_ON A WET DAY_

As I walk’d thinking through a little grove, Some girls that gather’d flowers came passing me, Saying--“Look here! look there!” delightedly. “O here it is!” “What’s that?” “A lily? love!” “And there are violets!” “Farther for roses! O the lovely pets! The darling beauties! O the nasty thorn! Look here, my hand’s all torn!” “What’s that that jumps?” “O don’t! it’s a grasshopper!” “Come, run! come, run! Here’s blue-bells!” “O what fun!” “Not that way! stop her!” “Yes! this way!” “Pluck them then!” “O, I’ve found mushrooms! O look here!” “O, I’m Quite sure that farther on we’ll get wild thyme.” “O, we shall stay too long; it’s going to rain; There’s lightning; O! there’s thunder!” “O sha’n’t we hear the vesper bell? I wonder.” “Why, it’s not nones, you silly little thing! And don’t you hear the nightingales that sing-- Fly away O die away?” “O, I hear something; hush!” “Why, where? what is it then?” “Ah! in that bush.” So every girl here knocks it, shakes and shocks it: Till with the stir they make Out skurries a great snake. “O Lord! O me! Alack! Ah me! alack!” They scream, and then all run and scream again, And then in heavy drops comes down the rain.

Each running at the other in a fright, Each trying to get before the other, and crying. And flying, and stumbling, tumbling, wrong or right;-- One sets her knee There where her foot should be; One has her hands and dress All smother’d up with mud in a fine mess; And one gets trampled on by two or three. What’s gathered is let fall About the wood, and not pick’d up at all. The wreaths of flowers are scatter’d on the ground, And still as, screaming, hustling, without rest, They run this way and that and round and round, She thinks herself in luck who runs the best.

I stood quite still to have a perfect view, And never noticed till I got wet through. --_Translated by Rossetti._

This brings us to Benvenuto Cellini, who, though not classed among the humorists, gives us many flashes of wit and humor in his celebrated Biography.

_A COMPULSORY MARRIAGE AT SWORD’S POINT_

One of those busy personages who delight in spreading mischief came to inform me that Paolo Micceri had taken a house for his new lady and her mother, and that he made use of the most injurious and contemptuous expressions regarding me, to wit:

“Poor Benvenuto! he paid the piper while I danced; and now he goes about boasting of the exploit. He thinks I am afraid of him--I, who can wear a sword and dagger as well as he. But I would have him to know my weapons are as keen as his. I, too, am a Florentine, and come of the Micceri, a much better house than the Cellini any time of day.”

In short, the vile informer painted the things in such colors to my disadvantage that it fired my whole blood. I was in a fever of the most dangerous kind. And feeling it must kill me unless it found vent, I had recourse to my usual means on such occasions. I called to my workman, Chioccia, to accompany me, and told another to follow me with my horse. On reaching the wretch’s house, finding the door half open, I entered abruptly in. There he sat with his precious “lady-love,” his boasted sword and dagger beside him, in the very act of jesting with the elder woman upon my affairs. To slam the door, draw my sword and present the point to his throat, was the work of a moment, giving him no time to think of defending himself:

“Vile poltroon, recommend thy soul to God! Thou art a dead man!”

In the excess of his terror he cried out thrice, in a feeble voice, “Mama! mama! mama! Help, help, help!”

At this ludicrous appeal, so like a girl’s, and the ridiculous manner in which it was uttered, though I had a mind to kill, I lost half my rage and could not forbear laughing. Turning to Chioccia, however, I bade him make fast the door; for I was resolved to inflict the same punishment upon all three. Still with my sword-point at his throat, and pricking him a little now and then, I terrified him with the most desperate threats, and finding that he made no defense, was rather at a loss how to proceed. It was too poor a revenge--it was nothing--when suddenly it came into my head to make it effectual, and compel him to espouse the girl upon the spot.

“Up! Off with that ring on thy finger, villain!” I cried. “Marry her this instant, and then I shall have my full revenge.”

“Anything--anything you like, provided you will not kill me,” he eagerly answered.

Removing my sword a little:

“Now, then,” I said, “put on the ring.”

He did so, trembling all the time.

“This is not enough. Go and bring me two notaries to draw up the contract.” Then, addressing the girl and her mother in French:

“While the notaries and witnesses are coming, I will give you a word of advice. The first of you that I know to utter a word about my affairs, I will kill you--all three. So remember.”

I afterward said in Italian to Paolo:

“If you offer the slightest opposition to the least thing I choose to propose, I will cut you up into mince-meat with this good sword.”

“It is enough,” he interrupted in alarm, “that you will not kill me. I will do whatever you wish.”

So this singular contract was duly drawn out and signed. My rage and fever were gone. I paid the notaries, and went home.--_The Biography._

_CRITICISM OF A STATUE OF HERCULES_

Bandinello was incensed to such a degree that he was ready to burst with fury, and turning to me said, “What faults have you to find with my statues?”

I answered, “I will soon tell them, if you have but the patience to hear me.”

He replied, “Tell them, then.”

The duke and all present listened with the utmost attention. I began by promising that I was sorry to be obliged to lay before him all the blemishes of his work, and that I was not so properly delivering my own sentiments as declaring what was said of it by the artistic school of Florence. However, as the fellow at one time said something disobliging, at another made some offensive gesture with his hands or his feet, he put me into such a passion that I behaved with a rudeness which I should otherwise have avoided.

“The artistic school of Florence,” said I, “declares what follows: If the hair of your Hercules were shaved off, there would not remain skull enough to hold his brains. With regard to his face, it is hard to distinguish whether it be the face of a man, or that of a creature something between a lion and an ox; it discovers no attention to what it is about; and it is so ill set upon the neck, with so little art and in so ungraceful a manner, that a more shocking piece of work was never seen. His great brawny shoulders resemble the two pommels of an ass’s packsaddle. His breasts and their muscles bear no similitude to those of a man, but seem to have been drawn from a sack of melons. As he leans directly against the wall, the small of the back has the appearance of a bag filled with long cucumbers. It is impossible to conceive in what manner the two legs are fastened to this distorted figure, for it is hard to distinguish upon which leg he stands, or upon which he exerts any effort of his strength; nor does he appear to stand upon both, as he is sometimes represented by those masters of the art of statuary who know something of their business. It is plain, too, that the statue inclines more than one-third of a cubit forward; and this is the greatest and the most insupportable blunder which pretenders to sculpture can be guilty of. As for the arms, they both hang down in the most awkward and ungraceful manner imaginable; and so little art is displayed in them that people would be almost tempted to think that you had never seen a naked man in your life. The right leg of Hercules and that of Cacus touch at the middle of their calves, and if they were to be separated, not one of them only, but both, would remain without a calf, in the place where they touch. Besides, one of the feet of the Hercules is quite buried, and the other looks as if it stood upon hot coals.”--_The Biography._

SPANISH WIT AND HUMOR

The Spanish literature of this time contains little that can be quoted as humor.

Hurtado de Mendoza, a novelist, historian and poet, and Lope de Vega, dramatist, are the principal names among the Spanish writers.

About 1600 there flourished a poet named Baltazar del Alcazar, whose work shows a rather modern type of humor.

_SLEEP_

Sleep is no servant of the will; It has caprices of its own; When most pursued, ’tis swiftly gone; When courted least, it lingers still. With its vagaries long perplext, I turned and turned my restless sconce, Till, one fine night, I thought at once I’d master it. So hear my text.

When sleep doth tarry, I begin My long and well-accustomed prayer, And in a twinkling sleep is there, Through my bed-curtains peeping in. When sleep hangs heavy on my eyes, I think of debts I fain would pay, And then, as flies night’s shade from day, Sleep from my heavy eyelids flies.

And, thus controlled, the winged one bends E’en his fantastic will to me, And, strange yet true, both I and he Are friends--the very best of friends. We are a happy wedded pair, And I the lord and he the dame; Our bed, our board, our dreams the same, And we’re united everywhere.

I’ll tell you where I learned to school This wayward sleep: a whispered word From a church-going hag I heard, And tried it, for I was no fool. So, from that very hour I knew That, having ready prayers to pray, And having many debts to pay, Will serve for sleep, and waking too.

In 1605 was published the first part of _Don Quixote de la Mancha_ the celebrated satirical work of Miguel de Cervantes.

Of this book Hallam says, “it is the only Spanish book which can be said to possess a European reputation.”

Its reputation is world wide and fine translations have given us the spirit of the original.

_HE SECURES SANCHO PANZA AS HIS SQUIRE_

In the meantime, Don Quixote tampered with a laborer, a neighbor of his and an honest man (if such an epithet can be given to one that is poor), but shallow-brained; in short, he said so much, used so many arguments and made so many promises, that the poor fellow resolved to sally out with him and serve him in the capacity of a squire. Among other things, Don Quixote told him that he ought to be very glad to accompany him, for such an adventure might, some time or the other, occur that by one stroke an island might be won, where he might leave him governor. With this and other promises, Sancho Panza (for that was the laborer’s name) left his wife and children and engaged himself as squire to his neighbor. Don Quixote now set about raising money; and, by selling one thing, pawning another, and losing by all, he collected a tolerable sum. He fitted himself likewise with a buckler, which he borrowed of a friend, and, patching up his broken helmet in the best manner he could, he acquainted his squire Sancho of the day and hour he intended to set out, that he might provide himself with what he thought would be most needful. Above all, he charged him not to forget a wallet, which Sancho assured him he would not neglect; he said also that he thought of taking an ass with him, as he had a very good one, and he was not used to travel much on foot. With regard to the ass, Don Quixote paused a little, endeavoring to recollect whether any knight-errant had ever carried a squire mounted on ass-back, but no instance of the kind occurred to his memory. However, he consented that he should take his ass, resolving to accommodate him more honorably, at the earliest opportunity, by dismounting the first discourteous knight he should meet. He provided himself also with shirts, and other things, conformably to the advice given him by the innkeeper.

All this being accomplished, Don Quixote and Sancho Panza, without taking leave, the one of his wife and children, or the other of his housekeeper and niece, one night sallied out of the village unperceived; and they travelled so hard that by break of day they believed themselves secure, even if search were made after them. Sancho Panza proceeded upon his ass like a patriarch, with his wallet and leathern bottle, and with a vehement desire to find himself governor of the island which his master had promised him. Don Quixote happened to take the same route as on his first expedition, over the plain of Montiel, which he passed with less inconvenience than before; for it was early in the morning, and the rays of the sun, darting on them horizontally, did not annoy them. Sancho Panza now said to his master, “I beseech your worship, good Sir Knight-errant, not to forget your promise concerning that same island, for I shall know how to govern it, be it ever so large.” To which Don Quixote answered: “Thou must know, friend Sancho Panza, that it was a custom much in use among the knights-errant of old to make their squires governors of the islands or kingdoms they conquered; and I am determined that so laudable a custom shall not be lost through my neglect; on the contrary, I resolve to outdo them in it, for they, sometimes, and perhaps most times, waited till their squires were grown old; and when they were worn out in their service, and had endured many bad days and worse nights, they conferred on them some title, such as count, or at least marquis, of some valley or province of more or less account; but if you live and I live, before six days have passed I may probably win such a kingdom as may have others depending on it, just fit for thee to be crowned king of one of them. And do not think this any extraordinary matter, for things fall out to knights by such unforeseen and unexpected ways, that I may easily give thee more than I promise.” “So, then,” answered Sancho Panza, “if I were a king, by some of those miracles your worship mentions, Joan Gutierrez, my duck, would come to be a queen, and my children infantas!” “Who doubts it?” answered Don Quixote. “I doubt it,” replied Sancho Panza; “for I am verily persuaded that, if God were to rain down kingdoms upon the earth, none of them would set well upon the head of Mary Gutierrez; for you must know, sir, she is not worth two farthings for a queen. The title of countess would sit better upon her, with the help of Heaven and good friends.” “Recommend her to God, Sancho,” answered Don Quixote, “and He will do what is best for her; but do thou have a care not to debase thy mind so low as to content thyself with being less than a viceroy.” “Sir, I will not,” answered Sancho; “especially having so great a man for my master as your worship, who will know how to give me whatever is most fitting for me and what I am best able to bear.”

_OF THE VALOROUS DON QUIXOTE’S SUCCESS IN THE DREADFUL AND NEVER-BEFORE-IMAGINED ADVENTURE OF THE WINDMILLS_

Engaged in this discourse, they came in sight of thirty or forty windmills which are in that plain; and as soon as Don Quixote espied them, he said to his squire, “Fortune disposes our affairs better than we ourselves could have desired; look yonder, friend Sancho Panza, where thou mayest discover somewhat more than thirty monstrous giants, whom I intend to encounter and slay, and with their spoils we will begin to enrich ourselves; for it is lawful war, and doing God good service, to remove so wicked a generation from off the face of the earth.” “What giants?” said Sancho Panza. “Those thou seest yonder,” answered his master, “with their long arms; for some are wont to have them almost of the length of two leagues.”

“Look, sir,” answered Sancho, “those which appear yonder are not giants, but windmills, and what seem to be arms are the sails, which, whirled about by the wind, make the millstone go.” “It is very evident,” answered Don Quixote, “that thou art not versed in the business of adventures. They are giants; and if thou art afraid, get thee aside and pray, whilst I engage with them in fierce and unequal combat.” So saying, he clapped spurs to his steed, notwithstanding the cries his squire sent after him, assuring him that they were certainly windmills, and not giants. But he was so fully possessed that they were giants, that he neither heard the outcries of his squire Sancho, nor yet discerned what they were, though he was very near them, but went on, crying out aloud, “Fly not, ye cowards and vile caitiffs! for it is a single knight who assaults you.” The wind now rising a little, the great sails began to move, upon which Don Quixote called out, “Although ye should have more arms than the giant Briareus, ye shall pay for it.”

Thus recommending himself devoutly to his lady Dulcinea, beseeching her to succor him in the present danger, being well covered with his buckler and setting his lance in the rest he rushed on as fast as Rozinante could gallop and attacked the first mill before him, when, running his lance into the sail, the wind whirled it about with so much violence that it broke the lance to shivers, dragging horse and rider after it, and tumbling them over and over on the plain in very evil plight. Sancho Panza hastened to his assistance as fast as the ass could carry him; and when he came up to his master he found him unable to stir, so violent was the blow which he and Rozinante had received in their fall.

“God save me!” quoth Sancho, “did not I warn you to have a care of what you did, for that they were nothing but windmills? And nobody could mistake them but one that had the like in his head.”

“Peace, friend Sancho,” answered Don Quixote; “for matters of war are, of all others, most subject to continual change. Now I verily believe, and it is most certainly the fact, that the sage Freston, who stole away my chamber and books, has metamorphosed these giants into windmills, on purpose to deprive me of the glory of vanquishing them, so great is the enmity he bears me! But his wicked arts will finally avail but little against the goodness of my sword.”

“God grant it!” answered Sancho Panza. Then, helping him to rise, he mounted him again upon his steed, which was almost disjointed.--_Don Quixote._

THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY

Though still serious-minded in the main, the world at the beginning of the Seventeenth century recognized and appreciated humor.

And, growing with what it fed upon the vein of humor became more marked and more important in literature.

Wherefore our outline must from now on be less comprehensive and more discriminating.

The field is getting too wide, the harvest too bountiful for gleaning, even for general reaping; we can now only pluck spears of ripened grain.

An Outline can touch only the high spots, and though many wonderful flashes of wit and humor occur in the works of the most serious writers space cannot be given to such, it must be conserved for the definitely and intentionally humorous writers.

This is greatly to be regretted, for not infrequently the jests of the serious-minded are more intrinsically witty than those of professed humorists.

As an example may be mentioned George Herbert, the famous clergyman who was called Holy George Herbert.

His religious writings are interspersed with flashes of exquisite wit.

“God gave thy soul brave wings; put not those feathers Into a bed to sleep out all ill weathers,”

is a most graceful bit of word play.

And so with scores, even hundreds of worthy writers, among whose pages brilliant shafts of wit are found.

Such excursions we have no room for, and must abide by the inexorable laws of limitation.

Nor can such a matter as the Ballads be touched upon.

The historical ballads of this time were narrative poems of exceeding great length and usually, of exceeding great dulness. Fun they show, here and there, but the bulk of them are destitute of mirth-provoking lines.

Not so the Ballad Literature intended for social diversion and lovers of ribaldry. These, in large numbers, were put forth, and were oftener than not, founded on the old Jest Books, the Merry Tales, and even the Gesta and Fabliaux of earlier days.

Collections of these include the effusions of the balladists from the short stanzas, mere epigrams, to the intolerably long tales based on political or religious matters.

Yet it is at this juncture we must mention the name of Thomas Hobbes, the Malmesbury Philosopher, and a most important figure of the seventeenth century.

Not because of his own wit or humor, but of his understanding and valuation of it.

His observations on laughter, hereinbefore referred to, must be quoted entire.

FROM HUMAN NATURE

_LAUGHTER_

There is a passion that hath no name; but the sign of it is that distortion of the countenance which we call laughter, which is always joy: but what joy, what we think, and wherein we triumph when we laugh, is not hitherto declared by any. That it consisteth in wit, or, as they call it, in the jest, experience confuteth; for men laugh at mischances and indecencies, wherein there lieth no wit nor jest at all. And forasmuch as the same thing is no more ridiculous when it groweth stale or usual, whatsoever it be that moveth laughter, it must be new and unexpected. Men laugh often--especially such as are greedy of applause from everything they do well--at their own actions performed never so little beyond their own expectations as also at their own jests: and in this case it is manifest that the passion of laughter proceedeth from a sudden conception of some ability in himself that laugheth. Also, men laugh at the infirmities of others by comparison wherewith their own abilities are set off and illustrated. Also men laugh at jests the wit whereof always consisteth in the elegant discovering and conveying to our minds some absurdity of another; and in this case also the passion of laughter proceedeth from the sudden imagination of our own odds and eminency; for what is else the recommending of ourselves to our own good opinion, by comparison with another man’s infirmity or absurdity? For when a jest is broken upon ourselves, or friends, of whose dishonour we participate, we never laugh thereat. I may therefore conclude that the passion of laughter is nothing else but sudden glory arising from a sudden conception of some eminency in ourselves, by comparison with the infirmity of others, or with our own formerly; for men laugh at the follies of themselves past, when they come suddenly to remembrance, except they bring with them any present dishonour. It is no wonder, therefore, that men take heinously to be laughed at or derided--that is, triumphed over. Laughing without offence must be at absurdities and infirmities abstracted from persons, and when all the company may laugh together; for laughing to one’s self putteth all the rest into jealousy and examination of themselves. Besides, it is vain-glory, and an argument of little worth, to think the infirmity of another sufficient matter for his triumph.

* * * * *

Robert Herrick, among the most exquisite of lyric poets, was a classical scholar, addicted to Martial. His works, neglected for long years, came into their own about a century ago, and his spontaneous gayety and tenderness is not frequently equalled.

The temptation is to quote his lyrics, but his whimsical humor is more clearly shown in his waggish lines.

_THE KISS--A DIALOGUE_

1. Among thy fancies, tell me this: What is the thing we call a kisse? 2. I shall resolve ye, what it is.

It is a creature born and bred Between the lips, (all cherrie red,) By love and warme desires fed; _Chorus._--And makes more soft the bridal bed.

2. It is an active flame, that flies First to the babies of the eyes, pupils And charms them there with lullabies; _Chorus._--And stils the bride too, when she cries.

2. Then to the chin, the cheek, the eare It frisks and flyes; now here, now there; ’Tis now farre off, and then ’tis nere; _Chorus._--And here, and there, and every where.

1. Has it a speaking virtue?--2. Yes. 1. How speaks it, say?--2. Do you but this, Part your joyn’d lips, then speaks your kisse; _Chorus._--And this loves sweetest language is.

1. Has it a body?--2. Ay, and wings, With thousand rare encolourings; And as it flies, it gently sings, _Chorus._--Love honie yeelds, but never stings.

_A TERNARY OF LITTLES, UPON A PIPKIN OF JELLY SENT TO A LADY_

A little saint best fits a little shrine, A little prop best fits a little vine; As my small cruse best fits my little wine.

A little seed best fits a little soil, A little trade best fits a little toil; As my small jar best fits my little oil.

A little bin best fits a little bread, A little garland fits a little head; As my small stuff best fits my little shed.

A little hearth best fits a little fire, A little chapel fits a little choir; As my small bell best fits my little spire.

A little stream best fits a little boat, A little lead best fits a little float; As my small pipe best fits my little note.

A little meat best fits a little belly, As sweetly, lady, give me leave to tell ye, This little pipkin fits this little jelly.

Thomas Carew, Edmund Waller, Sir John Suckling and Richard Lovelace all followed more or less in Herrick’s footsteps, and though each possessed what is called a pretty wit, they were not primarily humorous writers.

A few poems are given, perhaps of more lyric than witty value.

RICHARD LOVELACE

_SONG_

Why should you swear I am forsworn, Since thine I vowed to be? Lady, it is already morn, And ’twas last night I swore to thee That fond impossibility.

Have I not loved thee much and long, A tedious twelve hours’ space? I must all other beauties wrong, And rob thee of a new embrace, Could I still dote upon thy face.

Not but all joy in thy brown hair By others may be found; But I must search the black and fair, Like skilful mineralists that sound For treasure in unploughed-up ground.

Then, if when I have loved my round, Thou prov’st the pleasant she; With spoils of meaner beauties crowned I laden will return to thee, Even sated with variety.

SIR JOHN SUCKLING

_THE CONSTANT LOVER_

Out upon it! I have loved Three whole days together, And am like to love three more, If it prove fair weather.

Time shall moult away his wings Ere he shall discover In the whole wide world again Such a constant lover.

But the spite on ’tis, no praise Is due at all to me: Love with me had made no stays, Had it any been but she.

Had it any been but she, And that very face, There had been at least ere this A dozen dozen in her place.

_THE REMONSTRANCE_

Why so pale and wan, fond lover? Prithee, why so pale? Will, when looking well can’t move her, Looking ill prevail? Prithee, why so pale?

Why so dull and mute, young sinner? Prithee, why so mute? Will, when speaking well can’t win her, Saying nothing do’t? Prithee, why so mute?

Quite, quit, for shame! this will not move, This cannot take her; If of herself she will not love, Nothing can make her: The devil take her!

John Milton, second only to Shakespeare in all literature, is not usually looked upon as a humorist.

A wise commentator (of more wisdom than wit), has said, of Milton, “Few great poets are so utterly without humor; alone among the greatest poets he has not sung of love.”

We take objection to both these statements, though with the second we are not now concerned.

But surely no humorless pen could have indited _L’Allegro_, and as to less subtle humor, we give in evidence the well known Epitaph on the Carrier.

_FROM L’ALLEGRO_

But come, thou goddess fair and free, In heaven yclep’d Euphrosyne, And by men, heart-easing Mirth; Whom lovely Venus, at a birth, With two sister Graces more, To ivy-crowned Bacchus bore: Or whether (as some sages sing) The frolic wind that breathes the spring, Zephyr, with Aurora, playing, As he met her once a-Maying! There on beds of violets blue, And fresh-blown roses wash’d in dew, Fill’d her with thee, a daughter fair, So buxom, blithe, and debonair. Haste thee, nymph, and bring with thee Jest, and youthful jollity, Quips, and cranks, and wanton wiles, Nods, and becks, and wreathed smiles, Such as hang on Hebe’s cheek, And love to live in dimple sleek; Sport that wrinkled Care derides, And Laughter holding both his sides Come, and trip it, as you go, On the light fantastic toe; And in thy right hand lead with thee The mountain nymph, sweet Liberty; And if I give thee honor due, Mirth, admit me of thy crew, To live with her, and live with thee, In unreproved pleasures free:

* * * * *

Then to the spicy nut-brown ale, With stories told of many a feat, How faery Mab the junkets ate; She was pinch’d, and pulled, she said; And he, by friar’s lantern led, Tells how the drudging goblin sweat To earn his cream-bowl duly set, When in one night, ere glimpses of morn, His shadowy flail had thresh’d the corn, That ten day-laborers could not end; Then lies him down, the lubber fiend, And, stretched out all the chimney’s length, Basks at the fire his hairy strength; And, crop-full, out of doors he flings, Ere the first cock his matin rings. Thus done the tales, to bed they creep, By whispering winds soon lull’d asleep. Tower’d cities please us then, And the busy hum of men. Where throngs of knights and barons bold, In weeds of peace, high triumphs hold, With store of ladies, whose bright eyes Rain influence, and judge and prize Of wit or arms, while both contend To win her grace, whom all commend. There let Hymen oft appear In saffron robes, with taper clear, And pomp, and feast, and revelry, With mask and antique pageantry; Such sights as youthful poets dream On summer eves by haunted stream. Then to the well-trod stage anon, If Jonson’s learned sock be on, Or sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy’s child, Warble his native wood-notes wild. And ever, against eating cares, Lap me in soft Lydian airs, Married to immortal verse; Such as the melting soul may pierce, In notes with many a winding bout Of linked sweetness long drawn out, With wanton heed and giddy cunning, The melting voice through mazes running, Untwisting all the chains that tie The hidden soul of harmony; That Orpheus’ self may heave his head From golden slumber on a bed Of heap’d Elysian flowers, and hear Such strains as would have won the ear Of Pluto, to have quite set free His half-regain’d Eurydice. These delights if thou canst give, Mirth, with thee I mean to live.

_EPITAPH FOR AN OLD UNIVERSITY CARRIER_

Here lieth one who did most truly prove That he could never die while he could move; So hung his destiny, never to rot While he might still jog on and keep his trot; Made of sphere-metal, never to decay Until his revolution was at stay. Time numbers motion, yet (without a crime ’Gainst old truth) motion number’d out his time, And, like an engine moved with wheel and weight, His principles being ceased, he ended straight. Rest, that gives all men life, gave him his death, And too much breathing put him out of breath. Nor were it contradiction to affirm, Too long vacation hastened on his term. Merely to drive away the time, he sicken’d, Fainted, died, nor would with ale be quicken’d. “Nay,” quoth he, on his swooning bed outstretch’d, “If I mayn’t carry, sure I’ll ne’er be fetch’d, But vow, though the cross doctors all stood hearers, For one carrier put down to make six bearers.” Ease was his chief disease; and, to judge right, He died for heaviness that his cart went light. His leisure told him that his time was come, And lack of load made his life burdensome, That even to his last breath (there be that say’t), As he were press’d to death, he cried, “More weight!” But had his doings lasted as they were, He had been an immortal carrier. Obedient to the moon, he spent his date In course reciprocal, and had his fate Link’d to the mutual flowing of the seas, Yet (strange to think) his _wain_ was his _increase_. His letters are deliver’d all and gone; Only remains this superscription.

Samuel Butler, a brilliant and satiric wit, wrote _Hudibras_, the immortal Cavalier burlesque of the views and manners of the English Puritans. In some degree imitated from _Don Quixote_ as to plan, this burlesque is so full of shrewd wit and felicitous drollery as to hold a unique place in literature.

Like all such long works, it is difficult to quote from, but some passages are given, as well as some of Butler’s clever epigrams.

_THE RELIGION OF HUDIBRAS_

For his religion it was fit To match his learning and his wit: Twas Presbyterian true blue; For he was of that stubborn crew Of errant saints, whom all men grant To be the true Church militant; Such as do build their faith upon The holy text of pike and gun; Decide all controversies by Infallible artillery, And prove their doctrine orthodox, By apostolic blows and knocks; Call fire, and sword, and desolation, A godly, thorough reformation. Which always must be carried on, And still be doing, never done; As if religion were intended From nothing else but to be mended; A sect whose chief devotion lies In odd perverse antipathies; In falling out with that or this, And finding somewhat still amiss; More peevish, cross, and splenetic, Than dog distract or monkey sick; That with more care keep holy-day The wrong, than others the right way; Compound for sins they are inclin’d to, By damning those they have no mind to; Still so perverse and opposite, As if they worshipped God for spite; The self-same thing they will abhor One way, and long another for; Free-will they one way disavow, Another, nothing else allow; All piety consists therein In them, in other men all sin; Rather than fail, they will defy That which they love most tenderly; Quarrel with minc’d pies, and disparage Their best and dearest friend, plum porridge; Fat pig and goose itself oppose, And blaspheme custard through the nose.

_SAINTSHIP VERSUS CONSCIENCE_

“Why didst thou choose that cursed sin, Hypocrisy, to set up in?” “Because it is the thriving’st calling, The only saints’ bell that rings all in; In which all churches are concern’d, And is the easiest to be learn’d.”

* * * * *

Quoth he, “I am resolv’d to be Thy scholar in this mystery;” “And therefore first desire to know Some principles on which you go.”

“What makes a knave a child of God, And one of us?” “A livelihood.” “What renders beating out of brains, And murder, godliness?” “Great gains.” “What’s tender conscience?” “’Tis a botch That will not bear the gentlest touch; But, breaking out, despatches more Than th’ epidemical’st plague-sore.” “What makes y’ incroach upon our trade, And damn all others?” “To be paid.” “What’s orthodox and true believing Against a conscience?” “A good living.” “What makes rebelling against kings A good old cause?” “Administ’rings.” “What makes all doctrines plain and clear?” “About two hundred pounds a-year.” “And that which was proved true before, Prove false again?” “Two hundred more.” “What makes the breaking of all oaths A holy duty?” “Food and clothes.” “What laws and freedom, persecution?” “Being out of power, and contribution.” “What makes a church a den of thieves?” “A dean and chapter, and white sleeves.” “And what would serve, if those were gone, To make it orthodox?” “Our own.” “What makes morality a crime, The most notorious of the time-- Morality, which both the saints And wicked too cry out against?” “’Cause grace and virtue are within Prohibited degrees of kin; And therefore no true saint allows They shall be suffered to espouse.”

_DESCRIPTION OF HOLLAND_

A country that draws fifty foot of water, In which men live as in the hold of Nature, And when the sea does in upon them break, And drowns a province, does but spring a leak; That always ply the pump, and never think They can be safe but at the rate they stink; They live as if they had been run aground, And, when they die, are cast away and drowned; That dwell in ships, like swarms of rats, and prey Upon the goods all nations’ fleets convey; And when their merchants are blown up and crackt, Whole towns are cast away in storms, and wreckt; That feed, like cannibals, on other fishes, And serve their cousin-germans up in dishes: A land that rides at anchor, and is moored, In which they do not live, but go aboard.

_POETS_

It is not poetry that makes men poor; For few do write that were not so before; And those that have writ best, had they been rich, Had ne’er been clapp’d with a poetic itch; Had loved their ease too well to take the pains To undergo that drudgery of brains; But, being for all other trades unfit, Only t’ avoid being idle, set up wit.

_PUFFING_

They that do write in authors’ praises, And freely give their friends their voices, Are not confined to what is true; That’s not to give, but pay a due: For praise, that’s due, does give no more To worth, than what it had before; But to commend, without desert, Requires a mastery of art, That sets a gloss on what’s amiss, And writes what should be, not what is.

Samuel Pepys, whose literary work is in Diary form, is no doubt one of the world’s greatest egoists. But the spontaneity and naturalness of the account of his daily doings, as told by himself, have a charm all their own and a unique and inimitable humor.

_EXTRACTS FROM THE DIARY_

Rose early, and put six spoons and a porringer of silver in my pocket to give away to-day. To dinner at Sir William Batten’s; and then, after a walk in the fine gardens, we went to Mrs. Browne’s, where Sir W. Pen and I were godfathers, and Mrs. Jordan and Shipman godmothers to her boy. And there, before and after the christening, we were with the woman above in her chamber; but whether we carried ourselves well or ill, I know not; but I was directed by young Mrs. Batten. One passage of a lady that ate wafers with her dog did a little displease me. I did give the midwife 10_s._ and the nurse 5_s._ and the maid of the house 2_s._ But for as much I expected to give the name to the child, but did not (it being called John), I forbore then to give my plate.

_December 26th, 1662._--Up, my wife to the making of Christmas pies all day, doeing now pretty well again, and I abroad to several places about some businesses, among others bought a bake-pan in Newgate Market, and sent it home, it cost me 16_s._ So to Dr Williams, but he is out of town, then to the Wardrobe. Hither come Mr Battersby; and we falling into discourse of a new book of drollery in use, called Hudibras, I would needs go find it out, and met with it at the Temple: cost me 2_s._ 6_d._ But when I come to read it, it is so silly an abuse of the Presbyter Knight going to the warrs, that I am ashamed of it; and by and by meeting at Mr Townsend’s at dinner, I sold it to him for 18_d._ ...

_February 6th._-- ... Thence to Lincoln’s Inn Fields; and it being too soon to go to dinner, I walked up and down, and looked upon the outside of the new theatre now a-building in Covent Garden, which will be very fine. And so to a bookseller’s in the Strand, and there bought Hudibras again, it being certainly some ill-humour to be so against that which all the world cries up to be the example of wit; for which I am resolved once more to read him, and see whether I can find it or no....

_November 28th._-- ... And thence abroad to Paul’s Churchyard, and there looked upon the second part of Hudibras, which I buy not, but borrow to read, to see if it be as good as the first, which the world cry so mightily up, though it hath not a good liking in me, though I had tried by twice or three times reading to bring myself to think it witty. Back again and home to my office....

_May 11th, 1667._--And so away with my wife, whose being dressed this day in fair hair did make me so mad, that I spoke not one word to her, though I was ready to burst with anger.... After that ... Creed and I into the Park, and walked, a most pleasant evening, and so took coach, and took up my wife, and in my way home discovered my trouble to my wife for her white locks [false hair], swearing by God several times, which I pray God forgive me for, and bending my fist, that I would not endure it. She, poor wretch, was surprized with it, and made me no answer all the way home; but there we parted, and I to the office late, and then home, and without supper to bed, vexed.

_12th_ (Lord’s Day).--Up and to my chamber, to settle some accounts there, and by and by down comes my wife to me in her night-gown, and we begun calmly, that, upon having money to lace her gown for second mourning, she would promise to wear white locks no more in my sight, which I, like a severe fool, thinking not enough, began to except against, and made her fly out to very high terms and cry, and in her heat told me of keeping company with Mrs Knipp, saying, that if I would promise never to see her more--of whom she hath more reason to suspect than I had heretofore of Pembleton--she would never wear white locks more. This vexed me, but I restrained myself from saying anything, but do think never to see this woman--at least, to have her here more; but by and by I did give her money to buy lace, and she promised to wear no more white locks while I lived, and so all very good friends as ever, and I to my business, and she to dress herself.

_August 18th_ (Lord’s Day).--Up, and being ready, walked up and down to Cree Church, to see it how it is: but I find no alteration there, as they say there was, for my Lord Mayor and Aldermen to come to sermon, as they do every Sunday, as they did formerly to Paul’s.... There dined with me Mr Turner and his daughter Betty. Betty is grown a fine young lady as to carriage and discourse. I and my wife are mightily pleased with her. We had a good haunch of venison, powdered and boiled, and a good dinner and merry.... I walked towards Whitehall, but, being wearied, turned into St Dunstan’s Church, where I heard an able sermon of the minister of the place; and stood by a pretty, modest maid, whom I did labour to take by the hand ...; but she would not, but got further and further from me; and, at last, I could perceive her to take pins out of her pocket to prick me if I should touch her again--which seeing, I did forbear, and was glad I did spy her design. And then I fell to gaze upon another pretty maid, in a pew close to me, and she on me; and I did go about to take her by the hand, which she suffered a little, and then withdrew. So the sermon ended, and the church broke up.

* * * * *

John Dryden, famous alike for his verse, prose and drama, shows his wit in biting, stinging satire.

Equally caustic are his epigrams, save one--the immortal lines on Milton.

_ON SHADWELL_

All human things are subject to decay, And, when Fate summons, monarchs must obey. This Flecknoe found, who, like Augustus, young Was called to empire, and had governed long. In prose and verse was owned, without dispute, Through all the realms of Nonsense absolute. This aged prince, now flourishing in peace, And blest with issue of a large increase, Worn out with business, did at length debate To settle the succession of the state; And pondering which of all his sons was fit To reign, and wage immortal war with Wit, Cried: “’Tis resolved; for Nature pleads that he Should only rule who most resembles me. Shadwell alone my perfect image bears, Mature in dulness from his tender years; Shadwell alone of all my sons is he Who stands confirmed in full stupidity. The rest to some faint meaning make pretence, But Shadwell never deviates into sense. Some beams of wit on other souls may fall, Strike through, and make a lucid interval, But Shadwell’s genuine night admits no ray; His rising fogs prevail upon the day. Besides, his goodly fabric fills the eye, And seems designed for thoughtless majesty-- Thoughtless as monarch oaks that shade the plain, And, spread in solemn state, supinely reign.”

_ON THE DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM_

Some of their chiefs were princes of the land: In the first rank of these did Zimri stand, A man so various, that he seemed to be Not one, but all mankind’s epitome: Stiff in opinions, always in the wrong, Was everything by starts, and nothing long, But, in the course of one revolving moon, Was chemist, fiddler, statesman, and buffoon, Then all for women, painting, rhyming, drinking, Besides ten thousand freaks that died in thinking. Blest madman, who could every hour employ With something new to wish or to enjoy, Railing, and praising, were his usual themes; And both, to show his judgment, in extremes: So over-violent, or over-civil, That every man with him was god or devil. In squandering wealth was his peculiar art; Nothing went unrewarded but desert. Beggared by fools, whom still he found too late, He had his jest and they had his estate. He laughed himself from court, then sought relief By forming parties, but could ne’er be chief; For spite of him, the weight of business fell On Absalom and wise Achitophel. Thus, wicked but in will, of means bereft, He left not faction, but of that was left.

_MILTON COMPARED WITH HOMER AND VIRGIL_

Under a Picture of Milton in the 4th Edition of _Paradise Lost_.

Three Poets, in three distant ages born, Greece, Italy, and England did adorn. The first, in loftiness of thought surpass’d The next, in majesty; in both the last. The force of nature could no further go; To make a third, she join’d the former two.

The original of these fine lines was probably a Latin distich written by Selvaggi at Rome, which has been thus translated:

Greece boasts her Homer, Rome her Virgil’s name, But England’s Milton vies with both in fame.

Cowper’s lines on Milton may be compared with Dryden’s:

Ages elapsed ere Homer’s lamp appear’d, And ages ere the Mantuan Swan was heard To carry Nature lengths unknown before, To give a Milton birth, ask’d ages more. Thus Genius rose and set at order’d times, And shot a day-spring into distant climes, Ennobling every region that he chose; He sunk in Greece, in Italy he rose; And, tedious years of gothic darkness pass’d, Emerged all splendour in our isle at last, Thus lovely halcyons dive into the main, Then show far off their shining plumes again.

In Bishop Gibson’s edition of Camden’s _Britannia_, there is a very free translation of some old monkish verses on S. Oswald by Basil Kennet, brother of Bishop White Kennet. The last line, to which there is nothing corresponding in the Latin, seems to have been copied from the last line of Dryden’s epigram:

_Cæsar_ and _Hercules_ applaud thy fame, And _Alexander_ owns thy greater name, Tho’ one himself, one foes, and one the world o’ercame: Great conquests all! but bounteous Heav’n in thee, To make a greater, join’d the former three.

The comedies of William Congreve, brilliantly witty though they are, offer no suitable passages to quote.

Likewise the works of Daniel Defoe, who, beside the story of _Robinson Crusoe_, wrote satirical humor.

_FROM ROBINSON CRUSOE_

_Friday’s Conflict with the Bear_

But never was a fight managed so hardily, and in such a surprising manner, as that between Friday and the bear, which gave us all--though at first we were surprised and afraid for him--the greatest diversion imaginable.

My man Friday had delivered our guide, and when we came up to him he was helping him off from his horse, for the man was both hurt and frightened, and indeed the last more than the first, when on a sudden we espied the bear come out of the wood, and a vast, monstrous one it was, the biggest by far that ever I saw. We were all a little surprised when we saw him; but when Friday saw him, it was easy to see joy and courage in the fellow’s countenance. “Oh, oh, oh!” says Friday three times, pointing to him; “oh, master! you give me te leave, me shakee te hand with him; me makee you good laugh.”

I was surprised to see the fellow so pleased. “You fool!” said I, “he will eat you up.” “Eatee me up! eatee me up!” says Friday twice over again; “me eatee him up; me makee you good laugh; you all stay here, me show you good laugh.” So down he sits, and gets his boots off in a moment, and puts on a pair of pumps (as we call the flat shoes they wear, and which he had in his pocket), gives my other servant his horse, and with his gun away he flew, swift like the wind.

The bear was walking softly on, and offered to meddle with nobody, till Friday, coming pretty near, calls to him as if the bear could understand him, “Hark ye, hark ye,” says Friday, “me speakee with you.” We followed at a distance, for now, being come down to the Gascony side of the mountains, we were entered a vast, great forest, where the country was plain and pretty open, though it had many trees in it scattered here and there. Friday, who had, as we say, the heels of the bear, came up with him quickly, and took up a great stone and threw it at him, and hit him just on the head, but did him no more harm than if he had thrown it against a wall; but it answered Friday’s end, for the rogue was so void of fear that he did it purely to make the bear follow him and show us some laugh, as he called it. As soon as the bear felt the stone, and saw him, he turns about and comes after him, taking very long strides, and shuffling on at a strange rate, so as would have put a horse to a middling gallop. Away runs Friday, and takes his course as if he ran toward us for help; so we all resolved to fire at once upon the bear, and deliver my man; though I was angry at him heartily for bringing the bear back upon us, when he was going about his own business another way; and especially I was angry that he had turned the bear upon us and then run away; and I called out, “You dog!” said I, “is this your making us laugh? Come away, and take your horse, that we may shoot the creature.” He heard me, and cried out, “No shoot! no shoot! stand still, you get much laugh.” And as the nimble creature ran two feet for the beast’s one, he turned on a sudden on one side of us, and seeing a great oak-tree fit for his purpose, he beckoned us to follow; and doubling his pace, he got nimbly up the tree, laying his gun down upon the ground, at about five or six yards from the bottom of the tree.

The bear soon came to the tree, and we followed at a distance. The first thing he did, he stopped at the gun, smelled at it, but let it lie, and up he scrambles into the tree, climbing like a cat, though so monstrous heavy. I was amazed at the folly, as I thought it, of my man, and could not for my life see anything to laugh at yet, till, seeing the bear get up the tree, we all rode near to him.

When we came to the tree, there was Friday got out to the small end of a large limb of the tree, and the bear got about half-way to him. As soon as the bear got out to that part where the limb of the tree was weaker, “Ha!” says he to us, “now you see me teachee the bear dance”; so he began jumping and shaking the bough, at which the bear began to totter, but stood still, and began to look behind him, to see how he should get back; then, indeed, we did laugh heartily. But Friday had not done with him by a great deal. When seeing him stand still, he called out to him again, as if he had supposed the bear could speak English, “What, you no come farther? Pray you come farther.” So he left jumping and shaking the bough; and the bear, just as if he had understood what he had said, did come a little farther. Then he began jumping again, and the bear stopped again. We thought now was a good time to knock him on the head, and called to Friday to stand still, and we would shoot the bear; but he cried out earnestly, “Oh, pray! oh, pray! no shoot! me shoot by-and-then.” He would have said by-and-by.

However, to shorten the story, Friday danced so much, and the bear stood so ticklish, that we had laughing enough indeed, but still could not imagine what the fellow would do; for first we thought he depended upon shaking the bear off; and we found the bear was too cunning for that too; for he would not go out far enough to be thrown down, but clung fast with his great broad claws and feet, so that we could not imagine what would be the end of it, and what the jest would be at last. But Friday put us out of doubt quickly; for, seeing the bear cling fast to the bough, and that he would not be persuaded to come any farther, “Well, well,” says Friday, “you no come farther, me go; you no come to me, me come to you.” And upon this he went out to the smaller end of the bough, where it would bend with his weight, and gently let himself down by it, sliding down the bough till he came near enough to jump down on his feet, and away he ran to his gun, took it up, and stood still. “Well,” said I to him, “Friday, what will you do now? Why don’t you shoot him?” “No shoot,” says Friday, “no yet; me shoot now, me no kill; me stay, give you one more laugh.” And, indeed, so he did, as you will see presently. For when the bear saw his enemy gone, he came back from the bough where he stood, but did it very cautiously, looking behind him every step, and coming backward till he got into the body of the tree. Then, with the same hinder end foremost, he came down the tree, grasping it with his claws, and moving one foot at a time, very leisurely. At this juncture, and just before he could set his hind feet upon the ground, Friday stepped up close to him, clapped the muzzle of his piece into his ear, and shot him dead as a stone. Then the rogue turned about to see if we did not laugh; and when he saw we were pleased by our looks, he began to laugh very loud. “So we kill bear in my country,” says Friday. “So you kill them?” says I; “why, you have no guns.” “No,” says he, “no gun, but shoot great much long arrow.”

* * * * *

Matthew Prior was called by Thackeray the most charmingly humorous of the English poets, and Cowper speaks of Prior’s charming ease.

_AN EPITAPH_

Interred beneath this marble stone Lie sauntering Jack and idle Joan. While rolling threescore years and one Did round this globe their courses run. If human things went ill or well, If changing empires rose or fell, The morning past, the evening came, And found this couple just the same. They walked and ate, good folks. What then? Why, then they walked and ate again; They soundly slept the night away; They did just nothing all the day, Nor sister either had, nor brother; They seemed just tallied for each other. Their moral and economy Most perfectly they made agree; Each virtue kept its proper bound, Nor trespassed on the other’s ground. Nor fame nor censure they regarded; They neither punished nor rewarded. He cared not what the footman did; Her maids she neither praised nor chid; So every servant took his course, And, bad at first, they all grew worse; Slothful disorder filled his stable. And sluttish plenty decked her table. Their beer was strong, their wine was port; Their meal was large, their grace was short. They gave the poor the remnant meat, Just when it grew not fit to eat. They paid the church and parish rate, And took, but read not, the receipt: For which they claimed their Sunday’s due Of slumbering in an upper pew. No man’s defects sought they to know, So never made themselves a foe. No man’s good deeds did they commend, So never raised themselves a friend. Nor cherished they relations poor, That might decrease their present store; Nor barn nor house did they repair, That might oblige their future heir. They neither added nor confounded; They neither wanted nor abounded. Nor tear nor smile did they employ At news of grief or public joy When bells were rung and bonfires made, If asked, they ne’er denied their aid; Their jug was to the ringers carried, Whoever either died or married Their billet at the fire was found, Whoever was deposed or crowned. Nor good, nor bad, nor fools, nor wise; They would not learn, nor could advise; Without love, hatred, joy, or fear, They led--a kind of--as it were; Nor wished, nor cared, nor laughed, nor cried. And so they lived, and so they died.

_A SIMILE_

Dear Thomas, didst thou never pop Thy head into a tin-man’s shop? There, Thomas, didst thou never see (’Tis but by way of simile) A squirrel spend his little rage, In jumping round a rolling cage? The cage, as either side turned up, Striking a ring of bells a-top?-- Mov’d in the orb, pleas’d with the chimes, The foolish creature thinks he climbs: But here or there, turn wood or wire, He never gets two inches higher. So fares it with those merry blades, That frisk it under Pindus’ shades. In noble songs, and lofty odes, They tread on stars, and talk with gods; Still dancing in an airy round, Still pleased with their own verses’ sound; Brought back, how fast soe’er they go, Always aspiring, always low.

_PHILLIS’ AGE_

How old may Phillis be, you ask, Whose beauty thus all hearts engages? To answer is no easy task: For she has really two ages.

Stiff in brocade, and pinch’d in stays, Her patches, paint and jewels on; All day let envy view her face, And Phillis is but twenty-one.

Paint, patches, jewels laid aside, At night astronomers agree, The evening has the day belied; And Phillis is some forty-three.

Prior delighted in epigrams on ladies who wore false hair and teeth, and who attempted to retain the beauty of youth by means of paint and dye. They are generally imitated from Martial.

_A REASONABLE AFFLICTION_

In a dark corner of the house Poor Helen sits, and sobs, and cries; She will not see her loving spouse, Nor her more dear picquet allies: Unless she find her eye-brows, She’ll e’en weep out her eyes.

FRENCH HUMOR

The first French humorist of note in the seventeenth century was Cyrano de Bergerac. His History of the Moon and History of the Sun are of the nature of _Gulliver’s Travels_.

_THE SOUL OF THE CABBAGE_

We laid ourselves along upon very soft quilts, covered with large carpets; and a young man that waited on us, taking the oldest of our philosophers led him into a little parlor apart, where my Spirit called to him to come back to us as soon as he had supped.

This humor of eating separately gave me the curiosity of asking the cause of it. “He’ll not relish,” said he, “the steam of meat, nor yet of herbs, unless they die of themselves, because he thinks they are sensible of pain.” “I wonder not so much,” replied I, “that he abstains from flesh, and all things that have had a sensitive life. For in our world the Pythagoreans, and even some holy Anchorites, have followed that rule; but not to dare, for instance, cut a cabbage, for fear of hurting it--that seems to me altogether ridiculous.” “And for my part,” answered my Spirit, “I find a great deal of reason in his opinion.

“For, tell me is not that cabbage you speak of a being existent in Nature as well as you? Is not she the common mother of you both? Yet the opinion that Nature is kinder to mankind than to cabbage-kind, tickles and makes us laugh. But, seeing she is incapable of passion, she can neither love nor hate anything; and were she susceptible of love, she would rather bestow her affection upon this cabbage, which you grant cannot offend her, than upon that man who would destroy her if it lay in his power.

“And, moreover, man cannot be born innocent, being a part of the first offender. But we know very well that the first cabbage did not offend its Creator. If it be said that we are made after the image of the Supreme Being, and the cabbage is not--grant that to be true; yet by polluting our soul, wherein we resembled Him, we have effaced that likeness, seeing nothing is more contrary to God than sin. If, then, our soul be no longer His image, we resemble Him no more in our feet, hands, mouth, forehead, and ears, than a cabbage in its leaves, flowers, stalk, pith, and head--do not you really think that if this poor plant could speak when one cuts it, it would not say, ‘Dear brother man, what have I done to thee that deserves death? I never grow but in gardens, and am never to be found in desert places, where I might live in security; I disdain all other company but thine, and scarcely am I sowed in thy garden when, to show thee my good-will, I blossom, stretch out my arms to thee, offer thee my children in grain; and, as a requital for my civility, thou causest my head to be chopped off.’ Thus would a cabbage discourse if it could speak.

“To massacre a man is not so great sin as to cut and kill a cabbage, because one day the man will rise again, but the cabbage has no other life to hope for. By putting to death a cabbage, you annihilate it; but in killing a man, you make him only change his habitation. Nay, I’ll go farther with you still: since God doth equally cherish all His works, and hath equally, divided the benefits betwixt us and plants, it is but just we should have an equal esteem for them as for ourselves. It is true we were born first, but in the family of God there is no birthright. If, then, the cabbage share not with us in the inheritance of immortality, without doubt that want was made up by some other advantage, that may make amends for the shortness of its being--maybe by an universal intellect, or a perfect knowledge of all things in their causes. And it is for that reason that the wise Mover of all things hath not shaped for it organs like ours, which are proper only for simple reasoning, not only weak, but often fallacious too; but others, more ingeniously framed, stronger, and more numerous, which serve to conduct its speculative exercises. You’ll ask me, perhaps, whenever any cabbage imparted those lofty conceptions to us? But tell me, again, who ever discovered to us certain beings, which we allow to be above us, to whom we bear no analogy nor proportion, and whose existence it is as hard for us to comprehend as the understanding and ways whereby a cabbage expresses itself to its like, though not to us, because our senses are too dull to penetrate so far?

“Moses, the greatest of philosophers, who drew the knowledge of nature from the fountain-head, Nature herself, hinted this truth to us when he spoke of the Tree of Knowledge; and without doubt he intended to intimate to us under that figure that plants, in exclusion of mankind, possess perfect philosophy. Remember, then, oh, thou proudest of animals, that though a cabbage which thou cuttest sayeth not a word, yet it pays in thinking. But the poor vegetable has no fit organs to howl as you do, nor yet to frisk about and weep. Yet it hath those that are proper to complain of the wrong you do it, and to draw a judgment from Heaven upon you for the injustice. But if you still demand of me how I come to know that cabbages and coleworts conceive such pretty thoughts, then will I ask you, how come you to know that they do not; and how that some among them, when they shut up at night, may not compliment one another as you do, saying, ‘Good-night, Master _Cole-Curled-Pate_! Your most humble servant, good Master _Cabbage-Round-Head_!’”

* * * * *

Marc-Antoine Gerard, sieur de Saint Amant, was one of the brightest and best of the French early poets.

We give a specimen of his lighter verse. The following is “An Address to Bacchus:”

In idle rhymes we waste our days, With yawning fits for all our praise, While Bacchus, god of mirth and wine, Invites us to a life divine. Apollo, prince of bards and prigs, May scrape his fiddle to the pigs; And for the Muses, old maids all, Why let them twang their lyres, and squall Their hymns and odes on classic themes, Neglected by their sacred streams. As for the true poetic fire, What is it but a mad desire? While Pegasus himself, at best, Only a horse must be confess’d; And he must be an ass indeed, Who would bestride the winged steed.

Bacchus, thou who watchest o’er All feasts of ours, whom I adore With each new draught of rosy wine That makes my red face like to thine-- By thy ivied coronet, By this glass with rubies set, By thy thyrsus--fear of earth-- By thine everlasting mirth, By the honor of the feast, By thy triumphs, greatest, least, By thy blows, not struck, but drunk, With king and bishop, priest and monk, By the jesting, keen and sharp, By the violin and harp, By the bells, which are but flasks, By our sighs which are but masks Of mirth and sacred mystery, By thy panthers fierce to see, By this place so fair and sweet, By the he-goat at thy feet, By Ariadne, buxom lass, By Silenus on his ass, By this sausage, by this stoup, By this rich and thirsty soup, By this pipe from which I wave All the incense thou dost crave, By this ham, well spiced, long hung, By this salt and wood-smoked tongue, Receive us in the happy band Of those who worship glass in hand. And, to prove thyself divine, Leave us never without wine.

Molière (the stage name of Jean Baptiste Poquelin), the greatest comic dramatist of France, wrote thirty or more plays. Though difficult to quote significant passages, two are here given:

_FROM “THE LEARNED WOMEN”_

_Trissotin._ Your verses have beauties unequaled by any others.

_Vadius._ Venus and the graces reign in all yours.

_Trissotin._ You have an easy style, and a fine choice of words.

_Vadius._ In all your writings one finds _ithos_ and _pathos_.

_Trissotin._ We have seen some eclogues of your composition which surpass in sweetness those of Theocritus and Vergil.

_Vadius._ Your odes have a noble, gallant, and tender manner, which leaves Horace far behind.

_Trissotin._ Is there anything more lovely than your canzonets?

_Vadius._ Is there anything equal to the sonnets you write?

_Trissotin._ Is there anything more charming than your little rondeaus?

_Vadius._ Anything so full of wit as your madrigals?

_Trissotin._ If France could appreciate your value----

_Vadius._ If the age could render justice to a lofty genius----

_Trissotin._ You would ride in the streets in a gilt coach.

_Vadius._ We should see the public erect statues to you. Hem--It is a ballad; and I wish you frankly to----

_Trissotin._ Have you heard a certain little sonnet upon the Princess Urania’s fever?

_Vadius._ Yes; I heard it read yesterday.

_Trissotin._ Do you know the author of it?

_Vadius._ No, I do not; but I know very well that, to tell him the truth, his sonnet is good for nothing.

_Trissotin._ Yet a great many people think it admirable.

_Vadius._ It does not prevent it from being wretched; and if you had read it you would think like me.

_Trissotin._ I know that I should differ from you altogether, and that few people are able to write such a sonnet.

_Vadius._ Heaven forbid that I should ever write one so bad!

_Trissotin._ I maintain that a better one cannot be made, and my reason is that I am the author of it.

_Vadius._ You?

_Trissotin._ Myself.

_Vadius._ I cannot understand how the thing could have happened.

_Trissotin._ It is unfortunate that I had not the power of pleasing you.

_Vadius._ My mind must have wandered during the reading, or else the reader spoiled the sonnet; but let us leave that subject, and come to my ballad.

_Trissotin._ The ballad is, to my mind, an insipid thing; it is no longer the fashion, and savors of ancient times.

_Vadius._ Yet a ballad has charms for many people.

_Trissotin._ It does not prevent me from thinking it unpleasant.

_Vadius._ That does not make it worse.

_Trissotin._ It has wonderful attractions for pedants.

_Vadius._ Yet we see that it does not please you.

_Trissotin._ You stupidly impose your qualities on others.

_Vadius._ You very impertinently cast yours upon me.

_Trissotin._ Go, you little dunce, you pitiful quill-driver!

_Vadius._ Go, you penny-a-liner, you disgrace to the profession!

_Trissotin._ Go, you book-manufacturer, you impudent plagiarist!

_Vadius._ Go, you pedantic snob!

_Philosopher._ Ah! gentlemen, what are you about?

_Trissotin_ (_to_ VADIUS). Go, go, and make restitution to the Greeks and Romans for all your shameful thefts!

_Vadius._ Go, and do penance on Parnassus for having murdered Horace in your verses!

_Trissotin._ Remember your book, and the little stir it made.

_Vadius._ And you, remember your bookseller, reduced to the workhouse.

_Trissotin._ My fame is established; in vain would you endeavor to shake it.

_Vadius._ Yes, yes; I’ll send you to the author of the _Satires_.

_Trissotin._ I, too, will send you to him.

_Vadius._ I have the satisfaction of having been honorably treated by him; he gives me a passing thrust, and includes me among several authors well known at court. But you he never leaves in peace; in all his verses he attacks you.

_Trissotin._ By that we see the honorable rank I hold. He leaves you in the crowd, and esteems one blow enough to crush you. He has never done you the honor of repeating his attacks, whereas he assails me separately, as a noble adversary against whom all his efforts are necessary. His blows, repeated against me on all occasions, show that he never thinks himself victorious.

_Vadius._ My pen will teach you what soft of man I am!

_Trissotin._ And mine will make you know your master!

_Vadius._ I defy you in verse, prose, Greek, and Latin!

_Trissotin._ Very well, we shall meet again at the bookseller’s!

_FROM “THE GENTLEMAN CIT”_

_Professor of Philosophy._ I will thoroughly explain all these curiosities to you.

_M. Jourdain._ Pray do. And now I want to entrust you with a great secret. I am in love with a lady of quality, and I should be glad if you would help me to write something to her in a short letter which I mean to drop at her feet.

_Professor of Philosophy._ Very well.

_M. Jourdain._ That will be gallant, will it not?

_Professor of Philosophy._ Undoubtedly. Is it verse you wish to write to her?

_M. Jourdain._ Oh, no, not verse.

_Professor of Philosophy._ You only wish for prose?

_M. Jourdain._ No, I wish neither verse nor prose.

_Professor of Philosophy._ It must be one or the other.

_M. Jourdain._ Why?

_Professor of Philosophy._ Because, sir, there is nothing by which we can express ourselves except prose or verse.

_M. Jourdain._ There is nothing but prose or verse?

_Professor of Philosophy._ No, sir. Whatever is not prose is verse, and whatever is not verse is prose.

_M. Jourdain._ And when we speak, what is that, then?

_Professor of Philosophy._ Prose.

_M. Jourdain._ What! when I say, “Nicole, bring me my slippers, and give me my night-cap,” is that prose?

_Professor of Philosophy._ Yes, sir.

_M. Jourdain._ Upon my word, I have been talking prose these forty years without being aware of it! I am under the greatest obligation to you for informing me. Well, then, I wish to write to her in a letter, _Fair marchioness, your beautiful eyes make me die of love!_ but I would have this worded in a genteel manner, and turned prettily.

_Professor of Philosophy._ Say that the fire of her eyes has reduced your heart to ashes; that you suffer day and night for her tortures----

_M. Jourdain._ No, no, no; I don’t want any of that. I simply wish to say what I tell you: _Fair marchioness, your beautiful eyes make me die of love_.

_Professor of Philosophy._ Still, you might amplify the thing a little?

_M. Jourdain._ No, I tell you, I will have nothing but those very words in the letter; but they must be put in a fashionable way, and arranged as they should be. Pray explain a little, so that I may see the different ways in which they can be put.

_Professor of Philosophy._ They may be put, first of all, as you have said, _Fair marchioness, your beautiful eyes make me die of love_; or else, _Of love die make me, fair marchioness, your beautiful eyes_; or, _Your beautiful eyes of love make me, fair marchioness, die_; or, _Die of love your beautiful eyes, fair marchioness, make me_; or else, _Me make your beautiful eyes die, fair marchioness, of love_.

_M. Jourdain._ But of all these ways, which is the best?

_Professor of Philosophy._ The one you said--_Fair marchioness, your beautiful eyes make me die of love_.

_M. Jourdain._ Yet I have never studied, and I did all that right off at the first shot. I thank you with all my heart, and I beg you to come early again to-morrow morning.

_Professor of Philosophy._--I shall not fail you.

* * * * *

Paul Scarron, described as a “pure bird of pleasure,” wrote plays, novels, epigrams, letters, and best known of all, a classic burlesque called _Virgile Travesti_.

Quotations cannot be made from his longer works, but two poems are given.

_FAREWELL TO CHLORIS_

Adieu, fair Chloris, adieu: ’Tis time that I speak, After many and many a week, (’Tis not thus that at Paris we woo) You pay me for all with a smile And cheat me the while, Speak now. Let me go. Close your doors, or open them wide, Matters not, so that I am outside; Devil take me, if ever I show Love or pity for you and your pride.

To laugh in my face, It is all that she grants me Of pity and grace: Can it mean that she wants me? This for five or six months is my pay. Now hear my command, Shut your doors, keep them tight night and day, With a porter at hand To keep every one in; Well, I know my own mind. The devil himself, if once you begin To go out, couldn’t keep me behind.

The following is better known. It is his description of Paris:

Houses in labyrinthine maze: The streets with mud bespattered all; Palace and prison, churches, quays, Here stately shop, there shabby stall. Passengers black, red, gray, and white, The pursed-up prude, the light coquette; Murder and treason dark as night; With clerks, their hands with inkstains wet; A gold-laced coat without a sou, And trembling at a bailiff’s sight; A braggart shivering with fear; Pages and lackeys, thieves of night; And ’mid the tumult, noise, and stink of it, There’s Paris--Pray, what do you think of it?

François de la Rochefoucauld, famous French moralist, is best known through the wit and wisdom of his Maxims.

* * * * *

A woman is faithful to her first lover a long time--unless she happens to take a second.

* * * * *

He who is pleased with nobody is much more unhappy than he with whom nobody is pleased.

* * * * *

We all have sufficient fortitude to bear the misfortunes of our friends.

* * * * *

Had we no faults of our own, we should notice them with less pleasure in others.

* * * * *

We promise according to our hopes, and perform according to our fears.

* * * * *

Old men are fond of giving good advice to console themselves for their impotence to give bad examples.

* * * * *

We often do good in order that we may do evil with impunity.

If we resist our passions it is more from their weakness than from our strength.

* * * * *

We should have very little pleasure if we did not sometimes flatter ourselves.

* * * * *

It is easier to be wise for others than for ourselves.

* * * * *

Men would not live long in society if they were not dupes to each other.

* * * * *

Virtue would not travel so far if vanity did not keep her company.

* * * * *

Hypocrisy is the homage which vice renders to virtue.

* * * * *

In the adversity of our best friends we often find something which does not displease us.

* * * * *

Gravity is a mystery of the face, invented to conceal the defects of the mind.

* * * * *

Affected simplicity is refined imposture.

* * * * *

We often pardon those who weary us, but never those whom we weary.

* * * * *

Blaise Pascal, celebrated geometrician and writer, left a series of delightful satires upon the Jesuits.

_FROM LES PROVINCIALES_

_ON MENTAL RESERVATIONS_

“I proceed to the facilities we have invented for the avoidance of sin in the conversation and intrigues of the world. One of the most embarrassing things to provide against is _lying_, when it is the object to excite confidence in any false representation. In this case, our doctrine of _equivocals_ is of admirable service, by which, says Sanchez, ‘it is lawful to use ambiguous terms to give the impression a different sense from that which you understand yourself.’” “This I am well aware of, father.” “We have,” continued he, “published it so frequently, that in fact every body is acquainted with it; but pray, do you know what is to be done when no equivocal terms can be found?” “No, father.” “Ha, I thought this would be new to you: it is the doctrine of _mental reservations_. Sanchez states it in the same place: ‘A person may take an oath that he has not done such a thing, though in fact he has, by saying to himself, it was not done on a certain specified day or before he was born, or by concealing any other similar circumstance which gives another meaning to the statement. This is in numberless instances extremely convenient, and is always justifiable when it is necessary to your welfare, honor, or property.’”

“But, father, is not this adding perjury to lying?” “No; Sanchez and Filiutius show the contrary: ‘It is the _intention_ which stamps the quality of the action’; and the latter furnishes another and surer method of avoiding lying. After saying in an audible voice, _I swear that I did not do this_, you may add inwardly, _to-day_; or after affirming aloud, _I swear_ you may repeat in a whisper, _I say_; and then resuming the former tone--_I did not do it_. Now this you must admit is telling the truth.” “I own it is,” said I; “but it is telling truth in a whisper, and a lie in an audible voice; besides, I apprehend that very few people have sufficient presence of mind to avail themselves of this deception.” “Our fathers,” answered the Jesuit, “have in the same place given directions for those who do not know how to manage these niceties, so that they may be indemnified against the sin of lying, while plainly declaring they have not done what in reality they have, provided ‘that, in general, they intended to give the same sense to their assertion which a skilful man would have contrived to do.’”

“Now confess,” he asked, “have not you sometimes been embarrassed through an ignorance of this doctrine?” “Certainly.” “And will you not admit, too, that it would often be very convenient to violate your word with a good conscience?” “Surely, one of the most convenient things in the world!” “Then, sir, listen to Escobar; he gives this general rule: ‘Promises are not obligatory when a man has no intention of being bound to fulfil them; and it seldom happens that he has such an intention, unless he confirms it by an oath or bond, so that when he merely says _I will do it_, it is to be understood _if he do not change his mind_; for he did not intend by what he promised to deprive himself of his liberty.’ He furnishes some other rules which you may read for yourself, and concludes thus: ‘Everything is taken from Molina and our other authors--_omnia ex Molina et aliis’_; it is, consequently, indisputable.”

“Father,” exclaimed I, “I never knew before that the direction of the intention could nullify the obligation of a promise.” “Now, then,” said he, “you perceive this very much facilitates the intercourse of mankind.”

Jean de la Fontaine, the universally known French Fabulist, was a prolific writer, but his wit shows at its best in his _Fables_.

_THE COUNCIL HELD BY THE RATS_

Old Rodilard, a certain cat, Such havoc of the rats had made, ’Twas difficult to find a rat With nature’s debt unpaid. The few that did remain, To leave their holes afraid. From usual food abstain, Not eating half their fill. And wonder no one will, That one, who made on rats his revel, With rats passed not for cat, but devil. Now, on a day, this dread rat-eater, Who had a wife, went out to meet her; And while he held his caterwauling, The unkilled rats, their chapter calling, Discussed the point, in grave debate, How they might shun impending fate. Their dean, a prudent rat, Thought best, and better soon than late, To bell the fatal cat; That, when he took his hunting-round, The rats, well cautioned by the sound, Might hide in safety under ground; Indeed, he knew no other means. And all the rest At once confessed Their minds were with the dean’s. No better plan, they all believed, Could possibly have been conceived; No doubt, the thing would work right well, If any one would hang the bell. But, one by one, said every rat, “I’m not so big a fool as that.” The plan knocked up in this respect, The council closed without effect. And many a council I have seen, Or reverend chapter with its dean, That, thus resolving wisely, Fell through like this precisely.

To argue or refute, Wise counsellors abound; The man to execute Is harder to be found.

_THE COCK AND THE FOX_

Upon a tree there mounted guard A veteran cock, adroit and cunning; When to the roots a fox up running Spoke thus, in tones of kind regard: “Our quarrel, brother, is at an end; Henceforth I hope to live your friend; For peace now reigns Throughout the animal domains. I bear the news. Come down, I pray, And give me the embrace fraternal: And please, my brother, don’t delay: So much the tidings do concern all, That I must spread them far to-day. Now you and yours can take your walks Without a fear or thought of hawks; And should you clash with them or others, In us you’ll find the best of brothers-- For which you may, this joyful night, Your merry bonfires light. But, first, let’s seal the bliss With one fraternal kiss.” “Good friend,” the cock replied, “upon my word, A better thing I never heard; And doubly I rejoice To hear it from your voice: And, really, there must be something in it, For yonder come two greyhounds, which I flatter Myself, are couriers on this very matter; They come so fast, they’ll be here in a minute, I’ll down, and all of us will seal the blessing With general kissing and caressing.” “Adieu,” said the fox; “my errand’s pressing, I’ll hurry on my way, And we’ll rejoice some other day.” So off the fellow scampered, quick and light, To gain the fox-holes of the neighboring height-- Less happy in his stratagem than flight. The cock laughed sweetly in his sleeve-- ’Tis doubly sweet deceiver to deceive.

_THE CROW AND THE FOX_

A master crow, perched on a tree one day Was holding in his beak a cheese-- A master fox, by the odor drawn that way, Spake unto him in words like these: “O, good morning, my Lord Crow! How well you look, how handsome you do grow! ’Pon my honor, if your note Bears a resemblance to your coat, You are the phœnix of the dwellers in these woods.” At these words does the crow exceedingly rejoice; And, to display his beauteous voice, He opens a wide beak, lets fall his stolen goods. The fox seized on’t, and said, “My good Monsieur, Learn that every flatterer Lives at the expense of him who hears him out. This lesson is well worth a cheese, no doubt.” The crow, ashamed, and much in pain, Swore, but a little late, they’d not catch him so again.

Nicolas Boileau-Despreaux, commonly called Boileau, was a famous critic and poet. His _Art Poétique_ had a decided influence on later French verse.

His wit was keen and his satire sharp.

_TO PERRAULT_

How comes it, Perrault, I would gladly know, That authors of two thousand years ago, Whom in their native dress all times revere, In your translations should so flat appear? ’Tis you divest them of their own sublime, By your vile crudities and odious rime. They’re thine when suffering thy wretched phrase, And then no wonder if they meet no praise.

_ON COTIN_

Of all the pens which my poor rimes molest, Cotin’s is sharpest, and succeeds the best. Others outrageous scold and rail downright, With hearty rancor, and true Christian spite. But he, a readier method does design, Writes scoundrel verses, and then says they’re mine.

Alan René Le Sage, novelist and dramatist, is best known for his celebrated work, _Gil Blas_. He also wrote many farce-operettas, which offer no opportunity for quotation.

Jean de la Bruyère, is best known for his work called _The Characters_, an imitation of Theophrastus.

_IPHIS_

Iphis at church sees a new-fashioned shoe; he looks upon his own and blushes, and can no longer believe himself dressed. He came to prayers only to show himself, and now he hides himself. The foot keeps him in his room the rest of the day. He has a soft hand, with which he gives you a gentle pat. He is sure to laugh often to show his white teeth. He strains his mouth to a perpetual smile. He looks upon his legs, he views himself in the glass, and nobody can have so good an opinion of another as he has of himself. He has acquired a delicate and clear voice, and has a happy manner in talking. He has a turn of the head, a sweetness in his glance that he never fails to make use of. His gait is slow, and the prettiest he is able to contrive. He sometimes employs a little rouge, but seldom; he will not make a habit of it. It is true that he wears breeches and a hat, has neither earrings nor necklace, therefore I have not put him in the chapter on woman.

_THOUGHTS_

The pleasure of criticizing robs us of the pleasure of unconscious delight.

* * * * *

The most accomplished work of the age would fail under the hands of censors and critics, if the author would listen to all their objections, and allow each one to throw out the passage that had pleased him least.

* * * * *

This good we get from the perfidiousness of woman, that it cures us of jealousy.

* * * * *

There are but two ways of rising in the world--by your own industry, or by the weakness of others.

If life is miserable, it is painful to live; if happy, it is terrible to die; both come to the same thing.

* * * * *

There is nothing men are so anxious to preserve, or so careless about, as life.

* * * * *

We are afraid of old age, and afraid not to attain it.

* * * * *

If some men died, and others did not, death would indeed be a terrible affliction.

* * * * *

There are but three events that happen to men--birth, life, and death. They know nothing of their birth, suffer when they die, and forget to live.

* * * * *

Gilles Ménage, a French philologist, is now best known as the Author of _Ménagiana_, one of the most excellent and original of the celebrated Ana of France. The following poem bears a remarkable resemblance to Goldsmith’s _Madame Blaize_, and it is quite possible that the latter may have been suggested by it.

La Gallisse now I wish to touch; Droll air! if I can strike it, I’m sure the song will please you much; That is, if you should like it.

La Gallisse was indeed, I grant, Not used to any dainty When he was born--but could not want, As long as he had plenty.

Instructed with the greatest care, He always was well bred, And never used a hat to wear, But when ’twas on his head.

His temper was exceeding good, Just of his father’s fashion; And never quarrels broil’d his blood, Except when in a passion.

His mind was on devotion bent; He kept with care each high day, And Holy Thursday always spent, The day before Good Friday.

He liked good claret very well, I just presume to think it; For ere its flavour he could tell, He thought it best to drink it.

Than doctors more he loved the cook, Though food would make him gross; And never any physic took, But when he took a dose.

O happy, happy is the swain The ladies so adore; For many followed in his train, Whene’er he walk’d before.

Bright as the sun his flowing hair In golden ringlets shone; And no one could with him compare, If he had been alone.

His talents I can not rehearse, But every one allows, That whatsoe’er he wrote in verse, No one could call it prose.

He argued with precision nice, The learnèd all declare; And it was his decision wise, No horse could be a mare.

His powerful logic would surprise, Amuse, and much delight: He proved that dimness of the eyes Was hurtful to the sight.

They liked him much--so it appears Most plainly--who preferr’d him; And those did never want their ears, Who any time had heard him.

He was not always right, ’tis true, And then he must be wrong; But none had found it out, he knew, If he had held his tongue.

Whene’er a tender tear he shed, ’Twas certain that he wept; And he would lay awake in bed, Unless, indeed, he slept.

In tilting everybody knew His very high renown; Yet no opponents he o’erthrew, But those that he knock’d down.

At last they smote him in the head-- What hero e’er fought all? And when they saw that he was dead, They knew the wound was mortal.

And when at last he lost his breath, It closed his every strife; For that sad day that seal’d his death, Deprived him of his life.

Italy and Spain offer us little of seventeenth century humor. Their comedies are long and verbose, and rather dull. Also, there are few satisfactory translations.

The Italian, Francesca Redi, gives us a rollicking song of a Bacchanalian order.

_DIATRIBE AGAINST WATER_

He who drinks water, I wish to observe, Gets nothing from me; He may eat it and starve. Whether it’s well, or whether it’s fountain, Or whether it comes foaming white from the mountain, I cannot admire it, Nor ever desire it. ’Tis a fool, and a madman, an impudent wretch, Who now will live in a nasty ditch, And then grows proud, and full of his whims, Comes playing the devil, and cursing his brims, And swells, and tumbles, and bothers his margins, And ruins the flowers, although they be virgins. Wharves and piers, were it not for him, Would last forever, If they’re built clever; But no, it’s all one with him--sink or swim.

Let the people yclept Mameluke Praise the Nile without any rebuke; Let the Spaniards praise the Tagus; I cannot like either, even for negus. If any follower of mine Dares so far to forget his wine As to drink a drop of water, Here’s the hand to devote him to slaughter. Let your meager doctorlings Gather herbs and such like things, Fellows who with streams and stills Think to cure all sorts of ills; I’ve no faith in their washery, Nor think it worth a glance of my eye. Yes, I laugh at them, for that matter, To think how they, with their heaps of water, Petrify their skulls profound, And make ’em all so thick and so round, That Viviana, with all his mathematics, Would fail to square the circle of their attics.

Away with all water wherever I come; I forbid it ye, gentlemen, all and some. Lemonade water, Jessamine water, Our tavern knows none of ’em-- Water’s a hum! Jessamine makes a pretty crown, But as a drink ’twill never go down. All your hydromels and flips Come not near these prudent lips. All your sippings and sherbets, And a thousand such pretty sweets, Let your mincing ladies take ’em, And fops whose little fingers ache ’em. Wine, wine is your only drink! Grief never dares to look at the brink. Six times a year to be mad with wine, I hold it no shame, but a very good sign. I, for my part, take my can, Solely to act like a gentleman, And, acting so, I care not, I, For all the hail and snow in the sky. I never go poking, And cowering and cloaking, And wrapping myself from head to foot, As some people do, with their wigs to boot-- For example, like dry and shivering Redi, Who looks just like a peruk’d old lady.

From the Spanish poet, José Morell we include two quotations.

_ADVICE TO AN INNKEEPER_

“‘Mingle the sweet and useful,’ says a sage, Whose name, perchance, is lost in history’s page, But whose advice withal is good and wise. It caught a tavern-keeper’s busy eyes, And he exclaimed, ‘Delightful! That’s for me!’ I see the sense, I read the mystery; This is its meaning, I can well divine: ‘Mix useful water with your luscious wine.’”

_TO A POET_

“You say your verses are of gold. And how, my friend? I’d fain inquire. But, no--I see the truth you’ve told: They must be purified by fire.”

GERMAN HUMOR

Germany in the seventeenth century wakes up to a dim and dawning humorous sense, but gives little definite expression to it, unless we except Abraham á Sancta Clara, an Augustinian monk and satirical writer of repute.

_THE DONKEY’S VOICE_

A certain singer was most vain of his voice, thinking it so enchanting it might allure the very dolphins, or if not them, the pike, from out of the deep. But it is an old custom of the Lord to punish the vain ones of the earth, who like nothing better than praise. So the Lord made this man sing false at Holy Mass, and the whole congregation was utterly displeased. Close by the altar there was kneeling an old woman, who wept bitterly during the Mass. The conceited songster, thinking that the old woman had been moved to those tears by the sweetness of his voice, after Mass approached the dame, asking her, in the presence of the congregation, why she had wept so sadly. His mouth watered for the expected praise, when, “Sir,” said the woman, “while you were singing I remembered my donkey; I lost him, poor soul three days ago, and his voice was very natural, like yours. Oh, heavenly Father, if I could only find that good and useful beast!”

--_Judas, the Arch-Rogue._

_A BURDENSOME WIFE_

A man set sail from Venice for Ancona, with his wife, both being minded to offer their devotions at the shrine of Santa Maria di Loreto. But during the voyage there arose such a great storm that all thought the ship in extreme peril of sinking. The owner of the ship therefore gave his command that each traveler should forthwith throw his most burdensome possessions into the sea, so that the vessel might be made lighter. Some rolled casks of wine overboard, and others bales of cloth; the man from Venice, who did not desire to be found tarrying behind the rest, seized his wife, exclaiming, “Forgive me, Ursula mine, but this day you must drink to my health in salt water!” and would throw her into the sea. The frightened wife making a commotion with her screams, others ran up, and scolded the husband, asking him the cause of his action. “The owner of the ship,” said he, “urgently commanded that we all should throw overboard our heaviest burdens. Now, throughout my whole life nothing has ever been so burdensome to me as this woman; hence I was gladly willing to make her over to Father Neptune.”

--_Hie! Fie!_

_ST. ANTHONY’S SERMON TO THE FISHES_

Saint Anthony at church Was left in the lurch, So he went to the ditches And preached to the fishes. They wriggled their tails, In the sun glanced their scales.

The carps with their spawn, Are all thither drawn; Have opened their jaws, Eager for each clause. No sermon beside Had the carps so edified.

Sharp-snouted pikes, Who keep fighting like tikes, Now swam up harmonious To hear Saint Antonius. No sermon beside Had the pikes so edified.

And that very odd fish, Who loves fast-days, the cod-fish,-- The stock-fish, I mean,-- At the sermon was seen. No sermon beside Had the cods so edified.

Good eels and sturgeon, Which aldermen gorge on, Went out of their way To hear preaching that day. No sermon beside Had the eels so edified.

Crabs and turtles also, Who always move low, Make haste from the bottom As if the devil had got ’em. No sermon beside The crabs so edified.

Fish great and fish small, Lord, lackeys, and all, Each looked at the preacher Like a reasonable creature, At God’s word, They Anthony heard.

The sermon now ended, Each turned and descended; The pikes went on stealing, The eels went on eeling. Much delighted were they, But preferred the old way.

The crabs are back-sliders, The stock-fish thick-siders, The carps are sharp-set, All the sermon forget. Much delighted were they, But preferred the old way.

THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY

Jonathan Swift, the famous author of _Gulliver’s Travels_, wrote voluminously. His wit was rather heavy, his satire stinging.

It is unsatisfactory to quote from his longer works, but examples of his lighter vein are offered.

_AGAINST ABOLISHING CHRISTIANITY_

Another advantage proposed by the abolishing of Christianity is the clear gain of one day in seven, which is now entirely lost, and consequently the kingdom one-seventh less considerable in trade, business, and pleasure; besides the loss to the public of so many stately structures now in the hands of the clergy, which might be converted into play-houses, exchanges, market-houses, common dormitories, and other public edifices.

I hope I shall be forgiven a hard word if I call this a perfect cavil. I readily own there hath been an old custom, time out of mind, for people to assemble in the churches every Sunday, and that shops are still frequently shut, in order, as it is conceived, to preserve the memory of that ancient practice; but how this can prove a hindrance to business or pleasure is hard to imagine. What if the men of pleasure are forced, one day in the week, to game at home instead of the chocolate-house? Are not the taverns and coffee-houses open? Can there be a more convenient season for taking a dose of physic? Is not that the chief day for traders to sum up the accounts of the week, and for lawyers to prepare their briefs? But I would fain know how it can be pretended that the churches are misapplied? Where are more appointments and rendezvouses of gallantry? Where more care to appear in the foremost box, with greater advantage of dress? Where more meetings for business? Where more bargains driven of all sorts? And where so many conveniences or incitements to sleep?...

It may perhaps admit a controversy, whether the banishing all notions of religion whatsoever would be inconvenient for the vulgar. Not that I am in the least of opinion, with those who hold religion to have been the invention of politicians, to keep the lower part of the world in awe by the fear of invisible powers, unless mankind were then very different from what it is now; for I look upon the mass or body of our people here in England to be as Freethinkers--that is to say, as staunch unbelievers--as any of the highest rank. But I conceive some scattered notions about a superior Power to be of singular use for the common people, as furnishing excellent materials to keep children quiet when they grow peevish, and providing topics of amusement in a tedious winter night.

_THE FURNITURE OF A WOMAN’S MIND_

A set of phrases learned by rote; A passion for a scarlet coat; When at a play, to laugh or cry, Yet cannot tell the reason why; Never to hold her tongue a minute, While all she prates has nothing in it; Whole hours can with a coxcomb sit, And take his nonsense all for wit. Her learning mounts to read a song, But half the words pronouncing wrong; Has every repartee in store She spoke ten thousand times before; Can ready compliments supply On all occasions, cut and dry; Such hatred to a parson’s gown, The sight would put her in a swoon; For conversation well endued, She calls it witty to be rude; And, placing raillery in railing, Will tell aloud your greatest failing; Nor make a scruple to expose Your bandy leg or crooked nose; Can at her morning tea run o’er The scandal of the day before; Improving hourly in her skill, To cheat and wrangle at quadrille. In choosing lace, a critic nice, Knows to a groat the lowest price; Can in her female clubs dispute What linen best the silk will suit, What colours each complexion match, And where with art to place a patch. If chance a mouse creeps in her sight, Can finely counterfeit a fright; So sweetly screams, if it comes near her, She ravishes all hearts to hear her. Can dexterously her husband tease, By taking fits whene’er she please; By frequent practice learns the trick At proper season to be sick; Thinks nothing gives one airs so pretty, At once creating love and pity. If Molly happens to be careless, And but neglects to warm her hair-lace, She gets a cold as sure as death, And vows she scarce can fetch her breath; Admires how modest woman can Be so robustious, like a man. In party, furious to her power, A bitter Whig, or Tory sour, Her arguments directly tend Against the side she would defend; Will prove herself a Tory plain, From principles the Whigs maintain, And, to defend the Whiggish cause, Her topics from the Tories draws.

_SUNT QUI SERVARI NOLUNT_

As Thomas was cudgell’d one day by his wife, He took to the street, and he fled for his life. Tom’s three dearest friends came by in the squabble And sav’d him at once from the shrew and the rabble; Then ventur’d to give him some sober advice-- But Tom is a person of honour so nice, Too wise to take counsel, too proud to take warning, That he sent to all three a challenge next morning. Three duels he fought, thrice ventur’d his life, Went home--and was cudgell’d again by his wife.

_ON HIS OWN DEAFNESS_

Deaf, giddy, helpless, left alone, To all my friends a burden grown; No more I hear my church’s bell, Than if it rang out for my knell; At thunder now no more I start, Than at the rumbling of a cart; And what’s incredible, alack! No more I hear a woman’s clack.

_TO MRS. HOUGHTON OF BORMOUNT, UPON PRAISING HER HUSBAND TO DR. SWIFT_

You always are making a god of your spouse; But this neither reason nor conscience allows: Perhaps you will say, ’tis in gratitude due, And you adore him, because he adores you. Your argument’s weak, and so you will find; For you, by this rule, must adore all mankind.

Alexander Pope, a true poet and humorist, sometimes dropped into sheer nonsense, and often into satirical epigrammatic writing.

For some inexplicable reason, certain commentators have denied any sense of humor to Pope, but the following extracts refute this:

_LINES BY A PERSON OF QUALITY_

Fluttering spread thy purple pinions, Gentle Cupid, o’er my heart, I a slave in thy dominions, Nature must give way to art.

Mild Arcadians, ever blooming, Nightly nodding o’er your flocks, See my weary days consuming, All beneath yon flowery rocks.

Thus the Cyprian goddess weeping, Mourned Adonis, darling youth: Him the boar, in silence creeping, Gored with unrelenting tooth.

Cynthia, tune harmonious numbers; Fair Discretion, tune the lyre; Soothe my ever-waking slumbers; Bright Apollo, lend thy choir.

Gloomy Pluto, king of terrors, Armed in adamantine chains, Lead me to the crystal mirrors, Watering soft Elysian plains.

Mournful Cypress, verdant willow, Gilding my Aurelia’s brows, Morpheus, hovering o’er my pillow, Hear me pay my dying vows.

Melancholy, smooth Mæaunder, Swiftly purling in a round, On thy margin lovers wander With thy flowery chaplets crowned.

Thus when Philomela, drooping, Softly seeks her silent mate, So the bird of Juno stooping; Melody resigns to fate.

_WORMS_

To the Ingenious Mr. Moore, inventor of the celebrated worm powder.

How much, egregious Moore? are we, Deceived by shows and forms? Whate’er we think, whate’er we see, All human race are worms.

Man is a very worm by birth, Proud reptile, vile and vain, Awhile he crawls upon the earth, Then shrinks to earth again.

That woman is a worm, we find, E’er since our grannum’s evil; She first conversed with her own kind, That ancient worm, the Devil.

The fops are painted butterflies, That flutter for a day; First from a worm they took their rise, Then in a worm decay.

The flatterer an ear-wig grows, Some worms suit all conditions; Misers are muck-worms; silk-worms, beaus, And death-watches, physicians.

That statesmen have a worm, is seen By all their winding play; Their conscience is a worm within, That gnaws them night and day.

Ah, Moore! thy skill were well employ’d, And greater gain would rise If thou couldst make the courtier void That worm that never dies.

Thou only canst our fate adjourn Some few short years, no more; E’en Button’s wits to worms shall turn, Who maggots were before.

_EPIGRAM ON MRS. TOFTS_

(_A celebrated Opera Singer._)

So bright is thy beauty, so charming thy song, As had drawn both the beasts and their Orpheus along; But such is thy avarice, and such is thy pride, That the beasts must have starved and the poet have died.

Joseph Addison, whose literary work had a decided influence on English letters and manners, contributed much to _The Tatler_ and _The Spectator_, from which the following extract is taken.

_THE WILL OF A VIRTUOSO_

I, Nicholas Gimcrack, being in sound health of mind, but in great weakness of body, do, by this my last will and testament, bestow my worldly goods and chattels in manner following:

_Imprimis._--To my dear wife, One box of butterflies, One drawer of shells, A female skeleton, A dried cockatrice.

_Item._--To my daughter Elizabeth, My receipt for preserving dead caterpillars, As also my preparations of winter Maydew and embryo-pickle.

_Item._--To my little daughter Fanny, Three crocodile’s eggs, And upon the birth of her first child, if she marries with her mother’s consent, The nest of a humming-bird.

_Item._--To my eldest brother, as an acknowledgment for the lands he has vested in my son Charles, I bequeath My last year’s collection of grasshoppers.

_Item._--To his daughter Susanna, being his only child, I bequeath my English weeds pasted on royal paper, With my large folio of Indian cabbage.

Having fully provided for my nephew Isaac, by making over to him some years since, A horned scarabæus, The skin of a rattlesnake, and The mummy of an Egyptian king, I make no further provision for him in this my will.

My eldest son, John, having spoke disrespectfully of his little sister, whom I keep by me in spirits of wine, and in many other instances behaved himself undutifully toward me, I do disinherit, and wholly cut off from any part of this my personal estate, by giving him a single cockle-shell.

To my second son, Charles, I give and bequeath all my flowers, plants, minerals, mosses, shells, pebbles, fossils, beetles, butterflies, caterpillars, grasshoppers, and vermin, not above specified; as also all my monsters, both wet and dry; making the said Charles whole and sole executor of this my last will and testament: he paying, or causing to be paid, the aforesaid legacies within the space of six months after my decease. And I do hereby revoke all other wills whatsoever by me formerly made.

* * * * *

John Philips, who was a devoted student and admirer of Milton, wrote a poem in which he parodied Milton’s style, and which Addison called the finest burlesque in the English language.

_THE SPLENDID SHILLING_

“Sing, heavenly Muse. Things unattempted yet in prose or rhyme”; A shilling, breeches, and chimeras dire.

Happy the man, who, void of acres and strife, In silken or in leathern purse retains A Splendid Shilling: he nor hears with pain New oysters cried, nor sighs for cheerful ale; But with his friends, when nightly mists arise, To Juniper’s Magpie, or Town Hall repairs; Where, mindful of the nymph, whose wanton eye Transfixed his soul, and kindled amorous flames, Chloe or Phyllis, he each circling glass Wisheth her health and joy and equal love. Meanwhile he smokes, and laughs at merry tale, Or pun ambiguous or conundrum quaint. But I, whom griping penury surrounds, And hunger, sure attendant upon want, With scanty offals, and small acid tiff (Wretched repast!) my meagre corpse sustain: Then solitary walk, or doze at home In garret vile, and with a warming puff Regale chilled fingers; or from tube as black As winter-chimney or well-polished jet, Exhale mundungus, ill-perfuming scent. Not blacker tube, nor of a shorter size, Smokes Cambro-Briton (versed in pedigree, Sprung from Cadwallador and Arthur, kings Full famous in romantic tale) when he O’er many a craggy hill and barren cliff, Upon a cargo of famed Cestrian cheese, High overshadowing rides, with a design To wend his wares at the Arvonian mart, Or Maridunum, or the ancient town Ycleped Brechinia, or where Vaga’s stream Encircles Ariconium, fruitful soil! Whence flow nectareous wines, that well may vie With Massic, Setin, or renowned Falern. Thus, while my joyless minutes tedious flow, With looks demure, and silent pace, a Dun, Horrible monster! hated by gods and men, To my aerial citadel ascends. With vocal heel thrice thundering at my gate, With hideous accent thrice he calls; I know The voice ill-boding, and the solemn sound, What should I do? or whither turn? Amazed, Confounded, to the dark recess I fly Of wood-hole; straight my bristling hairs erect Through sudden fear; a chilly sweat bedews My shuddering limbs, and (wonderful to tell!) My tongue forgets her faculty of speech; So horrible he seems! His faded brow Intrenched with many a frown, and conic beard, And spreading band, admired by modern saints, Disastrous acts forebode; in his right hand Long scrolls of paper solemnly he waves, With characters and figures dire inscribed, Grievous to mortal eyes, (ye gods, avert Such plagues from righteous men!) Behind him stalks Another monster, not unlike itself, Sullen of aspect, by the vulgar called A Catchpole, whose polluted hands the gods With force incredible, and magic charms, First have endued: if he his ample palm Should haply on ill-fated shoulder lay Of debtor, straight his body to the touch Obsequious (as whilom knights were wont) To some enchanted castle is conveyed, Where gates impregnable, and coercive chains, In durance strict detain him, till, in form Of money, Pallas sets the captive free. Beware, ye debtors! when ye walk, beware, Be circumspect; oft with insidious ken The caitiff eyes your steps aloof, and oft Lies perdue in a nook or gloomy cave, Prompt to enchant some inadvertent wretch With his unhallowed touch. So (poets sing) Grimalkin to domestic vermin sworn An everlasting foe, with watchful eye Lies nightly brooding o’er a chinky gap, Portending her fell claws, to thoughtless mice Sure ruin. So her disembowelled web Arachne, in a hall or kitchen, spreads Obvious to vagrant flies; she secret stands Within her woven cell; the humming prey, Regardless of their fate, rush on the toils Inextricable, nor will aught avail Their arts, or arms, or shapes of lovely hue. The wasp insidious, and the buzzing drone, And butterfly proud of expanded wings Distinct with gold, entangled in her snares, Useless resistance make; with eager strides, She towering flies to her expected spoils: Then with envenomed jaws the vital blood Drinks of reluctant foes, and to her cave Their bulky carcasses triumphant drags. So pass my days. But when nocturnal shades This world envelop, and the inclement air Persuades men to repel benumbing frosts With pleasant wines and crackling blaze of wood, Me, lonely sitting, nor the glimmering light Of make-weight candle, nor the joyous talk Of loving friend, delights; distressed, forlorn, Amidst the horrors of the tedious night, Darkling I sigh, and feed with dismal thoughts My anxious mind; or sometimes mournful verse Indite, and sing of groves and myrtle shades, Or desperate lady near a purling stream, Or lover pendent on a willow-tree. Meanwhile I labor with eternal drought, And restless wish, and rave; my parchèd throat Finds no relief, nor heavy eyes repose: But if a slumber haply does invade My weary limbs, my fancy, still awake, Thoughtful of drink, and eager, in a dream, Tipples imaginary pots of ale; In vain;--awake I find the settled thirst Still gnawing, and the pleasant phantom curse. Thus do I live, from pleasure quite debarred, Nor taste the fruits that the sun’s genial rays Mature, john-apple, nor the downy peach, Nor walnut in rough-furrowed coat secure, Nor medlar fruit delicious in decay; Afflictions great! yet greater still remain. My galligaskins, that have long withstood The winter’s fury and encroaching frosts, By time subdued, (what will not time subdue!) An horrid chasm disclose with orifice Wide, discontinuous; at which the winds Eurus and Auster and the dreadful force Of Boreas, that congeals the Cronian waves, Tumultuous enter with dire chilling blasts, Portending agues. Thus a well-fraught ship, Long sails secure, or through the Ægean deep, Or the Ionian, till cruising near The Lilybean shore, with hideous crush On Scylla or Charybdis (dangerous rocks) She strikes rebounding; whence the shattered oak, So fierce a shock unable to withstand, Admits the sea. In at the gaping side The crowding waves gush with impetuous rage, Resistless, overwhelming; horrors seize The mariners; Death in their eyes appears, They stare, they lave, they pump, they swear, they pray: (Vain efforts!) still the battering waves rush in, Implacable, till, deluged by the foam, The ship sinks foundering in the vast abyss.

John Arbuthnot, celebrated both as a physician and a man of letters, leaves us this bit of nonsense.

JOHN ARBUTHNOT

_A DISSERTATION ON DUMPLINGS_

The dumpling is, indeed, an ancient institution and of foreign origin; but, alas! what were those dumplings? Nothing but a few lentils sodden together, moistened and cemented with a little seethed fat, not much unlike our grit or oatmeal pudding; yet were they of such esteem among the ancient Romans, that a statue was erected to Fulvius Agricola, the first inventor of these lentil dumplings. How unlike the gratitude shown by the public to our modern projectors!

The Romans, though our conquerors, found themselves much outdone in dumplings by our forefathers, the Roman dumplings being no more to compare to those made by the Britons than a stone-dumpling is to a marrow-pudding; though, indeed, the British dumpling at that time was little better than what we call a stone-dumpling, nothing else but flour and water. But every generation growing wiser and wiser, the project was improved, and dumpling grew to be pudding. One projector found milk better than water; another introduced butter; some added marrow, others plums; and some found out the use of sugar; so that, to speak truth, we know not where to fix the genealogy or chronology of any of these pudding projectors; to the reproach of our historians, who ate so much pudding, yet have been so ungrateful to the first professors of this most noble science as not to find them a place in history....

The invention of eggs was merely accidental, two or three of which having casually rolled from a shelf into the pudding which a goodwife was making, she found herself under the necessity either of throwing away her pudding or letting the eggs remain. But concluding, from the innocent quality of the eggs, that they would do no hurt, if they did no good, she wisely jumbled them all together, after having carefully picked out the shells. The consequence is easily imagined: the pudding became a pudding of puddings, and the use of eggs from thence took its date. The woman was sent for to Court to make puddings for King John, who then swayed the scepter, and gained such favour that she was the making of the whole family.

I cannot conclude this paragraph without owning I received this important part of the history of pudding from Mr. Lawrence, of Wilson-Green, the greatest antiquary of the present age....

From that time the English became so famous for puddings, that they are called pudding-eaters all over the world to this day.

At her demise, the woman’s son was taken into favour, and made the King’s chief cook; and so great was his fame for puddings, that he was called Jack Pudding all over the kingdom, though, indeed, his real name was John Brand, as by the records of the kitchen you will find. This Jack Pudding became yet a greater favourite than his mother, insomuch that he had the King’s ear as well as his mouth at command, for the King, you must know, was a mighty lover of pudding. It is needless to enumerate the many sorts of pudding he made. He made every pudding except quaking pudding, which was solely invented by our friends of the _Bull and Mouth_.

* * * * *

Lord Chesterfield, best known for his _Letters to his Son_, showed clever wit in his ideas and Phraseology.

Men who converse only with women are frivolous, effeminate puppies, and those who never converse with them are bears.

* * * * *

The desire of being pleased is universal. The desire of pleasing should be so too. Misers are not so much blamed for being misers as envied for being rich.

* * * * *

Dissimulation to a certain degree is as necessary in business as clothes are in the common intercourse of life; and a man would be as imprudent who should exhibit his inside naked, as he would be indecent if he produced his outside so.

* * * * *

Hymen comes whenever he is called, but Love only when he pleases.

* * * * *

An abject flatterer has a worse opinion of others, and, if possible, of himself, than he ought to have.

* * * * *

A woman will be implicitly governed by the man whom she is in love with, but will not be directed by the man whom she esteems the most. The former is the result of passion, which is her character; the latter must be the effect of reasoning, which is by no means of the feminine gender.

* * * * *

The best moral virtues are those of which the vulgar are, perhaps, the best judges.

* * * * *

A fool never has thought, a madman has lost it; and an absent man is for the time without it.

* * * * *

Advice is seldom welcome; and those who want it the most always like it the least.

* * * * *

Of the writers who come next, chronologically, Fielding, Sterne, Garrick, Smollett, Foote, and others of lesser degree, we can quote no extracts, owing to the continuous character of their work.

At this time, humor was broad and wit coarse, yet the plays and novels of the period have lasted and retained their reputation.

Which brings us to Samuel Johnson.

Doctor Johnson’s wit was ponderous, but as his is one of the greatest names in Eighteenth Century literature, we give a bit from _The Idler_ which is not entirely inappropriate to the present day.

_ON LYING NEWS-WRITERS_

No species of literary men has lately been so much multiplied as the writers of news. Not many years ago the nation was content with one gazette; but now we have not only in the metropolis papers for every morning and every evening, but almost every large town has its weekly historian, who regularly circulates his periodical intelligence, and fills the villages of his district with conjectures on the events of war, and with debates on the true interest of Europe.

To write news in its perfection requires such a combination of qualities, that a man completely fitted for the task is not always to be found. In Sir Henry Wotton’s jocular definition, “An ambassador is said to be a man of virtue sent abroad to tell lies for the advantage of his country; a news-writer is a man without virtue, who writes lies at home for his own profit.” To these compositions is required neither genius nor knowledge, neither industry nor sprightliness; but contempt of shame and indifference to truth are absolutely necessary. He who by a long familiarity with infamy has obtained these qualities, may confidently tell to-day what he intends to contradict to-morrow; he may affirm fearlessly what he knows that he shall be obliged to recant, and may write letters from Amsterdam or Dresden to himself.

In a time of war the nation is always of one mind, eager to hear something good of themselves and ill of the enemy. At this time the task of news-writers is easy; they have nothing to do but to tell that a battle is expected, and afterward that a battle has been fought, in which we and our friends, whether conquering or conquered, did all, and our enemies did nothing.

Scarcely anything awakens attention like a tale of cruelty. The writer of news never fails in the intermission of action to tell how the enemies murdered children and ravished virgins; and, if the scene of

## action be somewhat distant, scalps half the inhabitants of a province.

Among the calamities of war may be justly numbered the diminution of the love of truth, by the falsehoods which interest dictates and credulity encourages. A peace will equally leave the warrior and relater of wars destitute of employment; and I know not whether more is to be dreaded from the streets filled with soldiers accustomed to plunder, or from garrets filled with scribblers accustomed to lie.

* * * * *

Also, lapsing into sheer nonsense verse, Doctor Johnson has left for our delectation these delightful rhymes.

As with my hat upon my head I walked along the Strand, I there did meet another man With his hat in his hand.

The tender infant, meek and mild, Fell down upon the stone; The nurse took up the squealing child, But still the child squealed on.

If a man who turnips cries, Cry not when his father dies, ’Tis a proof that he would rather Have a turnip than a father.

Oliver Goldsmith, humorous writer of plays and novels, left many world famous books.

His rhymes are often of the nonsense variety, and, as was common in his day, abounded in puns, or punning ideas.

_AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG_

Good people all, of every sort, Give ear unto my song; And if you find it wondrous short It cannot hold you long.

In Islington there was a man Of whom the world might say That still a godly race he ran Whene’er he went to pray.

A kind and gentle heart he had, To comfort friends and foes; The naked every day he clad, When he put on his clothes.

And in that town a dog was found, As many dogs there be, Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound, And curs of low degree.

This dog and man at first were friends, But when a pique began, The dog, to gain his private ends, Went mad, and bit the man.

Around from all the neighbouring streets The wondering neighbours ran, And swore the dog had lost his wits To bite so good a man.

The wound it seemed both sore and sad To every Christian eye; And while they swore the dog was mad, They swore the man would die.

But soon a wonder came to light, That show’d the rogues they lied: The man recover’d of the bite, The dog it was that died.

_AN ELEGY_

ON THE GLORY OF HER SEX, MRS. MARY BLAIZE

Good people all, with one accord, Lament for Madam Blaize, Who never wanted a good word-- From those who spoke her praise.

The needy seldom pass’d her door, And always found her kind: She freely lent to all the poor-- Who left a pledge behind.

She strove the neighborhood to please With manners wondrous winning; And never follow’d wicked ways-- Unless when she was sinning.

At church, in silks and satins new, With hoop of monstrous size, She never slumber’d in her pew-- But when she shut her eyes.

Her love was sought, I do aver, By twenty beaux and more; The King himself has follow’d her-- When she has walk’d before.

But now, her wealth and finery fled, Her hangers-on cut short all; The doctors found, when she was dead-- Her last disorder mortal.

Let us lament, in sorrow sore, For Kent Street well may say, That had she lived a twelvemonth more She had not died to-day.

_PARSON GRAY_

A quiet home had Parson Gray, Secluded in a vale; His daughters all were feminine, And all his sons were male.

How faithfully did Parson Gray The bread of life dispense-- Well “posted” in theology, And post and rail his fence.

’Gainst all the vices of the age He manfully did battle; His chickens were a biped breed, And quadruped his cattle.

No clock more punctually went, He ne’er delayed a minute-- Nor ever empty was his purse, When he had money in it.

His piety was ne’er denied; His truths hit saint and sinner; At morn he always breakfasted; He always dined at dinner.

He ne’er by any luck was grieved, By any care perplexed-- No filcher he, though when he preached, He always “took” a text.

As faithful characters he drew As mortal ever saw; But, ah! poor parson, when he died, His breath he could not draw.

William Cowper for the most part writes with a gentle, genial spirit, a love of nature and a joy in the domestic relations

His muse, when humorous, is also a bit stilted.

_A FAITHFUL PICTURE OF ORDINARY SOCIETY_

The circle formed, we sit in silent state, Like figures drawn upon a dial-plate. “Yes, ma’am” and “No, ma’am” uttered softly, show Every five minutes how the minutes go. Each individual, suffering a constraint-- Poetry may, but colours cannot, paint-- As if in close committee on the sky, Reports it hot or cold, or wet or dry, And finds a changing clime a happy source Of wise reflection and well-timed discourse. We next inquire, but softly and by stealth, Like conservators of the public health, Of epidemic throats, if such there are Of coughs and rheums, and phthisic and catarrh. That theme exhausted, a wide chasm ensues, Filled up at last with interesting news: Who danced with whom, and who are like to wed; And who is hanged, and who is brought to bed, But fear to call a more important cause, As if ’twere treason against English laws. The visit paid, with ecstasy we come, As from a seven years’ transportation, home And there resume an unembarrassed brow, Recovering what we lost we know not how, The faculties that seemed reduced to naught, Expression, and the privilege of thought.

_THE COLUBRIAD_

Close by the threshold of a door nailed fast, Three kittens sat; each kitten looked aghast. I, passing swift and inattentive by, At the three kittens cast a careless eye; Not much concerned to know what they did there; Not deeming kittens worth a poet’s care. But presently, a loud and furious hiss Caused me to stop, and to exclaim, “What’s this When lo! upon the threshold met my view, With head erect, and eyes of fiery hue, A viper long as Count de Grasse’s queue. Forth from his head his forked tongue he throws, Darting it full against a kitten’s nose; Who, having never seen, in field or house, The like, sat still and silent as a mouse; Only projecting, with attention due, Her whiskered face, she asked him, “Who are you?” On to the hall went I, with pace not slow, But swift as lightning, for a long Dutch hoe: With which well armed, I hastened to the spot To find the viper--but I found him not. And, turning up the leaves and shrubs around, Found only that he was not to be found; But still the kittens, sitting as before, Sat watching close the bottom of the door. “I hope,” said I, “the villain I would kill Has slipped between the door and the door-sill; And if I make despatch, and follow hard, No doubt but I shall find him in the yard”: (For long ere now it should have been rehearsed, ’Twas in the garden that I found him first.) E’en there I found him: there the full-grown cat His head, with velvet paw, did gently pat; As curious as the kittens erst had been To learn what this phenomenon might mean. Filled with heroic ardour at the sight, And fearing every moment he would bite, And rob our household of our only cat That was of age to combat with a rat; With outstretched hoe I slew him at the door And taught him never to come there no more!

Richard Brinsley Sheridan, brilliant dramatist and gifted political orator, wrote many plays, from which it is not possible to quote at length.

His epigrammatic style, and his humorous trend are shown in the bits here given.

_LET THE TOAST PASS_

FROM “THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL”

Here’s to the maiden of bashful fifteen; Here’s to the widow of fifty; Here’s to the flaunting extravagant quean, And here’s to the housewife that’s thrifty. Let the toast pass, Drink to the lass, I’ll warrant she’ll prove an excuse for the glass.

Here’s to the charmer whose dimples we prize, Now to the maid who has none, sir; Here’s to the girl with a pair of blue eyes, And here’s to the nymph with but one, sir. Let the toast pass, etc.

Here’s to the maid with a bosom of snow; Now to her that’s as brown as a berry; Here’s to the wife with a face full of woe, And now to the damsel that’s merry. Let the toast pass, etc.

For let ’em be clumsy, or let ’em be slim, Young or ancient, I care not a feather; So fill a pint bumper quite up to the brim, So fill up your glasses, nay, fill to the brim, And let us e’en toast them together. Let the toast pass, etc.

_LORD ERSKINE’S SIMILE_

Lord Erskine, at woman presuming to rail, Called a wife a tin canister tied to one’s tail; And fair Lady Anne, while this raillery he carries on, Seems hurt at his lordship’s degrading comparison. But wherefore degrading, if taken aright? A canister’s useful and polished and bright, And if dirt its original purity hide, ’Tis the fault of the puppy to whom it is tied.

_SHERIDAN’S CALENDAR_

January snowy, February flowy, March blowy,

April showry, May flowry, June bowery,

July moppy, August croppy, September poppy,

October breezy, November wheezy, December freezy.

George Colman, the Younger, best known as a comic dramatist, also wrote many poetical travesties, which he published under various titles, including the well known one of Broad Grins. These compositions show a broad humor, not always in the best taste.

George Canning, among other amusements, chose to ridicule the Sapphic rhymes of Southey, and wrote this burlesque upon the humanitarian sentiments of Southey in his younger days, as well as of the Sapphic stanzas in which he sometimes embodied them.

_THE FRIEND OF HUMANITY AND THE KNIFE-GRINDER_

FRIEND OF HUMANITY

Needy knife-grinder! whither are you going? Rough is the road; your wheel is out of order. Bleak blows the blast;--your hat has got a hole in’t; So have your breeches!

Weary knife-grinder! little think the proud ones, Who in their coaches roll along the turnpike- Road, what hard work ’tis crying all day, “Knives and Scissors to grind O!”

Tell me, knife-grinder, how came you to grind knives? Did some rich man tyrannically use you? Was it the squire? or parson of the parish? Or the attorney?

Was it the squire for killing of his game? or Covetous parson for his tithes distraining? Or roguish lawyer made you lose your little All in a lawsuit?

(Have you not read the Rights of Man, by Tom Paine?) Drops of compassion tremble on my eyelids, Ready to fall as soon as you have told your Pitiful story.

KNIFE-GRINDER

Story! God bless you! I have none to tell, sir; Only, last night, a-drinking at the Chequers, This poor old hat and breeches, as you see, were Torn in a scuffle.

Constables came up for to take me into Custody; they took me before the justice; Justice Oldmixon put me into the parish Stocks for a vagrant.

I should be glad to drink your honor’s health in A pot of beer, if you will give me sixpence; But for my part, I never love to meddle With politics, sir.

FRIEND TO HUMANITY

I give thee sixpence! I will see thee damned first,-- Wretch! whom no sense of wrongs can rouse to vengeance,-- Sordid, unfeeling, reprobate, degraded, Spiritless outcast!

_(Kicks the knife-grinder, overturns his wheel, and exit in a transport of republican enthusiasm and universal philanthropy.)_

* * * * *

Robert Burns, one of the chief names in Scottish literature, has been called the Dictionary of Poetical Quotations.

Byron said, “The rank of Burns is the very first of his art”; and the many-sided Scotchman had both admirers and detractors galore.

It has been noted that the Scotch have a sense of humor, “because it is a gift.” Burns’ sense of humor secures for him a high place among humorists, and though coarse in his expressions, he is not intentionally vulgar.

_HOLY WILLIE’S PRAYER_

Holy Willie was a small farmer, leading elder to Dr. Auld, austere in speech, scrupulous to all outward appearances, a professing Christian. He experienced, however, “a sore fall”; he was “found out” to be a hypocrite after Burns’ castigation, and was expelled the church for embezzling the money of the poor of the parish. His name was William Fisher.

O Thou, wha in the Heavens dost dwell, Wha, as it pleases best thysel’, Sends ane to Heaven and ten to Hell, A’ for thy glory, And no for onie guid or ill They’ve done afore thee.

I bless and praise thy matchless might, Whan thousands thou hast left in night, That I am here afore thy sight, For gifts and grace, A burning an’ a shining light To a’ this place.

What was I, or my generation, That I should get such exaltation? I, wha deserve such just damnation, For broken laws, Five thousand years ’fore my creation, Thro’ Adam’s cause.

When frae my mither’s womb I fell, Thou might hae plung’d me into Hell, To gnash my gums, to weep and wail In burnin’ lake, Where damned Devils roar and yell, Chain’d to a stake.

Yet I am here a chosen sample, To show thy grace is great and ample; I’m here a pillar in thy temple, Strong as a rock. A guide, a buckler, an example, To a’ thy flock.

O L--d, thou kens what zeal I bear, When drinkers drink, and swearers swear, And singin’ here, and dancing there, Wi’ great and sma’: For I am keepit by thy fear, Free frae them a’.

But yet, O L--d! confess I must, At times I’m fash’d wi’ fleshly lust, An’ sometimes, too, wi’ warldly trust-- Vile self gets in; But thou remembers we are dust, Defil’d in sin.

O L--d! yestreen, thou kens, wi’ Meg-- Thy pardon I sincerely beg, O! may it ne’er be a livin’ plague To my dishonor, An’ I’ll ne’er lift a lawless leg Again upon her.

Besides, I farther maun allow, Wi’ Lizzie’s lass, three times I trow; But, L--d, that Friday I was fou, When I came near her, Or else thou kens thy servant true Wad ne’er hae steer’d her.

May be thou lets this fleshly thorn Beset thy servant e’en and morn, Lest he owre high and proud should turn, ’Cause he’s sae gifted; If sae, thy hand maun e’en be borne, Until thou lift it.

L--d, bless thy chosen in this place, For here thou hast a chosen race; But G--d confound their stubborn face, And blast their name, Wha bring thine elders to disgrace, An’ public shame.

L--d, mind Gawn Hamilton’s deserts, He drinks, an swears, an’ plays at cartes, Yet has sae monie takin’ arts, Wi’ great and sma’, Frae God’s ain priests the people’s hearts He steals awa’.

An’ whan we chasten’d him therefore, Thou kens how he bred sic a splore, As set the warld in a roar O’ laughin’ at us, Curse thou his basket and his store, Kail and potatoes.

L--d, hear my earnest cry an’ pray’r, Against that presbyt’ry o’ Ayr; Thy strong right hand, L--d, make it bare, Upo’ their heads; L--d, weigh it down, and dinna spare, For their misdeeds.

O L--d, my G--d, that glib-tongued Aiken, My very heart and saul are quakin’, To think how we stood sweatin’, shakin’, An’ swat wi’ dread, While he wi’ hingin’ lips gaed snakin’, And hid his head.

L--d, in the day of vengeance try him, L--d, visit them wha did employ him, And pass not in thy mercy by ’em, Nor hear their pray’r; But, for thy people’s sake, destroy ’em, And dinna spare.

But, L--d, remember me and mine Wi’ mercies temp’ral and divine, That I for gear and grace may shine, Excelled by nane, An’ a’ the glory shall be thine, Amen, Amen.

_ADDRESS TO THE TOOTHACHE_

My curse upon thy venomed stang, That shoots my tortured gums alang; An’ through my lugs gies mony a twang, Wi’ gnawing vengeance! Tearing my nerves wi’ bitter pang, Like racking engines.

When fevers burn, or ague freezes, Rheumatics gnaw, or cholic squeezes; Our neighbor’s sympathy may ease us, Wi’ pitying moan; But thee,--thou hell o’ a’ diseases, Aye mocks our groan.

Adown my beard the slavers trickle; I throw the wee stools o’er the mickle, As round the fire the giglets keckle To see me loup; While, raving mad, I wish a heckle Were in their doup.

O’ a’ the numerous human dools, Ill har’sts, daft bargains, cutty-stools, Or worthy friends raked i’ the mools, Sad sight to see! The tricks o’ knaves or fash o’ fools, Thou bear’st the gree.

Where’er that place be priests ca’ hell, Whence a’ the tones o’ mis’ry yell, And rankèd plagues their numbers tell, In dreadfu’ raw, Thou, Toothache, surely bear’st the bell, Among them a’;

O thou grim mischief-making chiel, That gars the notes of discord squeal, Till daft mankind aft dance a reel In gore a shoe-thick!-- Gie a’ the faes o’ Scotland’s weal A fowmond’s Toothache!

THE NINETEENTH CENTURY

Quite lately, a well known humorist of the present day was making an after dinner speech. A voice from the audience called out, “Louder!--and funnier!”

Some such voice must have called out to the World’s Humor at the close of the Eighteenth Century, for the beginning of the Nineteenth finds the Humorous element in literature decidedly louder and funnier.

The Romantic Revival which at this time affected all literature and art has been called both the effect and the cause of the French Revolution.

It has also been called the Renascence of Wonder, and as such it let loose hitherto hidebound fancies and imaginations on boundless and limitless flights. In these flights Humor showed speed and endurance quite equal to those of Romance or Poesy.

Both in energy and methods, Humor came to the front with tremendous strides. In quality and quantity it forged ahead, both as a component part of more serious writings and also independently.

And while this was a consummation devoutly to be wished, it makes harder the task of the Outliner.

Many great writers held to the conviction that in Romantic poetry humor has no place. Others were avowed comic writers of verse or prose. But others still allowed humor to meet and mingle with their numbers, to a greater or less degree.

And the difficulty of selection lies in the fact that the incidental humor is often funnier than the entirely humorous concept.

It is hard to omit such as Jane Austen, Sir Walter Scott, William Wordsworth, yet quotations from their works, showing their humorous vein, would occupy space demanded by the humorists themselves.

So, let us start in boldly with Sydney Smith, one of the most popular wits of all ages.

Aside from this author’s epigrams and witty sayings, he wrote with great wisdom and insight about the principles of humor itself, from which we quote his sapient remarks on punning.

“It is imagined that wit is a sort of inexplicable visitation, that it comes and goes with the rapidity of lightning, and that it is quite as unattainable as beauty or just proportion. I am so much of a contrary way of thinking, that I am convinced a man might sit down as systematically and as successfully, to the study of wit as he might to the study of mathematics; and I would answer for it that by giving up only six hours a day to being witty, he should come on prodigiously before midsummer, so that his friends should hardly know him again. For what is there to hinder the mind from gradually acquiring a habit of attending to the lighter relations of ideas in which wit consists? Punning grows upon everybody, and punning is the wit of words. I do not mean to say that it is so easy to acquire a habit of discovering new relations in _ideas_ as in _words_, but the difficulty is not so much greater as to render it insuperable to habit. One man is unquestionably much better calculated for it by nature than another; but association, which gradually makes a bad speaker a good one, might give a man wit who had it not, if any man chose to be so absurd as to sit down to acquire it.

“I have mentioned puns. They are, I believe, what I have denominated them--the wit of words. They are exactly the same to words which wit is to ideas, and consist in the sudden discovery of relations in language. A pun, to be perfect in its kind, should contain two distinct meanings; the one common and obvious, the other more remote; and in the notice which the mind takes of the relation between these two sets of words, and in the surprise which that relation excites, the pleasure of a pun consists. Miss Hamilton, in her book on Education, mentions the instance of a boy so very neglectful that he could never be brought to read the word _patriarchs_; but whenever he met with it he always pronounced it _partridges_. A friend of the writer observed to her that it could hardly be considered as a mere piece of negligence, for it appeared to him that the boy, in calling them partridges, was _making game_ of the patriarchs. Now here are two distinct meanings contained in the same phrase: for to make game of the patriarchs is to laugh at them; or to make game of them is by a very extravagant and laughable sort of ignorance of words, to rank them among pheasants, partridges, and other such delicacies, which the law takes under its protection and calls game: and the whole pleasure derived from this pun consists in the sudden discovery that two such different meanings are referable to one form of expression. I have very little to say about puns; they are in very bad repute, and so they ought to be. The wit of language is so miserably inferior to the wit of ideas that it is very deservedly driven out of good company. Sometimes, indeed, a pun makes its appearance which seems for a moment to redeem its species; but we must not be deceived by them: it is a radically bad race of wit. By unremitting persecution, it has been at last got under, and driven into cloisters--from whence it must never again be suffered to emerge into the light of the world. One invaluable blessing produced by the banishment of punning is an immediate reduction of the number of wits. It is a wit of so low an order, and in which some sort of progress is so easily made, that the number of those endowed with the gift of wit would be nearly equal to those endowed with the gift of speech. The condition of putting together ideas in order to be witty operates much in the same salutary manner as the condition of finding rhymes in poetry;--it reduces the number of performers to those who have vigour enough to overcome incipient difficulties, and make a sort of provision that that which need not be done at all should be done _well_ whenever it _is_ done.”

* * * * *

This quotation from one of Sydney Smith’s Speeches is characteristic of his style.

_MRS. PARTINGTON_

I do not mean to be disrespectful, but the attempt of the Lords to stop the progress of reform reminds me very forcibly of the great storm of Sidmouth, and of the conduct of the excellent Mrs. Partington on that occasion. In the winter of 1824 there set in a great flood upon that town--the tide rose to an incredible height--the waves rushed in upon the houses--and everything was threatened with destruction. In the midst of this sublime storm, Dame Partington, who lived upon the beach, was seen at the door of her house with mop and pattens, trundling her mop, and squeezing out the seawater, and vigorously pushing away the Atlantic Ocean. The Atlantic was roused; Mrs. Partington’s spirit was up; but I need not tell you that the contest was unequal. The Atlantic Ocean beat Mrs. Partington. She was excellent at a slop or a puddle, but she should not have meddled with a tempest.--(From a Speech at Taunton in 1831.)

And we add the ever popular Recipe for a Salad.

_SALAD_

To make this condiment, your poet begs The pounded yellow of two hard-boiled eggs. Two boiled potatoes, passed through kitchen-sieve, Smoothness and softness to the salad give. Let onion atoms lurk within the bowl, And, half-suspected, animate the whole. Of mordant mustard add a single spoon, Distrust the condiment that bites so soon; But deem it not, thou man of herbs, a fault, To add a double quantity of salt. And, lastly, o’er the flavoured compound toss A magic soup-spoon of anchovy sauce. Oh, green and glorious! Oh, herbaceous treat! ’Twould tempt the dying anchorite to eat; Back to the world he’d turn his fleeting soul, And plunge his fingers in the salad bowl! Serenely full, the epicure would say, Fate cannot harm me, I have dined to-day!

Charles Lamb, beloved alike of the humorous and serious minded, disagrees with Sydney Smith regarding the pun.

His opinion,

“A pun is a noble thing _per se_. It is a sole digest of reflection; it is entire; it fills the mind; it is as perfect as a sonnet--better. It limps ashamed in the train and retinue of humour; it knows it should have an establishment of its own.”

is shown in this instance.

Lamb was reserved among strangers. A friend, about to introduce him to a circle of new faces, said, “Now will you promise, _Lamb_, not to be as _sheepish_ as usual?” Charles replied, with a rustic air, “I _wool_.”

Such masterpieces as Lamb’s _Dissertation Upon Roast Pig_, and his _Farewell to Tobacco_ are too lengthy to quote. We give some of his shorter witty allusions.

* * * * *

Coleridge went to Germany, and left word to Lamb that if he wished any information on any subject, he might apply to him (i.e., by letter), so Lamb sent him the following abstruse propositions, to which, however, Coleridge did not deign an answer.

* * * * *

Whether God loves a dying angel better than a true man?

* * * * *

Whether the archangel Uriel _could_ knowingly affirm an untruth, and whether, if he _could_, he _would_?

* * * * *

Whether the higher order of seraphim illuminati ever _sneeze_?

* * * * *

Whether an immortal and amenable soul may not come _to be damned at last_, and the man never suspect it beforehand?

GOOD ACTIONS.--The greatest pleasure I know is to do a good

## action by stealth, and to have it found out by accident.

* * * * *

PAYING FOR THINGS.--One cannot bear to pay for articles he used to get for nothing. When Adam laid out his first penny upon nonpareils at some stall in Mesopotamia, I think it went hard with him, reflecting upon his old goodly orchard, where he had so many for nothing.

* * * * *

NOTHING TO DO.--Positively the best thing a man can have to do is nothing, and, _next to that_, perhaps, good works.

* * * * *

Robert Southey, though one time Poet Laureate, is not to be too highly rated as a writer. His humorous poems are largely of the “jagged categorical” type, and are whimseys rather than wit.

Notwithstanding the aspersion even then cast upon the pun, he regards it as a legitimate vehicle.

_THE TEN LOST TRIBES OF ISRAEL_

That the lost ten tribes of Israel may be found in London, is a discovery which any person may suppose he has made, when he walks for the first time from the city to Wapping. That the tribes of Judah and Benjamin nourish there is known to all mankind; and from them have sprung the Scripites, and the Omniumites, and the Threepercentites.

But it is not so well known that many other tribes noticed in the Old Testament are to be found in this island of Great Britain.

There are the Hittites, who excel in one branch of gymnastics. And there are the Amorites, who are to be found in town and country; and there are the Gadites, who frequent watering-places, and take picturesque tours.

Among the Gadites I shall have some of my best readers, who being in good humour with themselves and with everything else, except on a rainy day, will even then be in good humour with me. There will be the Amorites in their company; and among the Amorites, too, there will be some who in the overflowing of their love, will have some liking to spare for the doctor and his faithful memorialist.

The poets, those especially who deal in erotics, lyrics, sentimentals, or sonnets, are the Ah-oh-ites.

The gentlemen who speculate in chapels are the Puhites.

The chief seat of the Simeonites is at Cambridge; but they are spread over the land. So are the Man-ass-ites, of whom the finest specimens are to be seen in St. James’s Street, at the fashionable time of day for exhibiting the dress and the person upon the pavement.

The freemasons are of the family of the Jachinites.

The female Haggites are to be seen, in low life wheeling barrows, and in high life seated at card-tables.

The Shuhamites are the cordwainers.

The Teamanites attend the sales of the East India Company.

Sir James Mackintosh, and Sir James Scarlett, and Sir James Graham belong to the Jim-nites.

Who are the Gazathites, if the people of London are not, where anything is to be seen? All of them are the Gettites when they can, all would be Havites if they could.

The journalists should be Geshurites, if they answered to their profession; instead of this they generally turn out to be Geshuwrongs.

There are, however, three tribes in England, not named in the Old Testament, who considerably outnumber all the rest. These are the High Vulgarites, who are the children of Rahank and Phashan, the Middle Vulgarites, who are the children of Mammon and Terade, and the Low Vulgarities, who are the children of Tahag, Rahag, and Bohobtay-il. --From “_The Doctor_.”

_THE WELL OF ST. KEYNE_

A well there is in the West country, And a clearer one never was seen; There is not a wife in the West country But has heard of the Well of St. Keyne.

An oak and an elm tree stand beside, And behind does an ash-tree grow, And a willow from the bank above Droops to the water below.

A traveller came to the Well of St. Keyne; Pleasant it was to his eye, For from cock-crow he had been travelling, And there was not a cloud in the sky.

He drank of the water so cool and clear, For thirsty and hot was he, And he sat down upon the bank, Under the willow-tree.

There came a man from the neighboring town At the well to fill his pail, On the well-side he rested it, And bade the stranger hail.

“Now art thou a bachelor, stranger?” quoth he, “For an if thou hast a wife, The happiest draught thou hast drank this day That ever thou didst in thy life.

“O has your good woman, if one you have, In Cornwall ever been? For an if she have, I’ll venture my life She has drunk of the Well of St. Keyne.”

“I have left a good woman who never was here,” The stranger he made reply; “But that my draught should be better for that, I pray you answer me why.”

“St. Keyne,” quoth the countryman, “many a time Drank of this crystal well, And before the angel summoned her She laid on the water a spell.

“If the husband of this gifted well Shall drink before his wife, A happy man thenceforth is he, For he shall be master for life.

“But if the wife should drink of it first, Heaven help the husband then!” The stranger stooped to the Well of St. Keyne, And drank of the waters again.

“You drank of the well, I warrant, betimes?” He to the countryman said. But the countryman smiled as the stranger spake, And sheepishly shook his head.

“I hastened, as soon as the wedding was done, And left my wife in the porch. But i’ faith, she had been wiser than me, For she took a bottle to church.”

Theodore Hook, recorded as “a playwright, a punster and a practical joker,” also gives a dissertation on puns and a bit of helpful advice.

* * * * *

“Personal deformities or constitutional calamities are always to be laid hold of. If anybody tells you that a dear friend has lost his sight, observe that it will make him more hospitable than ever, since now he would be glad _to see anybody_. If a clergyman breaks his leg, remark that he is no longer a clergyman, but a _lame man_. If a poet is seized with apoplexy, affect to disbelieve it, though you know it to be true, in order to say, ‘Poeta nascitur non _fit_’; and then, to carry the joke one step farther, add that “it is not a _fit_ subject for a jest.” A man falling into a tan-pit you may call ‘sinking in the _sublime_’; a climbing boy suffocated in a chimney meets with a _sootable_ death; and a pretty girl having caught the small-pox is to be much _pitted_. On the subject of the ear and its defects, talk first of something in which a _cow sticks_, and end by telling the story of the man who, having taken great pains to explain something to his companion, at last got into a rage at his apparent stupidity, and exclaimed, ‘Why, my dear sir, don’t you comprehend? The thing is as plain as A B C.’ ‘I dare say it is,’ said the other, ‘but I am D E F.’

“It may be as well to give the beginner something of a notion of the use he may make of the most ordinary words, for the purposes of quibbleism.

“The loss of a hat is always _felt_; if you don’t like sugar you may _lump_ it; a glazier is a _panes_-taking man; candles are burnt because wick-ed things always come to _light_; a lady who takes you home from a party is kind in her _carriage_, and you say “nunc est _ridendum_” when you step into it; if it happens to be a chariot, she is a _charitable_ person; birds’-nests and king-killing are synonymous, because they are _high trees on_; a Bill for building a bridge should be sanctioned by the Court of _Arches_, as well as the House of _Piers_; when a man is dull, he goes to the sea-side to _Brighton_; a Cockney lover, when sentimental, should live in _Heigh Hoburn_; the greatest fibber is the man most to _re-lie_ upon; a dean expecting a bishopric looks _for lawn_; a _sui_cide kills pigs, and not himself; a butcher is a gross man, but a fig-seller is a _grocer_; Joshua never had a father or mother, because he was the son of _Nun_; your grandmother and your great-grandmother were your _aunt’s sisters_; a leg of mutton is better than heaven, because nothing is better than heaven, and a leg of mutton is better than nothing; races are matters of _course_; an ass can never be a horse, although he may be a _mayor_; the Venerable Bede was the mother of Pearl; a baker makes bread when he _kneads_ it; a doctor cannot be a doctor all at once, because he comes to it by _degrees_; a man hanged at Newgate has taken a _drop_ too much; the _bridle_ day is that on which a man leads a woman to the halter. Never mind the aspirate; punning’s all fair, as the archbishop said in the dream.

“Puns interrogatory are at times serviceable. You meet a man carrying a hare; ask him if it is his own _hare_, or a wig--there you stump him. Why is Parliament Street like a compendium? Because it goes to a _bridge_. Why is a man murdering his mother in a garret a worthy person? Because he is _above_ committing a crime. Instances of this kind are innumerable. If you want to render your question particularly pointed, you are, after asking it once or twice, to say ‘D’ye give it up?’ Then favour your friends with the solution.”

* * * * *

Richard Harris Barham, author of the _Ingoldsby Legends_, was an intimate friend of Hook.

Like many another true humorist he was of the clergy, being a minor canon of St. Paul’s cathedral.

His delightful tales are too long to quote, and only some shorter pieces may be given.

Barham was among the first to raise parody to a recognized art.

_A “TRUE AND ORIGINAL” VERSION_

In the autumn of 1824, Captain Medwin having hinted that certain beautiful lines on the burial of Sir John Moore might have been the production of Lord Byron’s muse, the late Mr. Sidney Taylor, somewhat indignantly, claimed them for their rightful owner, the Rev. Charles Wolfe. During the controversy a third claimant started up in the person of a _soi-disant_ “Doctor Marshall,” who turned out to be a Durham blacksmith, and _his_ pretensions a hoax. It was then that a certain “Dr. Peppercorn” put forth his pretensions, to what he averred was the only “true and original” version, viz.--

Not a _sous_ had he got,--not a guinea or note, And he looked confoundedly flurried, As he bolted away without paying his shot, And the landlady after him hurried.

We saw him again at dead of night, When home from the Club returning; We twigged the Doctor beneath the light Of the gas-lamp brilliantly burning.

All bare, and exposed to the midnight dews, Reclined in the gutter we found him; And he looked like a gentleman taking a snooze, With his _Marshall_ cloak around him.

“The Doctor’s as drunk as the devil,” we said, And we managed a shutter to borrow; We raised him, and sighed at the thought that his head Would “consumedly ache” on the morrow.

We bore him home, and we put him to bed, And we told his wife and his daughter To give him, next morning a couple of red Herrings, with soda water.--

Loudly they talked of his money that’s gone, And his Lady began to upbraid him; But little he reck’d, so they let him snore on ’Neath the counterpane just as we laid him.

We tuck’d him in, and had hardly done When, beneath the window calling, We heard the rough voice of a son of a gun Of a watchman “One o’clock!” bawling.

Slowly and sadly we all walked down From his room in the uppermost story; A rushlight we placed on the cold hearthstone, And we left him alone in his glory.

_RAISING THE DEVIL_

A LEGEND OF CORNELIUS AGRIPPA

“And hast thou nerve enough?” he said, That gray Old Man, above whose head Unnumbered years had rolled,-- “And hast thou nerve to view,” he cried, “The incarnate Fiend that Heaven defied! --Art thou indeed so bold?

“Say, canst thou, with unshrinking gaze, Sustain, rash youth, the withering blaze Of that unearthly eye, That blasts where’er it lights,--the breath That, like the Simoom, scatters death On all that yet _can_ die!

--“Darest thou confront that fearful form That rides the whirlwind and the storm, In wild unholy revel! The terrors of that blasted brow, Archangel’s once,--though ruined now-- --Ay,--dar’st thou face THE DEVIL?”

“I dare!” the desperate youth replied, And placed him by that Old Man’s side, In fierce and frantic glee, Unblenched his cheek, and firm his limb: --“No paltry juggling Fiend, but HIM, --THE DEVIL! I fain would see!--

“In all his Gorgon terrors clad, His worst, his fellest shape!” the Lad Rejoined in reckless tone.-- --“Have then thy wish!” Agrippa said, And sighed, and shook his hoary head, With many a bitter groan.

He drew the Mystic circle’s bound, With skull and cross-bones fenced around; He traced full many a sigil there; He muttered many a backward pray’r, That sounded like a curse-- “He comes!”--he cried with wild grimace, “The fellest of Apollyon’s race!”-- --Then in his startled pupil’s face He dashed--an EMPTY PURSE!!

Thomas De Quincey, one of the best of humorists wrote _Confessions of an Opium Eater_, with alas, all the necessary conditions to speak at first hand.

His clever essay, _Murder as a Fine Art_, we trust, was not founded on facts. This delightful bit of foolery, one of his many witty effusions, can be given only in part.

_MURDER AS ONE OF THE FINE ARTS_

The first murder is familiar to you all. As the inventor of murder, and the father of the art, Cain must have been a man of first-rate genius. All the Cains were men of genius. Tubal Cain invented tubes, I think, or some such thing. But, whatever might be the originality and genius of the artist, every art was then in its infancy, and the works must be criticised with the recollection of that fact. Even Tubal’s work would probably be little approved at this day in Sheffield; and therefore of Cain (Cain senior, I mean) it is no disparagement to say, that his performance was but so-so. Milton, however, is supposed to have thought differently. By his way of relating the case, it should seem to have been rather a pet murder with him, for he retouches it with an apparent anxiety for its picturesque effect:

“Whereat he inly raged; and, as they talk’d, Smote him into the midriff with a stone That beat out life. He fell; and, deadly pale, Groan’d out his soul _with gushing blood effused_.”

Upon this, Richardson the painter, who had an eye for effect, remarks as follows, in his _Notes on Paradise Lost_, p. 497: “It has been thought,” says he, “that Cain beat--as the common saying is--the breath out of his brother’s body with a great stone; Milton gives in to this, with the addition, however, of a large wound.”

* * * * *

But it is time that I should say a few words about the principles of murder, not with a view to regulate your practice, but your judgment. As to old women, and the mob of newspaper readers, they are pleased with anything, provided it is bloody enough; but the mind of sensibility requires something more. _First_, then, let us speak of the kind of person who is adapted to the purpose of the murderer; _secondly_, of the place where; _thirdly_, of the time when, and other little circumstances.

As to the person, I suppose that it is evident that he ought to be a good man; because, if he were not, he might himself, by possibility, be contemplating murder at the very time; and such “diamond-cut-diamond” tussles, though pleasant enough when nothing better is stirring, are really not what a critic can allow himself to call murders.

* * * * *

The subject chosen ought to be in good health: for it is absolutely barbarous to murder a sick person, who is usually quite unable to bear it. On this principle, no tailor ought to be chosen who is above twenty-five, for after that age he is sure to be dyspeptic. Or at least, if a man will hunt in that warren, he will of course think it his duty, on the old established equation, to murder some multiple of 9--say 18, 27, or 36. And here, in this benign attention to the comfort of sick people, you will observe the usual effect of a fine art to soften and refine the feelings. The world in general, gentlemen, are very bloody-minded; and all they want in a murder is a copious effusion of blood; gaudy display in this point is enough for _them_. But the enlightened connoisseur is more refined in his taste; and from our art, as from all the other liberal arts when thoroughly mastered, the result is, to humanise the heart.

A philosophic friend, well known for his philanthropy and general benignity, suggests that the subject chosen ought also to have a family of young children wholly dependent upon his exertions, by way of deepening the pathos. And, undoubtedly, this is a judicious caution. Yet I would not insist too keenly on such a condition. Severe good taste unquestionably suggests it; but still, where the man was otherwise unobjectionable in point of morals and health, I would not look with too curious a jealousy to a restriction which might have the effect of narrowing the artist’s sphere.

So much for the person. As to the time, the place, and the tools, I have many things to say, which at present I have no room for. The good sense of the practitioner has usually directed him to night and privacy. Yet there have not been wanting cases where this rule was departed from with excellent effect.

* * * * *

LORD BYRON, whose works are variously adjudged by the critics, owes much to the fact that he was possessed of a distinct and definite sense of humor.

It is that which saves many of his long and dull stretches of verse from utter unreadability.

His facile rhymes, apparently tossed off with little of or no effort, embody in the best possible manner his graceful fun.

The _ottava rima_ of Don Juan, though often careless, even slovenly as to technical details, is surely the meter best fitted for the theme.

Juan embarked--the ship got under way, The wind was fair, the water passing rough; A devil of a sea rolls in that bay, As I, who’ve crossed it oft, know well enough; And, standing upon deck, the dashing spray Flies in one’s face, and makes it weather-tough; And there he stood to take, and take again, His first--perhaps his last--farewell of Spain.

I can’t but say it is an awkward sight To see one’s native land receding through The growing waters; it unmans one quite, Especially when life is rather new. I recollect Great Britain’s coast looks white, But almost every other country’s blue, When gazing on them, mystified by distance, We enter on our nautical existence.

So Juan stood, bewildered on the deck: The wind sung, cordage strained, and sailors swore, And the ship creaked, the town became a speck, From which away so fair and fast they bore. The best of remedies is a beef-steak Against sea-sickness: try it, sir, before You sneer, and I assure you this is true, For I have found it answer--so may you.

“And oh! if e’er I should forget, I swear-- But that’s impossible, and cannot be-- Sooner shall this blue ocean melt to air, Sooner shall earth resolve itself to sea, Than I resign thine image, oh, my fair! Or think of anything excepting thee; A mind diseased no remedy can physic.” (Here the ship gave a lurch and he grew sea-sick.)

“Sooner shall heaven kiss earth!” (Here he fell sicker.) “Oh, Julia! what is every other woe? (For God’s sake let me have a glass of liquor; Pedro, Battista, help me down below.) Julia, my love! (you rascal, Pedro, quicker) Oh, Julia! (this curst vessel pitches so) Beloved Julia, hear me still beseeching!” (Here he grew inarticulate with retching.)

He felt that chilling heaviness of heart, Or rather stomach, which, alas! attends, Beyond the best apothecary’s art, The loss of love, the treachery of friends, Or death of those we dote on, when a part Of us dies with them as each fond hope ends. No doubt he would have been much more pathetic, But the sea acted as a strong emetic.

_AFTER SWIMMING THE HELLESPONT_

If, in the month of dark December, Leander, who was nightly wont (What maid will not the tale remember?) To cross thy stream, broad Hellespont;

If, when the wint’ry tempest roar’d, He sped to Hero nothing loath, And thus of old thy current pour’d, Fair Venus! how I pity both!

For _me_, degenerate, modern wretch, Though in the genial month of May, My dripping limbs I faintly stretch, And think I’ve done a feat to-day.

But since he crossed the rapid tide, According to the doubtful story, To woo--and--Lord knows what beside, And swam for Love, as I for Glory;

’Twere hard to say who fared the best: Sad mortals, thus the gods still plague you! He lost his labour, I my jest; For he was drowned, and I’ve the ague.

Thomas Hood, versatile alike in humorous or pathetic vein, was a prolific and successful punster. If the form could be forgiven anybody it must be condoned in his case. He also was apt at parody and often blended pathos and tragedy with his humorous work.

_FAITHLESS NELLY GRAY_

A PATHETIC BALLAD

Ben Battle was a soldier bold, And used to war’s alarms; But a cannon-ball took off his legs, So he laid down his arms!

Now, as they bore him off the field, Said he, “Let others shoot, For here I leave my second leg, And the Forty-Second Foot!”

The army-surgeons made him limbs; Said he, “they’re only pegs: But there’s as wooden Members quite As represent my legs!”

Now Ben he loved a pretty maid, Her name was Nelly Gray; So he went to pay her his devours, When he devoured his pay!

But when he called on Nelly Gray, She made him quite a scoff; And when she saw his wooden legs, Began to take them off!

“O, Nelly Gray! O, Nelly Gray! Is this your love so warm? The love that loves a scarlet coat Should be more uniform!”

Said she, “I loved a soldier once, For he was blithe and brave; But I will never have a man With both legs in the grave!

“Before you had those timber toes, Your love I did allow; But then, you know, you stand upon Another footing now!”

“O, Nelly Gray! O, Nelly Gray! For all your jeering speeches; At duty’s call I left my legs, In Badajos’s _breeches_!”

“Why then,” said she, “you’ve lost the feet Of legs in war’s alarms, And now you cannot wear your shoes Upon your feats of arms!”

“O, false and fickle Nelly Gray! I know why you refuse:-- Though I’ve no feet--some other man Is standing in my shoes!

“I wish I ne’er had seen your face; But now, a long farewell! For you will be my death;--alas! You will not be my _Nell_!”

Now when he went from Nelly Gray His heart so heavy got, And life was such a burden grown, It made him take a knot!

So round his melancholy neck A rope he did entwine, And, for his second time in life, Enlisted in the Line.

One end he tied around a beam, And then removed his pegs, And, as his legs were off--of course He soon was off his legs!

And there he hung, till he was dead As any nail in town-- For though distress had cut him up, It could not cut him down!

A dozen men sat on his corpse, To find out why he died-- And they buried Ben in four cross-roads, With a _stake_ in his inside!

_NO!_

No sun--no moon! No morn--no noon-- No dawn--no dusk--no proper time of day-- No sky--no earthly view-- No distance looking blue-- No road--no street--no “t’other side the way”-- No end to any Row-- No indications where the Crescents go-- No top to any steeple-- No recognitions of familiar people-- No courtesies for showing ’em-- No knowing ’em! To travelling at all--no locomotion, No inkling of the way--no notion-- No go--by land or ocean-- No mail--no post-- No news from any foreign coast-- No park--no ring--no afternoon gentility-- No company--no nobility-- No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease, No comfortable feel in any member-- No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees. No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds. November!

The brothers James and Horace Smith, wrote what was in their day considered lively and amusing humor, but which seems a trifle dry to us. Their greatest work was the _Rejected Addresses_, a series of parodies on the poets, such as Wordsworth, Southey, Coleridge, Scott, Moore and many others.

One of these, an imitation of Wordsworth’s most simple style, succeeds in parodying his mawkish affectations of childish simplicity and nursery stammering.

_THE BABY’S DÉBUT_

[_Spoken in the character of Nancy Lake, a girl eight years of age, who is drawn upon the stage in a child’s chaise by Samuel Hughes, her uncle’s porter._]

My brother Jack was nine in May, And I was eight on New-Year’s day; So in Kate Wilson’s shop Papa (he’s my papa and Jack’s) Bought me, last week, a doll of wax, And brother Jack a top.

Jack’s in the pouts, and this it is,-- He thinks mine came to more than his; So to my drawer he goes, Takes out the doll, and, oh, my stars! He pokes her head between the bars, And melts off half her nose!

Quite cross, a bit of string I beg, And tie it to his peg-top’s peg, And bang, with might and main, Its head against the parlour-door: Off flies the head, and hits the floor, And breaks a window-pane.

This made him cry with rage and spite: Well, let him cry, it serves him right. A pretty thing, forsooth! If he’s to melt, all scalding hot, Half my doll’s nose, and I am not To draw his peg-top’s tooth!

Aunt Hannah heard the window break, And cried, “Oh naughty Nancy Lake, Thus to distress your aunt: No Drury-Lane for you to-day!” And while papa said, “Pooh, she may!” Mamma said, “No, she sha’n’t!”

Well, after many a sad reproach, They get into a hackney coach, And trotted down the street. I saw them go: one horse was blind, The tails of both hung down behind, Their shoes were on their feet.

The chaise in which poor brother Bill Used to be drawn to Pentonville, Stood in the lumber-room: I wiped the dust from off the top, While Molly mopp’d it with a mop, And brush’d it with a broom.

My uncle’s porter, Samuel Hughes, Came in at six to black the shoes (I always talk to Sam): So what does he, but takes, and drags Me in the chaise along the flags, And leaves me where I am.

My father’s walls are made of brick, But not so tall, and not so thick As these; and, goodness me! My father’s beams are made of wood, But never, never half so good As those that now I see.

What a large floor! ’tis like a town! The carpet, when they lay it down, Won’t hide it, I’ll be bound; And there’s a row of lamps!--my eye! How they do blaze! I wonder why They keep them on the ground.

At first I caught hold of the wing, And kept away; but Mr. Thing- um bob, the prompter man, Gave with his hand my chaise a shove, And said, “Go on, my pretty love; Speak to ’em, little Nan.

“You’ve only got to curtsey, whisp- er, hold your chin up, laugh, and lisp, And then you’re sure to take: I’ve known the day when brats, not quite Thirteen, got fifty pounds a night; Then why not Nancy Lake?”

But while I’m speaking, where’s papa? And where’s my aunt? and where’s mamma? Where’s Jack? Oh, there they sit! They smile, they nod; I’ll go my ways, And order round poor Billy’s chaise, To join them in the pit.

And now, good gentlefolks, I go To join mamma, and see the show; So, bidding you adieu, I curtsey, like a pretty miss, And if you’ll blow to me a kiss, I’ll blow a kiss to you.

[_Blows a kiss, and exit._

_THE MILKMAID AND THE BANKER_

A Milkmaid, with a pretty face, Who lived at Acton, Had a black cow, the ugliest in the place, A crooked-backed one, A beast as dangerous, too, as she was frightful, Vicious and spiteful; And so confirmed a truant that she bounded Over the hedges daily and got pounded: ’Twas in vain to tie her with a tether, For then both cow and cord eloped together. Armed with an oaken bough--(what folly! It should have been of thorn, or prickly holly), Patty one day was driving home the beast, Which had as usual slipped its anchor, When on the road she met a certain Banker, Who stopped to give his eyes a feast, By gazing on her features crimsoned high By a long cow-chase in July.

“Are you from Acton, pretty lass?” he cried; “Yes”--with a courtesy she replied. “Why, then, you know the laundress, Sally Wrench?” “Yes, she’s my cousin, sir, and next-door neighbor.” “That’s lucky--I’ve a message for the wench Which needs despatch, and you may save my labor. Give her this kiss, my dear, and say I sent it: But mind, you owe me one--I’ve only lent it.” “She shall know,” cried the girl, as she brandished her bough, “Of the loving intentions you bore me; But since you’re in haste for the kiss, you’ll allow, That you’d better run forward and give it my cow, For she, at the rate she is scampering now, Will reach Acton some minutes before me.” HORACE SMITH.

_THE JESTER CONDEMNED TO DEATH_

One of the Kings of Scanderoon, A royal jester, Had in his train a gross buffoon, Who used to pester The Court with tricks inopportune, Venting on the highest folks his Scurvy pleasantries and hoaxes. It needs some sense to play the fool, Which wholesome rule Occurred not to our jackanapes, Who consequently found his freaks Lead to innumerable scrapes, And quite as many kicks and tweaks, Which only seemed to make him faster Try the patience of his master.

Some sin, at last, beyond all measure, Incurred the desperate displeasure Of his serene and raging highness: Whether he twitched his most revered And sacred beard, Or had intruded on the shyness Of the seraglio, or let fly An epigram at royalty, None knows: his sin was an occult one, But records tell us that the Sultan, Meaning to terrify the knave, Exclaimed, “’Tis time to stop that breath: Thy doom is sealed, presumptuous slave! Thou stand’st condemned to certain death: Silence, base rebel! no replying! But such is my indulgence still, That, of my own free grace and will, I leave to thee the mode of dying.”

“Thy royal will be done--’tis just,” Replied the wretch, and kissed the dust; “Since, my last moments to assuage, Your majesty’s humane decree Has deigned to leave the choice to me, I’ll die, so please you, of old age!” HORACE SMITH.

It is to be regretted that the feminine writers of this period showed practically no evidence of humorous scintillation, but we have searched in vain through the writings of Ann and Jane Taylor, Mary Russell Mitford, Felicia Hemans and Letitia Elizabeth Landon,--finding only some unconscious humor, not at all intentional on the part of the authoresses, as they were then called.

William Maginn was also adept at parody, but his work was ephemeral.

The rollicking rhyme of the Irishman is among the most interesting of his poems.

_THE IRISHMAN_

There was a lady lived at Leith, A lady very stylish, man, And yet, in spite of all her teeth, She fell in love with an Irishman, A nasty, ugly Irishman, A wild, tremendous Irishman, A tearing, swearing, thumping, bumping, ranting, roaring Irishman.

His face was no ways beautiful, For with small-pox ’twas scarred across, And the shoulders of the ugly dog Were almost double a yard across. Oh, the lump of an Irishman, The whisky-devouring Irishman, The great he-rogue, with his wonderful brogue, the fighting, rioting Irishman!

One of his eyes was bottle-green, And the other eye was out, my dear, And the calves of his wicked-looking legs Were more than two feet about, my dear. Oh, the great big Irishman, The rattling, battling Irishman, The stamping, ramping, swaggering, staggering, leathering swash of an Irishman!

He took so much of Lundy-foot That he used to snort and snuffle, oh, And in shape and size the fellow’s neck Was as bad as the neck of a buffalo. Oh, the horrible Irishman, The thundering, blundering Irishman, The slashing, dashing, smashing, lashing, thrashing, hashing Irishman!

His name was a terrible name indeed, Being Timothy Thady Mulligan; And whenever he emptied his tumbler of punch, He’d not rest till he’d filled it full again. The boozing, bruising Irishman, The ’toxicated Irishman, The whisky, frisky, rummy, gummy, brandy, no-dandy Irishman.

This was the lad the lady loved, Like all the girls of quality; And he broke the skulls of the men of Leith, Just by the way of jollity. Oh, the leathering Irishman, The barbarous, savage Irishman! The hearts of the maids and the gentlemen’s heads were bothered, I’m sure, by this Irishman.

Thomas Haynes Bayly, though not especially a humorist, showed the influence of a witty muse in his songs, which were numerous and popular.

_She Wore a Wreath of Roses_, _Oh, No, We Never Mention Her_ and _Gaily the Troubadour Touched his Guitar_ are among the best remembered.

He was the author of many bright bits of Society Verse, and wrote some deep and very real satire.

_WHY DON’T THE MEN PROPOSE?_

Why don’t the men propose, mamma? Why don’t the men propose? Each seems just coming to the point, And then away he goes; It is no fault of yours, mamma, _That_ everybody knows; You _fête_ the finest men in town, Yet, oh! they won’t propose.

I’m sure I’ve done my best, mamma, To make a proper match; For coronets and eldest sons, I’m ever on the watch; I’ve hopes when some _distingué_ beau A glance upon me throws; But though he’ll dance and smile and flirt, Alas! he won’t propose.

I’ve tried to win by languishing, And dressing like a blue; I’ve bought big books and talked of them As if I’d read them through! With hair cropp’d like a man I’ve felt The heads of all the beaux; But Spurzheim could not touch their hearts, And oh! they won’t propose.

I threw aside the books, and thought That ignorance was bliss; I felt convinced that men preferred A simple sort of Miss; And so I lisped out nought beyond Plain “yesses” or plain “noes,” And wore a sweet unmeaning smile; Yet, oh! they won’t propose.

Last night at Lady Ramble’s rout I heard Sir Henry Gale Exclaim, “Now I _propose_ again----” I started, turning pale; I really thought my time was come, I blushed like any rose; But oh! I found ’twas only at _Ecarté_ he’d propose.

And what is to be done, mamma? Oh, what is to be done? I really have no time to lose, For I am thirty-one; At balls I am too often left Where spinsters sit in rows; Why don’t the men propose, mamma? Why _won’t_ the men propose?

Frederick Marryat, oftener spoken of as Captain Marryat was among the most renowned writers of sea stories, and easily the most humorous of the authors who chose the sea for their fictional setting.

His books are well known in all households, and after Dickens there is probably no English novelist who has caused more real chuckles.

_NAUTICAL TERMS_

All the sailors were busy at work, and the first lieutenant cried out to the gunner, “Now, Mr. Dispart, if you are ready, we’ll breech these guns.”

“Now, my lads,” said the first lieutenant, “we must slug (the part the breeches cover) more forward.” As I never had heard of a gun having breeches, I was very curious to see what was going on, and went up close to the first lieutenant, who said to me, “Youngster, hand me that _monkey’s tail_.” I saw nothing like a _monkey’s tail_, but I was so frightened that I snatched up the first thing that I saw, which was a short bar of iron, and it so happened that it was the very article which he wanted. When I gave it to him, the first lieutenant looked at me, and said, “So you know what a monkey’s tail is already, do you? Now don’t you ever sham stupid after that.”

Thought I to myself, I’m very lucky, but if that’s a monkey’s tail, it’s a very stiff one!

I resolved to learn the names of everything as fast as I could, that I might be prepared, so I listened attentively to what was said; but I soon became quite confused, and despaired of remembering anything.

“How is this to be finished off, sir?” inquired a sailor of the boatswain.

“Why, I beg leave to hint to you, sir, in the most delicate manner in the world,” replied the boatswain, “that it must be with a _double-wall_--and be damned to you--don’t you know that yet? Captain of the foretop,” said he, “up on your _horses_, and take your _stirrups_ up three inches.” “Aye, aye, sir.” I looked and looked, but I could see no horses.

“Mr. Chucks,” said the first lieutenant to the boatswain, “what blocks have we below--not on charge?”

“Let me see, sir. I’ve one _sister_, t’other we split in half the other day, and I think I have a couple of _monkeys_ down in the store-room. I say, you Smith, pass that brace through the _bull’s eye_, and take the _sheep-shank_ out before you come down.”

And then he asked the first lieutenant whether something should not be fitted with a _mouse_ or only a _Turk’s-head_--told him the _goose-neck_ must be spread out by the armourer as soon as the forge was up. In short, what with _dead-eyes_ and _shrouds_, _cats_ and _cat-blocks_, _dolphins_ and _dolphin-strikers, whips_ and _puddings_, I was so puzzled with what I heard, that I was about to leave the deck in absolute despair.

“And, Mr. Chucks, recollect this afternoon that you _bleed_ all the _buoys_.”

Bleed the boys, thought I; what can that be for? At all events, the surgeon appears to be the proper person to perform that operation. --_Peter Simple._

Douglas Jerrold was an infant prodigy and later a noted playwright; beside being the author of the world famous Caudle lectures.

He was a celebrated wit and punster and though many epigrammatic sayings are wrongly attributed to him, yet he was the originator of as many more.

_COLD MUTTON, PUDDING, PANCAKES_

“What am I grumbling about, now? It’s very well for you to ask that! I’m sure I’d better be out of the world than--there now, Mr Caudle; there you are again! I _shall_ speak, sir. It isn’t often I open my mouth, Heaven knows! But you like to hear nobody talk but yourself. You ought to have married a negro slave, and not any respectable woman.

“You’re to go about the house looking like thunder all the day, and I’m not to say a word. Where do you think pudding’s to come from every day? You show a nice example to your children, you do; complaining, and turning your nose up at a sweet piece of cold mutton, because there’s no pudding! You go a nice way to make ’em extravagant--teach ’em nice lessons to begin the world with. Do you know what puddings cost; or do you think they fly in at the window?

“You hate cold mutton. The more shame for you, Mr. Caudle. I’m sure you’ve the stomach of a lord, you have. No, sir; I didn’t choose to hash the mutton. It’s very easy for you to say hash it; but _I_ know what a joint loses in hashing: it’s a day’s dinner the less, if it’s a bit. Yes, I dare say; other people may have puddings with cold mutton. No doubt of it; and other people become bankrupts. But if ever you get into the _Gazette_, it sha’n’t be _my_ fault--no; I’ll do my duty as a wife to you, Mr. Caudle; you shall never have it to say that it was _my_ housekeeping that brought you to beggary. No; you may sulk at the cold meat--ha! I hope you’ll never live to want such a piece of cold mutton as we had to-day! and you may threaten to go to a tavern to dine; but, with our present means, not a crumb of pudding do you get from me. You shall have nothing but the cold joint--nothing, as I’m a Christian sinner.

“Yes; there you are, throwing those fowls in my face again! I know you once brought home a pair of fowls; I know it; but you were mean enough to want to stop ’em out of my week’s money! Oh, the selfishness--the shabbiness of men! They can go out and throw away pounds upon pounds with a pack of people who laugh at ’em afterward; but if it’s anything wanted for their own homes, their poor wives may hunt for it. I wonder you don’t blush to name those fowls again! I wouldn’t be so little for the world, Mr. Caudle!

“What are you going to do? _Going to get up?_ Don’t make yourself ridiculous, Mr. Caudle; I can’t say a word to you like any other wife, but you must threaten to get up. _Do_ be ashamed of yourself.

“Puddings, indeed! Do you think I’m made of puddings? Didn’t you have some boiled rice three weeks ago? Besides, is this the time of the year for puddings? It’s all very well if I had money enough allowed me like any other wife to keep the house with; then, indeed, I might have preserves like any other woman; now, it’s impossible; and it’s cruel--yes, Mr. Caudle, cruel--of you to expect it.

“_Apples ar’n’t so dear, are they?_ I know what apples are, Mr. Caudle, without your telling me. But I suppose you want something more than apples for dumplings? I suppose sugar costs something, doesn’t it? And that’s how it is. That’s how one expense brings on another, and that’s how people go to ruin.

“_Pancakes?_ What’s the use of your lying muttering there about pancakes? Don’t you always have ’em once a year--every Shrove Tuesday? And what would any moderate, decent man want more?

“Pancakes, indeed! Pray, Mr. Caudle--no, it’s no use your saying fine words to me to let you go to sleep; I sha’n’t. Pray, do you know the price of eggs just now? There’s not an egg you can trust to under seven and eight a shilling; well, you’ve only just to reckon up how many eggs--don’t lie swearing there at the eggs in that manner, Mr. Caudle; unless you expect the bed to let you fall through. You call yourself a respectable tradesman, I suppose? Ha! I only wish people knew you as well as I do! Swearing at eggs, indeed! But I’m tired of this usage, Mr. Caudle; quite tired of it; and I don’t care how soon it’s ended!

“I’m sure I do nothing but work and labour, and think how to make the most of everything; and this is how I’m rewarded.”

--_Mrs. Caudle’s Curtain Lectures._

“Call that a kind man,” said an actor of an absent acquaintance; “a man who is away from his family, and never sends them a farthing! Call that kindness!” “Yes, unremitting kindness,” Jerrold replied.

Some member of “Our Club,” hearing an air mentioned, exclaimed: “That always carries me away when I hear it.” “Can nobody whistle it?” exclaimed Jerrold.

A friend said to Jerrold: “Have you heard about poor R---- [a lawyer]? His business is going to the devil.” Jerrold answered: “That’s all right: then he is sure to get it back again.”

* * * * *

If an earthquake were to engulf England to-morrow, the English would meet and dine somewhere just to celebrate the event.

* * * * *

Of a man who had pirated one of his jests, and who was described in his hearing as an honest fellow, he said, “Oh yes, you can trust him with untold jokes.”

* * * * *

Jerrold met Alfred Bunn one day in Piccadilly. Bunn stopped Jerrold, and said, “I suppose you’re strolling about, picking up character.” “Well, not exactly,” said Jerrold, “but there’s plenty lost hereabouts.”

* * * * *

Jerrold was seriously disappointed with a certain book written by one of his friends. This friend heard that he had expressed his disappointment. _Friend_ (to Jerrold): “I heard you said it was the worst