III. MEDIÆVAL AGES (part 2 of 2)
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.)
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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.”
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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.
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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.
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Whether God loves a dying angel better than a true man?
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Whether the archangel Uriel could knowingly affirm an untruth, and whether, if he could, he would?
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Whether the higher order of seraphim illuminati ever sneeze?
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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.
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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.
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NOTHING TO DO.--Positively the best thing a man can have to do is nothing, and, next to that, perhaps, good works.
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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.
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“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 book I ever wrote.” Jerrold: “No, I didn’t. I said it was the worst book anybody ever wrote.”
* * * * *
Some one was talking with him about a gentleman as celebrated for the intensity as for the shortness of his friendships. “Yes,” said Jerrold, “his friendships are so warm, that he no sooner takes them up than he puts them down again.”
* * * * *
Thomas Moore, called the most successful Irishman of letters of the nineteenth century, early developed a taste for music and a talent for versification. To this add his native wit, and we have a humorist of no mean order.
He wrote epistles, odes, satires and songs with equal facility, and to these he added books of travel and biography and history.
His quick wit is shown in his lighter verse and epigrams.
NONSENSE
Good reader, if you e’er have seen, When Phœbus hastens to his pillow, The mermaids with their tresses green Dancing upon the western billow; If you have seen at twilight dim, When the lone spirit’s vesper hymn Floats wild along the winding shore, The fairy train their ringlets weave Glancing along the spangled green;-- If you have seen all this, and more, God bless me! what a deal you’ve seen!
LYING
I do confess, in many a sigh, My lips have breath’d you many a lie, And who, with such delights in view, Would lose them for a lie or two?
Nay--look not thus, with brow reproving: Lies are, my dear, the soul of loving! If half we tell the girls were true, If half we swear to think and do, Were aught but lying’s bright illusion, The world would be in strange confusion! If ladies’ eyes were, every one, As lovers swear, a radiant sun, Astronomy should leave the skies, To learn her lore in ladies’ eyes! Oh no!--believe me, lovely girl, When nature turns your teeth to pearl, Your neck to snow, your eyes to fire, Your yellow locks to golden wire, Then, only then, can heaven decree, That you should live for only me, Or I for you, as night and morn, We’ve swearing kiss’d, and kissing sworn. And now, my gentle hints to clear, For once, I’ll tell you truth, my dear! Whenever you may chance to meet A loving youth, whose love is sweet, Long as you’re false and he believes you, Long as you trust and he deceives you, So long the blissful bond endures; And while he lies, his heart is yours: But, oh! you’ve wholly lost the youth The instant that he tells you truth!
WHAT’S MY THOUGHT LIKE?
Quest.--Why is a Pump like Viscount Castlereagh? Answ.--Because it is a slender thing of wood, That up and down its awkward arm doth sway, And coolly spout, and spout, and spout away, In one weak, washy, everlasting flood!
OF ALL THE MEN
Of all the men one meets about, There’s none like Jack--he’s everywhere: At church--park--auction--dinner--rout-- Go when and where you will, he’s there. Try the West End, he’s at your back-- Meets you, like Eurus, in the East-- You’re call’d upon for “How do, Jack?” One hundred times a day, at least. A friend of his one evening said, As home he took his pensive way, “Upon my soul, I fear Jack’s dead-- I’ve seen him but three times to-day!”
ON TAKING A WIFE
“Come, come,” said Tom’s father, “at your time of life, There’s no longer excuse for thus playing the rake.-- It is time you should think, boy, of taking a wife.”-- “Why, so it is, father,--whose wife shall I take?”
UPON BEING OBLIGED TO LEAVE A PLEASANT PARTY
FROM THE WANT OF A PAIR OF BREECHES TO DRESS FOR DINNER IN
Between Adam and me the great difference is, Though a paradise each has been forced to resign, That he never wore breeches till turn’d out of his, While, for want of my breeches, I’m banish’d from mine.
Samuel Lover and Charles James Lever are two more versatile Irish authors, the latter being the most eminent of the Irish novelists.
Both wrote delightful light verse and many popular songs.
RORY O’MORE
Young Rory O’More courted young Kathleen Bawn. He was bold as a hawk, and she soft as the dawn. He wished in his heart pretty Kathleen to please, And he thought the best way to do that was to tease. “Now, Rory, be aisy,” sweet Kathleen would cry, Reproof on her lips, but a smile in her eye; “With your tricks I don’t know in troth what I’m about! Faith! you’ve teased till I’ve put on my cloak inside out.” “Oh, jewel,” says Rory, “that same is the way You’ve thrated my heart for this many a day; And ’tis plased that I am, and why not, to be sure, For ’tis all for good luck,” says bold Rory O’More.
“Indeed, then,” says Kathleen, “don’t think of the like, For I half gave a promise to soothering Mike; The ground that I walk on he loves, I’ll be bound.” “Faith,” says Rory, “I’d rather love you than the ground.” “Now, Rory, I’ll cry if you don’t let me go, Sure, I dream every night that I’m hating you so.” “Oh!” says Rory, “that same I’m delighted to hear, For dhrames always go by conthrairies, my dear; Oh! jewel, keep dhraming that same till you die, And bright morning will give dirty night the black lie. And ’tis plased that I am, and why not, to be sure, Since ’tis all for good luck,” says bold Rory O’More.
“Arrah, Kathleen, my darlint, you’ve teased me enough, And I’ve thrashed for your sake Dinny Grimes and Jim Duff; And I’ve made myself, drinking your health, quite a baste, So, I think, after that, I may talk to the praste.” Then Rory, the rogue, stole his arm round her neck, So soft and so white, without freckle or speck! And he looked in her eyes that were beaming with light; And he kissed her sweet lips. Don’t you think he was right? “Now, Rory, leave off, sir--you’ll hug me no more-- There’s eight times to-day that you’ve kissed me before.” “Then here goes another,” says he, “to make sure. For there’s luck in odd numbers,” says Rory O’More. SAMUEL LOVER.
LANTY LEARY
Lanty was in love, you see, With lovely, lively Rosie Carey; But her father can’t agree To give the girl to Lanty Leary. Up to fun, “Away we’ll run,” Says she; “my father’s so conthrairy. Won’t you follow me? Won’t you follow me?” “Faith, I will!” says Lanty Leary.
But her father died one day (I hear ’twas not by dhrinkin’ wather); House and land and cash, they say, He left by will to Rose his daughter; House and land and cash to seize, Away she cut so light and airy. “Won’t you follow me? Won’t you follow me?” “Faith, I will!” says Lanty Leary.
Rose, herself, was taken bad, The fayver worse each day was growin’; “Lanty, dear,” says she, “’tis sad, To th’ other world I’m surely goin’. You can’t survive my loss, I know, Nor long remain in Tipperary. Won’t you follow me? Won’t you follow me?” “Faith, I won’t!” says Lanty Leary. SAMUEL LOVER.
WIDOW MALONE
Did you hear of the Widow Malone, ohone! Who lived in the town of Athlone, ohone? Oh! she melted the hearts of the swains in them parts, So lovely the Widow Malone, ohone! So lovely the Widow Malone.
Of lovers she had a full score, or more, And fortunes they all had galore, in store; From the minister down to the clerk of the crown, All were courting the Widow Malone, ohone! All were courting the Widow Malone.
But so modest was Mistress Malone, ’twas known, That no one could see her alone, ohone! Let them ogle and sigh, they could ne’er catch her eye, So bashful the Widow Malone, ohone! So bashful the Widow Malone.
Till one Mister O’Brien, from Clare--how quare! It’s little for blushing they care down there, Put his arm round her waist--gave ten kisses at laste-- “Oh,” says he, “you’re my Molly Malone, my own! Oh,” says he, “you’re my Molly Malone.”
And the widow they all thought so shy, my eye! Ne’er thought of a simper or sigh, for why? “But, Lucius,” says she, “since you’ve now made so free, You may marry your Mary Malone, ohone! You may marry your Mary Malone.” CHARLES LEVER.
Winthrop Mackworth Praed belongs to the small group of Londoners which also included Calverley and Locker-Lampson. At least one great critic considers Praed the greatest of this band, and so far as metric skill and finished execution are concerned, he may well be called so. Also, his taste is impeccable, and his society verse ranks among the best.
A SONG OF IMPOSSIBILITIES
Lady, I loved you all last year, How honestly and well-- Alas! would weary you to hear, And torture me to tell; I raved beneath the midnight sky, I sang beneath the limes-- Orlando in my lunacy, And Petrarch in my rhymes. But all is over! When the sun Dries up the boundless main, When black is white, false-hearted one, I may be yours again!
When passion’s early hopes and fears Are not derided things; When truth is found in falling tears, Or faith in golden rings; When the dark Fates that rule our way Instruct me where they hide One woman that would ne’er betray, One friend that never lied; When summer shines without a cloud, And bliss without a pain; When worth is noticed in a crowd, I may be yours again!
When science pours the light of day Upon the lords of lands; When Huskisson is heard to say That Lethbridge understands; When wrinkles work their way in youth, Or Eldon’s in a hurry; When lawyers represent the truth, Or Mr. Sumner Surrey; When aldermen taste eloquence Or bricklayers champagne; When common law is common sense, I may be yours again!
When Pole and Thornton honour cheques, Or Mr. Const a rogue; When Jericho’s in Middlesex, Or minuets in vogue; When Highgate goes to Devonport, Or fashion to Guildhall; When argument is heard at Court, Or Mr. Wynn at all; When Sydney Smith forgets to jest, Or farmers to complain; When kings that are are not the best, I may be yours again!
When peers from telling money shrink, Or monks from telling lies; When hydrogen begins to sink, Or Grecian scrip to rise; When German poets cease to dream, Americans to guess; When Freedom sheds her holy beam On Negroes, and the Press; When there is any fear of Rome, Or any hope of Spain; When Ireland is a happy home, I may be yours again!
When you can cancel what has been, Or alter what must be, Or bring once more that vanished scene, Those withered joys to me; When you can tune the broken lute, Or deck the blighted wreath, Or rear the garden’s richest fruit, Upon a blasted heath; When you can lure the wolf at bay Back to his shattered chain, To-day may then be yesterday-- I may be yours again!
William Makepeace Thackeray, combining all the highest mental and moral qualities in his work, adds thereto a delicate and subtle humor, never broad, but always forcible and original.
This permeates all his novels, which, of course, may not be quoted here, even in excerpts.
But Thackeray was equally happy in verse, and his contributions to London Punch are among the treasures of that journal’s history.
LITTLE BILLEE
There were three sailors of Bristol City Who took a boat and went to sea, But first with beef and captain’s biscuits, And pickled pork they loaded she.
There was gorging Jack, and guzzling Jimmy, And the youngest he was little Billee. Now when they’d got as far as the Equator They’d nothing left but one split pea.
Says gorging Jack to guzzling Jimmy, “I am extremely hungaree.” To gorging Jack says guzzling Jimmy, “We’ve nothing left, us must eat we.”
Says gorging Jack to guzzling Jimmy, “With one another we shouldn’t agree! There’s little Bill, he’s young and tender, We’re old and tough, so let’s eat he.”
“O Billy! we’re going to kill and eat you, So undo the button of your chemie.” When Bill received this information, He used his pocket-handkerchie.
“First let me say my catechism, Which my poor mother taught to me.” “Make haste! make haste!” says guzzling Jimmy, While Jack pulled out his snicker-snee.
Then Bill went up to the main-top-gallant-mast, And down he fell on his bended knee, He scarce had come to the Twelfth Commandment When up he jumps--“There’s land I see!”
“Jerusalem and Madagascar, And North and South Amerikee, There’s the British flag a-riding at anchor, With Sir Admiral Napier, K. C. B.”
So when they got aboard of the Admiral’s, He hanged fat Jack and flogged Jimmee, But as for little Bill, he made him The captain of a Seventy-three.
THE WOLFE NEW BALLAD OF JANE RONEY AND MARY BROWN
An igstrawnary tail I vill tell you this veek-- I stood in the Court of A’Beckett the Beak, Vere Mrs. Jane Roney, a vidow, I see, Who charged Mary Brown with a robbin’ of she.
This Mary was pore and in misery once, And she came to Mrs. Roney it’s more than twelve monce She adn’t got no bed, nor no dinner, nor no tea, And kind Mrs. Roney gave Mary all three.
Mrs. Roney kep Mary for ever so many veeks (Her conduct disgusted the best of all Beax), She kept her for nothink, as kind as could be, Never thinking that this Mary was a traitor to she.
“Mrs. Roney, O Mrs. Roney, I feel very ill; Will you jest step to the doctor’s for to fetch me a pill?” “That I will, my pore Mary,” Mrs. Roney says she: And she goes off to the doctor’s as quickly as may be.
No sooner on this message Mrs. Roney was sped, Than hup gits vicked Mary, and jumps out a bed; She hopens all the trunks without never a key-- She bustes all the boxes, and vith them makes free.
Mrs. Roney’s best linning gownds, petticoats, and close, Her children’s little coats and things, her boots and her hose, She packed them, and she stole ’em, and avay vith them did flee Mrs. Roney’s situation--you may think vat it vould be!
Of Mary, ungrateful, who had served her this vay, Mrs. Roney heard nothink for a long year and a day, Till last Thursday, in Lambeth, ven whom should she see? But this Mary, as had acted so ungrateful to she.
She was leaning on the helbo of a worthy young man; They were going to be married, and were walkin’ hand in hand; And the church-bells was a ringing for Mary and he, And the parson was ready, and a waitin’ for his fee.
When up comes Mrs. Roney, and faces Mary Brown, Who trembles, and castes her eyes upon the ground. She calls a jolly pleaseman, it happens to be me; I charge this young woman, Mr. Pleaseman, says she.
Mrs. Roney, o, Mrs. Roney, o, do let me go, I acted most ungrateful I own, and I know, But the marriage bell is ringin’ and the ring you may see, And this young man is a waitin’ says Mary, says she.
I don’t care three fardens for the parson and clark, And the bell may keep ringing from noon day to dark. Mary Brown, Mary Brown, you must come along with me. And I think this young man is lucky to be free.
So, in spite of the tears which bejewed Mary’s cheek, I took that young gurl to A’Beckett the Beak; That exlent justice demanded her plea-- But never a sullable said Mary said she.
On account of her conduck so base and so vile, That wicked young gurl is committed for trile, And if she’s transpawted beyond the salt sea, It’s a proper reward for such willians as she.
Now, you young gurls of Southwark for Mary who veep, From pickin’ and stealin’ your ’ands you must keep, Or it may be my dooty, as it was Thursday veek To pull you all hup to A’Beckett the Beak.
WHEN MOONLIKE ORE THE HAZURE SEAS
When moonlike ore the hazure seas In soft effulgence swells, When silver jews and balmy breaze Bend down the Lily’s bells; When calm and deap, the rosy sleap Has lapt your soal in dreems, R Hangeline! R lady mine! Dost thou remember Jeames?
I mark thee in the Marble ’all, Where England’s loveliest shine-- I say the fairest of them hall Is Lady Hangeline. My soul, in desolate eclipse, With recollection teems-- And then I hask, with weeping lips, Dost thou remember Jeames?
Away! I may not tell thee hall This soughring heart endures-- There is a lonely sperrit-call That Sorrow never cures; There is a little, little Star, That still above me beams; It is the Star of Hope--but ar! Dost thou remember Jeames?
SORROWS OF WERTHER
Werther had a love for Charlotte Such as words could never utter. Would you know how first he met her? She was cutting bread and butter.
Charlotte was a married lady, And a moral man was Werther, And, for all the wealth of Indies, Would do nothing for to hurt her.
So he sighed and pined and ogled, And his passion boiled and bubbled, Till he blew his silly brains out, And no more was by it troubled.
Charlotte, having seen his body Borne before her on a shutter, Like a well-conducted person Went on cutting bread and butter.
Charles Dickens, in some senses the world’s greatest humorist, is too much of a household word, to need either introduction or quotation.
Nor is it easy to quote from his books, which must be read in their entirety or in long instalments to get their message.
One short extract is given, from Martin Chuzzlewit.
MRS. GAMP’S APARTMENT
Mrs. Gamp’s apartment in Kingsgate Street, High Holborn, wore, metaphorically speaking, a robe of state. It was swept and garnished for the reception of a visitor. That visitor was Betsy Prig; Mrs. Prig of Bartlemy’s; or, as some said, Barklemy’s; or, as some said, Bardlemy’s; for by all these endearing and familiar appellations had the hospital of St. Bartholomew become a household word among the sisterhood which Betsy Prig adorned.
Mrs. Gamp’s apartment was not a spacious one, but, to a contented mind, a closet is a palace; and the first-floor front at Mr. Sweedlepipe’s may have been, in the imagination of Mrs. Gamp, a stately pile. If it were not exactly that to restless intellects, it at least comprised as much accommodation as any person not sanguine to insanity could have looked for in a room of its dimensions. For only keep the bedstead always in your mind, and you were safe. That was the grand secret. Remembering the bedstead, you might even stoop to look under the little round table for anything you had dropped, without hurting yourself much against the chest of drawers, or qualifying as a patient of St. Bartholomew by falling into the fire. Visitors were much assisted in their cautious efforts to preserve an unflagging recollection of this piece of furniture by its size, which was great. It was not a turn-up bedstead, nor yet a French bedstead, nor yet a four-post bedstead, but what is poetically called a tent; the sacking whereof was low and bulgy, insomuch that Mr. Gamp’s box would not go under it, but stopped half way, in a manner which, while it did violence to the reason, likewise endangered the legs of a stranger. The frame, too, which would have supported the canopy and hangings, if there had been any, was ornamented with divers pippins carved in timber, which, on the slightest provocation, and frequently on none at all, came tumbling down, harassing the peaceful guest with inexplicable terrors. The bed itself was decorated with a patchwork quilt of great antiquity; and at the upper end, upon the side nearest to the door, hung a scanty curtain of blue check, which prevented the zephyrs that were abroad in Kingsgate Street from visiting Mrs. Gamp’s head too roughly.
The chairs in Mrs. Gamp’s apartment were extremely large and broad-backed, which was more than a sufficient reason for their being but two in number. They were both elbow-chairs of ancient mahogany, and were chiefly valuable for the slippery nature of their seats, which had been originally horsehair, but were now covered with a shiny substance of a bluish tint, from which the visitor began to slide away, with a dismayed countenance, immediately after sitting down. What Mrs. Gamp wanted in chairs she made up in band-boxes, of which she had a great collection, devoted to the reception of various miscellaneous valuables, which were not, however, as well protected as the good woman, by a pleasant fiction, seemed to think; for though every band-box had a carefully-closed lid, not one among them had a bottom, owing to which cause the property within was merely, as it were, extinguished. The chest of drawers having been originally made to stand upon the top of another chest, had a dwarfish, elfin look alone; but, in regard of security, it had a great advantage over the band-boxes, for as all the handles had been long ago pulled off, it was very difficult to get at its contents. This, indeed, was only to be done by one of two devices; either by tilting the whole structure forward until all the drawers fell out together, or by opening them singly with knives, like oysters.
Mrs. Gamp stored all her household matters in a little cupboard by the fireplace; beginning below the surface (as in nature) with the coals, and mounting gradually upwards to the spirits, which, from motives of delicacy, she kept in a teapot. The chimney-piece was ornamented with an almanac; it was also embellished with three profiles; one, in colors, of Mrs. Gamp herself in early life; one, in bronze, of a lady in feathers, supposed to be Mrs. Harris, as she appeared when dressed for a ball; and one, in black, of Mr. Gamp deceased. The last was a full-length, in order that the likeness might be rendered more obvious and forcible, by the introduction of the wooden leg. A pair of bellows, a pair of pattens, a toasting-fork, a kettle, a spoon for the administration of medicine to the refractory, and lastly, Mrs. Gamp’s umbrella, which, as something of great price and rarity, was displayed with particular ostentation, completed the decorations of the chimney-piece and adjacent wall.
* * * * *
William Edmonstoune Aytoun and Theodore Martin, two young men of brilliant brains, produced together the collection of burlesque and parodies known as The Bon Gaultier Ballads.
At this time, the middle of the eighteenth century, parody was greatly in vogue. The Ballads were whimsical, and as a whole, kindly. They were extremely popular, as much so as the Rejected Addresses, but today they seem dull and rather futile.
Another vogue of the day was Bathos, of which the following is a fair example.
THE HUSBAND’S PETITION
Come hither, my heart’s darling, Come, sit upon my knee, And listen, while I whisper A boon I ask of thee. You need not pull my whiskers So amorously, my dove; ’T is something quite apart from The gentle cares of love.
I feel a bitter craving-- A dark and deep desire, That glows beneath my bosom Like coals of kindled fire. The passion of the nightingale, When singing to the rose, Is feebler than the agony That murders my repose!
Nay, dearest! do not doubt me, Though madly thus I speak-- I feel thy arms about me, Thy tresses on my cheek: I know the sweet devotion That links thy heart with mine,-- I know my soul’s emotion Is doubly felt by thine:
And deem not that a shadow Hath fallen across my love: No, sweet, my love is shadowless, As yonder heaven above. These little taper fingers-- Ah, Jane! how white they be!-- Can well supply the cruel want That almost maddens me.
Thou wilt not sure deny me My first and fond request; I pray thee, by the memory Of all we cherish best-- By all the dear remembrance Of those delicious days, When, hand in hand, we wandered Along the summer braes:
By all we felt, unspoken, When ’neath the early moon, We sat beside the rivulet, In the leafy month of June; And by the broken whisper That fell upon my ear, More sweet than angel-music, When first I woo’d thee, dear!
By that great vow which bound thee For ever to my side, And by the ring that made thee My darling and my bride! Thou wilt not fail nor falter, But bend thee to the task-- A BOILED SHEEP’S-HEAD ON SUNDAY Is all the boon I ask!
This extract is from a long poem, called:
THE LAY OF THE LOVELORN
PARODY ON TENNYSON’S “LOCKSLEY HALL”
Comrades, you may pass the rosy. With permission of the chair, I shall leave you for a little, for I’d like to take the air
Whether ’t was the sauce at dinner, or that glass of ginger beer, Or these strong cheroots, I know not, but I feel a little queer.
Let me go. Now, Chuckster, blow me, ’pon my soul, this is too bad! When you want me, ask the waiter, he knows where I’m to be had!
Whew! This is a great relief now! Let me but undo my stock, Resting here beneath the porch, my nerves will steady like a rock.
In my ears I hear the singing of a lot of favorite tunes-- Bless my heart, how very odd! Why, surely there’s a brace of moons!
See! the stars! how bright they twinkle, winking with a frosty glare, Like my faithless cousin Amy when she drove me to despair.
O, my cousin, spider-hearted! Oh, my Amy! No, confound it! I must wear the mournful willow,--all around my hat I’ve bound it.
Falser than the Bank of Fancy,--frailer than a shilling glove, Puppet to a father’s anger,--minion to a nabob’s love!
Is it well to wish thee happy? Having known me, could you ever Stoop to marry half a heart, and little more than half a liver?
Happy! Damme! Thou shalt lower to his level day by day, Changing from the best of China to the commonest of clay.
As the husband is, the wife is,--he is stomach-plagued and old; And his curry soups will make thy cheek the color of his gold.
When his feeble love is sated, he will hold thee surely then Something lower than his hookah,--something less than his cayenne.
What is this? His eyes are pinky. Was’t the claret? Oh, no, no,-- Bless your soul, it was the salmon,--salmon always makes him so.
Take him to thy dainty chamber--soothe him with thy lightest fancies, He will understand thee, won’t he?--pay thee with a lover’s glances?
Louder than the loudest trumpet, harsh as harshest ophicleide, Nasal respirations answer the endearments of his bride.
Sweet response, delightful music! Gaze upon thy noble charge Till the spirit fill thy bosom that inspired the meek Laffarge.
Better thou wert dead before me,--better, better that I stood Looking on thy murdered body, like the injured Daniel Good!
Better, thou and I were lying, cold and limber-stiff and dead, With a pan of burning charcoal underneath our nuptial bed!
Cursed be the bank of England’s notes, that tempt the soul to sin! Cursed be the want of acres,--doubly cursed the want of tin!
Cursed be the marriage contract, that enslaved thy soul to greed! Cursed be the sallow lawyer, that prepared and drew the deed!
Cursed be his foul apprentice, who the loathsome fees did earn! Cursed be the clerk and parson,--cursed be the whole concern!
Charles Kingsley, a clergyman of attainments, possessed the same type of whimsical humor as the later and greater Lewis Carroll.
His Water Babies from which a short extract is given, is a classic in child literature.
THE PROFESSOR’S MALADY
They say that no one has ever yet seen a water-baby. For my part, I believe that the naturalists get dozens of them when they are out dredging, but they say nothing about them and throw them overboard again, for fear of spoiling their theories. But you see the professor was found out, as every one is in due time. A very terrible old fairy found the professor out. She felt his bumps, and cast his nativity, and took the lunars of him carefully inside and out; and so she knew what he would do as well as if she had seen it in a print book, as they say in the dear old west country. And he did it. And so he was found out beforehand, as everybody always is; and the old fairy will find out the naturalists some day, and put them in the Times; and then on whose side will the laugh be?
So all the doctors in the country were called in to make a report on his case; and of course every one of them flatly contradicted the other: else what use is there in being men of science? But at last the majority agreed on a report, in the true medical language, one half bad Latin, the other half worse Greek, and the rest what might have been English, if they had only learned to write it. And this is the beginning thereof:
“The subanhypaposupernal anastomoses of peritomic diacellurite in the encephalo-digital region of the distinguished individual of whose symptomatic phenomena we had the melancholy honour (subsequent to a preliminary diagnostic inspection) of making an inspectorial diagnosis, presenting the interexclusively quadrilateral and antinomian diathesis known as Bumpsterhausen’s blue follicles, we proceeded----”
But what they proceeded to do my lady never knew, for she was so frightened at the long words that she ran for her life, and locked herself into her bedroom, for fear of being squashed by the words and strangled by the sentence. A boa-constrictor, she said, was bad company enough; but what was a boa-constrictor made of paving-stones?
“It was quite shocking! What can they think is the matter with him?” said she to the old nurse.
“That his wit’s just addled; maybe wi’ unbelief and heathenry,” quoth she.
“Then why can’t they say so?”
And the heaven, and the sea, and the rocks and vales re-echoed, “Why, indeed?” But the doctors never heard them.
So she made Sir John write to the Times to command the chancellor of the exchequer for the time being to put a tax on long words:
A light tax on words over three syllables, which are necessary evils, like rats, but, like them, must be kept down judiciously.
A heavy tax on words over four syllables, as heterodoxy, spontaneity, spiritualism, spuriosity, etc.
And on words over five syllables (of which I hope no one will wish to see any examples), a totally prohibitory tax.
And a similar prohibitory tax on words derived from three or more languages at once, words derived from two languages, having become so common that there was no more hope of rooting out them than of rooting out peth-winds.
The chancellor of the exchequer, being a scholar and a man of sense, jumped at the notion, for he saw in it the one and only plan for abolishing Schedule D. But when he brought in his bill, most of the Irish members, and (I am sorry to say) some of the Scotch likewise, opposed it most strongly, on the ground that in a free country no man was bound either to understand himself or to let others understand him. So the bill fell through on the first reading, and the chancellor, being a philosopher, comforted himself with the thought that it was not the first time that a woman had hit off a grand idea, and the men turned up their stupid noses thereat.
* * * * *
Alfred, Lord Tennyson, is conceded the gift of humor by some, but his other attributes so far outshine it that his amusing bits are hard to find. A moderately funny poem is:
THE GOOSE
I knew an old wife lean and poor, Her rags scarce held together; There strode a stranger to the door, And it was windy weather.
He held a goose upon his arm, He utter’d rhyme and reason, “Here, take the goose, and keep you warm, It is a stormy season.”
She caught the white goose by the leg, A goose--’twas no great matter. The goose let fall a golden egg With cackle and with clatter.
She dropt the goose, and caught the pelf, And ran to tell her neighbours; And bless’d herself, and cursed herself, And rested from her labours.
And feeding high and living soft, Grew plump and able-bodied; Until the grave churchwarden doff’d, The parson smirk’d and nodded.
So sitting, served by man and maid, She felt her heart grow prouder: But, ah! the more the white goose laid It clack’d and cackled louder.
It clutter’d here, it chuckled there; It stirr’d the old wife’s mettle; She shifted in her elbow-chair, And hurl’d the pan and kettle.
“A quinsy choke thy cursed note!” Then wax’d her anger stronger. “Go, take the goose, and wring her throat, I will not bear it longer.”
Then yelp’d the cur, and yawl’d the cat; Ran Gaffer, stumbled Gammer. The goose flew this way and flew that, And fill’d the house with clamour.
As head and heels upon the floor They flounder’d all together, There strode a stranger to the door, And it was windy weather:
He took the goose upon his arm, He utter’d words of scorning; “So keep you cold, or keep you warm, It is a stormy morning.”
The wild wind rang from park and plain, And round the attics rumbled, Till all the tables danced again, And half the chimneys tumbled.
The glass blew in, the fire blew out, The blast was hard and harder. Her cap blew off, her gown blew up, And a whirlwind cleared the larder.
And while on all sides breaking loose, Her household fled the danger, Quoth she, “The devil take the goose, And God forget the stranger!”
Robert Browning, though scarcely to be called a humorous poet, had a fine wit and a quick and agile sense of whimsey.
His Pied Piper of Hamelin, written to amuse a sick child of Macready’s, is a masterpiece of quiet humor. His satiric vein is shown in:
THE POPE AND THE NET
What, he on whom our voices unanimously ran, Made Pope at our last Conclave? Full low his life began: His father earned the daily bread as just a fisherman.
So much the more his boy minds book, gives proof of mother-wit, Becomes first Deacon, and then Priest, then Bishop: see him sit No less than Cardinal ere long, while no one cries “Unfit!”
But some one smirks, some other smiles, jogs elbow and nods head; Each wings at each: “I’ faith, a rise! Saint Peter’s net, instead Of sword and keys, is come in vogue!” You think he blushes red?
Not he, of humble holy heart! “Unworthy me!” he sighs: “From fisher’s drudge to Church’s prince--it is indeed a rise: So, here’s my way to keep the fact forever in my eyes!”
And straightway in his palace-hall, where commonly is set Some coat-of-arms, some portraiture ancestral, lo, we met His mean estate’s reminder in his fisher-father’s net!
Which step conciliates all and some, stops cavil in a trice: “The humble holy heart that holds of new-born pride no spice! He’s just the saint to choose for Pope!” Each adds, “’Tis my advice.”
So Pope he was: and when we flocked--its sacred slipper on-- To kiss his foot, we lifted eyes, alack, the thing was gone-- That guarantee of lowlihead,--eclipsed that star which shone!
Each eyed his fellow, one and all kept silence. I cried “Pish! I’ll make me spokesman for the rest, express the common wish. Why, Father, is the net removed?” “Son, it hath caught the fish.”
Frederick Locker-Lampson, though following in the footsteps of Praed, was a more famous writer of the rhymes known as Vers de Société.
There is no English equivalent for the French term, and attempts to coin one are usually failures. Society verse, Familiar Verse, Occasional verse,--each lacks somewhat of the real implication.
Locker-Lampson, himself a discerning and severe critic, instructs us that the rhymes should be short, graceful, refined and fanciful, not seldom distinguished by chastened sentiment, and often playful.
But, really, playfulness and light, bright humor are more a distinctive quality of Vers de Société than that dictum stipulates.
Wit is the keynote, fun the undercurrent of the best of the material so often collected under this name; and Locker-Lampson made the first and perhaps the best collection, under the title of Lyra Elegantiarum.
Typical of all that goes to make up the best form of Vers de Société is his poem,
MY MISTRESS’S BOOTS
They nearly strike me dumb, And I tremble when they come Pit-a-pat; This palpitation means These boots are Geraldine’s-- Think of that!
Oh, where did hunter win So delectable a skin For her feet? You lucky little kid, You perished, so you did, For my sweet!
The faëry stitching gleams On the sides, and in the seams, And it shows The Pixies were the wags Who tipt those funny tags And these toes.
What soles to charm an elf! Had Crusoe, sick of self, Chanced to view One printed near the tide, Oh, how hard he would have tried For the two!
For Gerry’s debonair And innocent, and fair As a rose; She’s an angel in a frock, With a fascinating cock To her nose.
The simpletons who squeeze Their extremities to please Mandarins, Would positively flinch From venturing to pinch Geraldine’s.
Cinderella’s lefts and rights, To Geraldine’s were frights; And I trow, The damsel, deftly shod, Has dutifully trod Until now.
Come, Gerry, since it suits Such a pretty Puss (in Boots) These to don; Set this dainty hand awhile On my shoulder, dear, and I’ll Put them on.
ON A SENSE OF HUMOUR
He cannot be complete in aught Who is not humorously prone; A man without a merry thought Can hardly have a funny-bone.
SOME LADIES
Some ladies now make pretty songs, And some make pretty nurses; Some men are great at righting wrongs And some at writing verses.
A TERRIBLE INFANT
I recollect a nurse call’d Ann, Who carried me about the grass, And one fine day a fine young man Came up, and kiss’d the pretty lass. She did not make the least objection! Thinks I, “_Aha! When I can talk I’ll tell Mamma_” --And that’s my earliest recollection.
Charles Stuart Calverley is called the Prince of Parodists, but his genius deserves far higher praise than that.
His serious work is of a high order but it is for his humorous verse that he is most loved and praised.
His parodies while showing the best and finest burlesque qualities, are also poems in themselves, and are of an exquisite wit and a spontaneous humor rarely excelled.
One of the best is the ballad in which Rossetti’s manner is parodied in very spirit.
BALLAD
Part I
The auld wife sat at her ivied door, (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese) A thing she had frequently done before; And her spectacles lay on her apron’d knees.
The piper he piped on the hilltop high, (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese) Till the cow said “I die,” and the goose asked “Why?” And the dog said nothing, but search’d for fleas.
The farmer he strode through the square farmyard; (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese) His last brew of ale was a trifle hard-- The connection of which the plot one sees.
The farmer’s daughter hath frank blue eyes; (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese) She hears the rooks caw in the windy skies. As she sits at her lattice and shells her peas.
The farmer’s daughter hath ripe red lips; (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese) If you try to approach her, away she skips Over tables and chairs with apparent ease.
The farmer’s daughter hath soft brown hair; (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese) And I met with a ballad, I can’t say where, Which wholly consisted of lines like these.