Chapter XII: Part III: Mediæval Ages (6)

“Well, then, you must know that I was a thief, and obtained what I now enjoy by nightly depredations.” “It is strange,” said the wife, “that you were never taken.” “Why,” replied he, “my master, who was a skilful clerk, taught me a particular word, which, when I ascended the tops of people’s houses, I pronounced, and thus escaped detection.” “Tell me, I conjure you,” returned the lady, “what that powerful word was.” “Hear, then; but never mention it again, or we shall lose all our property.” “Be sure of that;” said the lady, “it shall never be repeated.”

“It was--is there no one within hearing?--the mighty word was ‘FALSE.’”

The lady, apparently quite satisfied, fell asleep; and her husband feigned it. He snored lustily, and the thief above, who had heard their conversation with much pleasure, aided by the light of the moon, descended, repeating seven times the cabalistic sound. But being too much occupied with the charm to mind his footing, he stepped through the window into the house; and in the fall dislocated his leg and arm, and lay half dead upon the floor. The owner of the mansion, hearing the noise, and well knowing the reason, though he pretended ignorance, asked, “What was the matter?” “Oh!” groaned the suffering thief, “_False_ words have deceived me.” In the morning he was taken before the judge, and afterwards suspended on a cross.

_Application_

My beloved, the thief is the devil; the house is the human heart. The man is a good prelate, and his wife is the church.

To sum up, then, it would appear that the humorous muse in the Middle Ages concerned herself chiefly with scattering and disseminating moral lessons, which, because of the superiority of the teachers to the taught, showed up an ignorance that was laughable.

The fables and maxims that had been passed from mouth to mouth were put into writing and translated into various tongues.

The Sanscrit or Hindoo stories were undoubtedly the oldest and from them were taken the Arabic and Persian tales. These drifted into Europe and took a proper place among the literatures of the world.

Coleridge says that humor took its rise in the Middle Ages, while a present day writer contradictingly asserts that nobody smiled from the second century until the fifteenth.

It is true, that as the advent of Christianity put a full stop to all progress in the arts and sciences so it impeded the advance of learning and delayed the development of humor.

And yet, though men may not have smiled during the dark ages, they now and then laughed, at a humor that was far from subtle, but which was the foundation of the world’s merriment.

The monks and ecclesiastics who formulated the moral precepts for the people found that the lessons were better conveyed by funny stories than by serious ones, and the preachers came to use the hammer of amusement to drive home their good advices.

MODERN HUMOR

With the readiness of the essayists to ascribe literary paternity, Chaucer is called the Father of English Poetry.

Coleridge observes that he is the best representative in English of the Norman-French Trouvères, but even more than by the French, Chaucer was influenced by the great Italians, Dante, Petrarch and Boccaccio, as well as by Ovid and Virgil.

Father of Modern Poetry more correctly describes Chaucer, and as he was the first notable English poet who was a layman, so also, was he the first connected with the court.

Though his time, the Fourteenth Century, is practically in the Middle Ages, Chaucer is distinctly modern in viewpoint and philosophy.

Born in London, he lived his life in the company of the men and women of the circles he knew and loved. Mankind was his study and his theme.

The average reader is hampered by the difficulties of the early English diction, and the modern mind is shocked by the freedom of speech then in vogue.

But we append such bits of Chaucer’s verse as space allows.

* * * * *

The story of the Cock and the Fox, in the Nun’s Priest’s Tale, is allowed by judges to be the most admirable fable (in the narration) that ever was written. The description of the birds, the delightful gravity with which they are invested with intellectual endowments, are conceived in the highest taste of true poetry and natural humour.

_THE COCK AND THE FOX_

Now every wise man, let him hearken me:
This story is all so true, I undertake,
As is the book of Lancelot du Lake,
That women hold in full great reverence.
Now will I turn again to my sentence.
A col fox, full of sly iniquity,
That in the grove had wonned yearés three,
By high imagination forecast.
The samé night throughout the hedges brast
Into the yard where Chanticleer the fair
Was wont, and eke his wivés to repair,
And in a bed of wortés still he lay
Till it was passed undern of the day,
Waiting his time on Chanticleer to fall,
As gladly do these homicidés all
That in await liggen to murder men.
O falsé murderer! rucking in thy den,
O newé Scariot, newé Ganelon!
O false dissimuler, O Greek Simon!
That broughtest Troy all utterly to sorrow.
O Chanticleer, accursed be the morrow
That thou into thy yard flew from thy beams
Thou were full well ywarnéd by thy dreams
That thilké day was perilous to thee:
But what that God forewot must needés be,
After the opinion of certain clerkés,
Witness on him that any perfect clerk is,
That in schoolé is great altercation
In this matteré, and great disputision,
And hath been of a hundred thousand men:
But I ne cannot boult it to the bren,
As can the holy Doctor Augustin,
Or Boece, or the Bishop Bradwardin,
Whether that Godde’s worthy foreweeting
Straineth me needly for to do a thing
(Needely clepe I simple necessity)
Or elles if free choice be granted me
To do the samé thing or do it naught
Though God forewot it ere that it was wrought,
Or if his weeting straineth never a deal
But by necessity conditional.
I will not have to do of such mattere;
My Tale is of a Cock, as ye may hear,
That took his counsel of his wife with sorrow,
To walken in the yard upon the morrow
That he had met the dream, as I you told.
Womenne’s counsels be full often cold;
Womenne’s counsels brought us first to woe,
And made Adam from Paradise to go,
There as he was full merry and well at ease:
But for I n’ot to whom I might displease
If I counsel of women wouldé blame--
Pass over, for I said it in my game.
Read authors where they treat of such mattere,
And what they say of women ye may hear,
These be the cocke’s wordés and not mine:
I can none harm of no womán devine.
Fair in the sand to bathe her merrily
Li’th Partelote, and all her sisters by,
Against the sun, and Chanticleer so free
Sang merrier than the mermaid in the sea,
(For Phisiologus sayeth sikerly
How that they singeth well and merrily).
And so befell that as he cast his eye
Among the wortés on a butterfly,
He was ware of this fox that lay full low,
Nothing he list him thenné for to crow,
But cried anon, “Cok! cok!” and up he start
As man that was affrayed in his heart,
For naturally a beast desireth flee
From his contráry if he may it see,
Though he ne’er erst had seen it with his eye.
This Chanticleer, when he ’gan him espy,
He would have fled, but that the fox anon
Said: “Gentle sir, alas! what will be done?
Be ye afraid of me that am your friend?
Now, certes, I were worse than any fiend
If I to you would harm or villany.
I am not come your counsel to espy;
But truély the cause of my coming
Was only for to hearken how ye sing,
For truély ye have as merry a steven
As any angel hath that is in heaven;
Therwith ye have of music more feeling
Than had Boece, or any that can sing.
My Lord, your father (God his soulé bless!)
And eke your mother of her gentleness,
Have in my house ybeen to my great ease,
And certés, Sir, full fain would I you please.
But for men speak of singing, I will say,
(So may I brouken well my eyen tway,)
Save you, ne heard I never man so sing
As did your father in the morrowning:
Certés it was of heart all that he sung:
And for to make his voice the moré strong
He would so pain him, that with both his eyen
He musté wink, so loud he wouldé crien,
And standen on his tiptoes therewithal,
And stretchen forth his necké long and small.
And eke he was of such discretion,
That there n’as no man in no región
That him in song or wisdom mighté pass.
I have well read in Dan Burnel the ass
Among his Vers, how that there was a cock,
That for a Priestés son gave him a knock
Upon his leg when he was young and nice
He made him for to lose his benefice;
But certain there is no comparison
Betwixt the wisdom and discretion
Of youré father and his subtilty.
Now singeth, Sir, for Sainté Charity:
Let see, can ye your father counterfeit?
This Chanticleer his wingés ’gan to beat,
As man that could not his treason espy,
So was he ravished with his flattery.
Alas! ye lordés, many a false flatour
Is in your court, and many a losengeour,
That pleaseth you well moré, by my faith,
Than he that sothfastness unto you saith.
Readeth Ecclesiast of flattery:
Beware ye lordés of their treachery.
This Chanticleer stood high upon his toes
Stretching his neck, and held his eyen close,
And ’gan to crowen loude for the nones;
And Dan Russell the fox start up at once,
And by the gargat henté Chanticleer
And on his back toward the wood him bear,
For yet ne was there no man that him sued.
O destiny! that mayst not be eschew’d,
Alas that Chanticleer flew from the beams,
Alas his wife ne raughté not of dreams!
And on a Friday fell all this mischance.

_TO MY EMPTY PURSE_

To you, my purse, and to none other wight,
Complain I, for ye be my lady dear;
I am sorry now that ye be so light,
For certés ye now make me heavy cheer;
Me were as lief be laid upon a bier,
For which unto your mercy thus I cry,
Be heavy again, or ellés must I die.

Now vouchsafen this day, ere it be night,
That I of you the blissful sound may hear,
Or see your colour like the sunné bright,
That of yellowness ne had never peer;
Ye be my life, ye be my heartés steer;
Queen of comfórt and of good company,
Be heavy again, or ellés must I die.

Now, purse, that art to me my livés light,
And saviour, as down in this world here,
Out of this towné help me by your might,
Sithen that you will not be my tresór,
For I am shave as nigh as any frere,
But I prayen unto your courtesy,
Be heavy again, or ellés must I die.

_BALLAD OF WOMEN’S DOUBLENESS_

This world is full of variance
In everything; who taketh heed,
That faith and trust, and all Constance,
Exiléd be, this is no drede,
And save only in womanhead,
I can ysee no sikerness;
But, for all that, yet as I read,
Beware alway of doubleness.

Also that the fresh summer flowers,
The white and red, the blue and green,
Be suddenly with winter showers,
Made faint and fade, withouten ween;
That trust is none, as ye may seen,
In no thing, nor no steadfastness,
Except in women, thus I mean;
Yet aye beware of doubleness.

The crooked moon (this is no tale),
Some while isheen and bright of hue,
And after that full dark and pale,
And every moneth changeth new,
That who the very sothé knew
All thing is built on brittleness,
Save that women always be true;
Yet aye beware of doubleness.

The lusty freshé summer’s day,
And Phœbus with his beamés clear,
Towardés night they draw away,
And no longer list t’ appear,
That in this present life now here
Nothing abideth in his fairness,
Save women aye be found entere,
And devoid of all doubleness.

The sea eke with his sterné wawés
Each day yfloweth new again,
And by the concourse of his lawés
The ebbe floweth in certain;
After great drought there cometh rain;
That farewell here all stableness,
Save that women be whole and plein;
Yet aye beware of doubleness.

Fortunés wheel go’th round about
A thousand timés day and night,
Whose course standeth ever in doubt
For to transmue she is so light,
For which adverteth in your sight
Th’ untrust of worldly fickleness,
Save women, which of kindly right
Ne hath no touch of doubleness.

What man ymay the wind restrain,
Or holden a snake by the tail?
Who may a slipper eel constrain
That it will void withouten fail?
Or who can driven so a nail
To maké sure newfangleness,
Save women, that can gie their sail
To row their boat with doubleness?

At every haven they can arrive
Whereat they wot is good passáge;
Of innocence they cannot strive
With wawés, nor no rockés rage;
So happy is their lodemanage
With needle and stone their course to dress,
That Solomon was not so sage
To find in them no doubleness.

Therefore whoso doth them accuse
Of any double intentión,
To speaké rown, other to muse,
To pinch at their conditión,
All is but false collusión,
I dare right well the soth express;
They have no better protectión,
But shroud them under doubleness.

So well fortunéd is their chance,
The dice to-turnen up so down,
With sice and cinque they can advance,
And then by revolutión
They set a fell conclusión
Of lombés, as in sothfastness,
Though clerkés maken mentión
Their kind is fret with doubleness.

Sampson yhad experience
That women were full true yfound
When Dalila of innocence
With shearés ’gan his hair to round;
To speak also of Rosamond,
And Cleopatra’s faithfulness,
The stories plainly will confound
Men that apeach their doubleness.

Single thing is not ypraiséd,
Nor of old is of no renown,
In balance when they be ypesed,
For lack of weight they be borne down,
And for this cause of just reason
These women all of rightwisness
Of choice and free electión
Most love exchange and doubleness.

_L’ENVOI_

O ye women! which be inclinéd
By influence of your natúre
To be as pure as gold yfinéd,
And in your truth for to endure,
Armeth yourself in strong armúre,
(Lest men assail your sikerness,)
Set on your breast, yourself t’assure,
A mighty shield of doubleness.

Chaucer was called the Morning Star of Song, and his immediate followers proved to be satellites of far less magnitude.

John Skelton, an early Poet Laureate, was of a buffoon type of humor, yet thus speaks of his own verse.

Though my rhyme be ragged,
Tattered and gagged,
Rudely rainbeaten,
Rusty, moth-eaten,
If ye take well therewith,
It hath in it some pith.

One, at least, of his whimsical poems is not without charm.

_TO MAISTRES MARGARET HUSSEY_

Mirry Margaret
As midsomer flowre,
Gentyll as faucon
Or hauke of the towre,
With solace and gladnes
Moch mirth, and no madnes,
All good and no badnes,
So joyously
So maydenly
So womanly
Her demeynynge
In every thynge
Far, far passynge
That I can endite
Or suffice to write
Of mirry Margaret
As mydsomer flowre
Gentill as faucon
Or hawke of the towre.
As pacient and as styll
And as ful of good wil
As faire Isiphyll
Coliander
Sweete pomaunder
Good Cassander;
Stedfast of thought
Wel made, wel wroght,
Far may be sought
Erst that ye can fynde
So curteise so kynde
As mirry Margaret
This midsomer flowre,
Gentyll as faucon
Or hauke of the towre.

The Troubadours and Minstrels were followed by a type of entertainer known as the Fool or the Court Fool, who took the place of the satirist in the great households.

Soon various jests were collected, and attributed to these domestic fools, whose garb began to take the form of the cap and bells, accompanied by the jester’s bauble.

As printing became more widespread, the jestbooks multiplied, and many collections were published in England.

Skelton seems to have been quite as much Court Jester as Poet Laureate under Henry VII and Henry VIII, and a volume of _Merie Tayles of Skelton_ is one of the earliest of the Jest Books.

Yet, since this was published some forty years after Skelton’s death it is assumed that but few of the tales are really of the poet’s origination.

Likewise, Scogin’s Jests and the stories attributed to Tarlton and Peele are considered unauthentic as to authorship and merely the work of the hack writers of the period.

These Jestbooks as well as the _C. Mery Talys_, or _Hundred Merry Tales_, which, with its companion volume, _Mery Tales and Quicke Answeres_, was, we are told, used by Shakespeare, are now found in many reprints, and only a few bits of their witty or humorous lore may be given here.

As an example of the sharp satire of Skelton, the following shows how he regarded the prevalent practice of obtaining letters patent of monopoly from the crown, and also is a hit at the fondness for drinking among the Welsh.

_HOW THE WELSHMAN DYD DESYRE SKELTON TO AYDE HIM IN HYS SUTE TO THE
KYNGE FOR A PATENT TO SELL DRYNKE_

Skelton, when he was in London went to the kynge’s courte, where there dyd come to him a Welshman saying, “Syr, it is so that many dooth come upp of my country to the kynge’s court, and some doth get of the kynge by a patent a castell, and some a parke, and some a forest, and some one fee and some another, and they doe lyve lyke honest men, and I should lyve as honestly as the best, if I might have a patent for good drynke, wherefore I dooe praye you to write a fewe woords for me in a lytle byll to geve the same to the kynge’s handes, and I will geve you well for your laboure. I am contented sayde Skelton. Syte downe, then, sayd the Welshman and write. What shall I wryte? sayde Skelton. The Welshman said wryte “_dryncke_.” Nowe sayde the Welshman wryte “_more dryncke_.” What nowe? said Skelton. Wryte now “_A great deale of dryncke_.” Nowe sayd the Welshman putte to all thys dryncke “_A littell crome of breade_, and _a great déale of dryncke to it_,” and reade once again. Skelton dyd reade “_Dryncke, more dryncke, and a great deale of dryncke and a lytle crome of breade and a great deale of dryncke to it_.” Then the Welshman sayde Put oute the litle crome of breade, and sette in _all dryncke and no breade_. And if I myght have thys sygned of the kynge, sayde the Welshman, I care for no more as long as I lyve. Well, then, sayde Skelton, when you have thys sygned of the kynge then will I labour for a patent to have bread, that you wyth your dryncke and I with the bread may fare well, and seeke our livinge with bagge and staffe.

HERE BEGYNNETH CERTAYNE MERYE TALES OF SKELTON, POET LAURIAT

_HOW SKELTON CAME LATE HOME TO OXFORD FROM ABINGTON_

Skelton was an Englysheman borne as Skogyn was, and hee was educated & broughte up in Oxfoorde: and there was he made a poete lauriat. And on a tyme he had ben at Abbington to make mery, wher that he had eate salte meates, and hee did com late home to Oxforde, and he did lye in an ine named y^e Tabere whyche is now the Angell, and hee dyd drynke, & went to bed. About midnight he was so thyrstie or drye that hee was constrained to call to the tapster for drynke, & the tapster harde him not. Then hee cryed to hys oste & hys ostes, and to the ostler, for drinke; and no man wold here hym. Alacke, sayd Skelton, I shall peryshe for lacke of drynke! what reamedye? At the last he dyd crie out and sayd: Fyer, fyer, fyer! when Skelton hard euery man bustle hymselfe upward, & some of them were naked, & some were halfe asleepe and amased, and Skelton dyd crye: Fier, fier! styll, that everye man knewe not whether to resorte. Skelton did go to bed, and the oste and ostis, & the tapster with the ostler, dyd runne to Skeltons chamber with candles lyghted in theyr handes, saying: where, where, where is the fyer? Here, here, here, said Skelton, & poynted hys fynger to hys moouth, saying: fetch me some drynke to quenche the fyer and the heate and the drinesse in my mouthe: & so they dyd. Wherfore it is good for everye man to helpe hys owne selfe in tyme of neede wythe some policie or crafte, so bee it there bee no deceit nor falshed used.

THE JESTS OF SCOGIN

_HOW JACKE BY SOPHISTRY WOULD MAKE OF TWO EGGS THREE_

Scogin on a tyme had two egs to his breakfast, and Jack his scholler should rost them; and as they were rosting, Scogin went to the fire to warme him. And as the egs were rosting, Jacke said: sir, I can by sophistry prove that here be three egs. Let me se that, said Scogin. I shall tel you, sir, said Jack. Is not here one? Yes, said Scogin. And is not here two? Yes, said Scogin; of that I am sure. Then Jack did tell the first egge againe, saying: is not this the third? O, said Scogin, Jack, thou art a good sophister; wel, said Scogin, these two eggs shall serve me for my breakfast, and take thou the third for thy labour and for the herring that thou didst give mee the last day. So one good turne doth aske another, and to deceive him that goeth about to deceive is no deceit.

* * * * *

This is a very common story. It is, in a slightly varied form, No. 67 of _A C Mery Tales_, and Johnson has introduced it into _The Pleasant Conceits of Old Hobson, the Merry Londoner_, 1607.

_HOW SCOGIN SOLD POWDER TO KILL FLEAS_

Scogin divers times did lacke money, and could not tell what shift to make. At last, he thought to play the physician, and did fill a box full of the powder of a rotten post; and on a Sunday he went to a Parish Church, and told the wives that hee had a powder to kil up all the fleas in the country, and every wife bought a pennyworth; and Scogin went his way, ere Masse was done. The wives went home, and cast the powder into their beds and in their chambers, and the fleas continued still. On a time, Scogin came to the same Church on a sunday, and when the wives had espied him, the one said to the other: this is he that deceived us with the powder to kill fleas; see, said the one to the other, this is the selfe-same person. When Masse was done, the wives gathered about Scogin, and said: you be an honest man to deceive us with the powder to kill fleas. Why, said Scogin, are not your fleas all dead? We have more now (said they) than ever we had. I marvell of that, said Scogin, I am sure you did not use the medicine as you should have done. They said: wee did cast it in our beds and in our chambers. I, said he, there be a sort of fooles that will buy a thing, and will not aske what they should doe with it. I tell you all, that you should have taken every flea by the neck, and then they would gape; and then you should have cast a little of the powder into every flea’s mouth, and so you should have killed them all. Then said the wives: we have not onely lost our money, but we are mocked for our labour.

FROM MERY TALES OF THE MAD MEN OF GOTTAM

_THE SECOND TALE_

There was a man of Gottam did ride to the market with two bushells of wheate, and because his horse should not beare heavy, he caried his corne upon his owne necke, & did ride upon his horse, because his horse should not cary to heavy a burthen. Judge you which was the wisest, his horse or himselfe.

_THE THIRD TALE_

On a tyme, the men of Gottam would have pinned in the Cuckoo, whereby shee should sing all the yeere, and in the midst of ye town they made a hedge round in compasse, and they had got a Cuckoo, and had put her into it, and said: Sing here all the yeere, and thou shalt lacke neither meate nor drinke. The Cuckoo, as soone as she perceived her selfe incompassed within the hedge, flew away. A vengeance on her! said they; we made not our hedge high enough.

FROM MOTHER BUNCHES MERRIMENTS

_HOW MADDE COOMES, WHEN HIS WIFE WAS DROWNED, SOUGHT HER AGAINST THE
STREAME_

Coomes of Stapforth, hearing that his wife was drowned comming from market, went with certayne of his friends to see if they could find her in the river. He, contrary to all the rest, sought his wife against the streame; which they perceyving, sayd he lookt the wrong way. And why so? (quoth he.) Because (quoth they) you should looke downe the streame, and not against it. Nay, zounds (quoth hee), I shall never find her that way: for shee did all things so contrary in her life time, that now she is dead, I am sure she will goe against the streame.

THE PLEASANT CONCEITS OF OLD HOBSON

_HOW MAISTER HOBSON SAID HE WAS NOT AT HOME_

On a time Master Hobson upon some ocation came to Master Fleetewoods house to speake with him, being then new chosen the recorder of London, and asked one of his men if he were within, and he said he was not at home. But Maister Hobson, perceving that his maister bad him say so, and that he was within (not being willing at that time to be spoken withall), for that time desembling the matter, he went his way. Within a few dayes after, it was Maister Fleetwoods chaunse to come to Maister Hobson’s, and knocking at the dore, asked if he were within. Maister Hobson, hearing and knowing how he was denyed Maister Fleetwoods speach before time, spake himselfe aloud, and said hee was not at home. Then sayd Maister Fleetwood: what, Master Hobson, thinke you that I knowe not your voyce? Whereunto Maister Hobson answered and said: now, Maister Fleetewood, am I quit with you: for when I came to speake with you, I beleeved your man that said you were not at home, and now you will not beleeve mine owne selfe; and this was the mery conference betwixt these two merry gentlemen.

_FROM CERTAINE CONCEYTS & JEASTS; AS WELL TO LAUGH DOWNE OUR
HARDER UNDIGESTED MORSELLS, AS BREAKE UP WITH MYRTH OUR BOOKE
AND BANQUET. COLLECTED OUT OF SCOTUS POGGIUS, AND OTHERS_

A certayne Poore-man met king Phillip, & besought him for something, because he was his kinsman. The king demanded frō whence descended. Who answered: from Adam. Then the K. commaunded an Almes to be given. Hee replyed, an Almes was not the gift of a king; to whome the king answered: if I should so reward all my kindred in that kinde, I should leave but little for myselfe.

* * * * *

A certaine conceyted Traveller being at a Banquet, where chanced a flye to fall into his cuppe, which hee (being to drinke) tooke out for himselfe, and afterwards put in againe for his fellow: being demanded his reason, answered, that for his owne part he affected them not, but it might be some other did.

* * * * *

A certaine player, seeing Thieves in his house in the night, thus laughingly sayde: I knowe not what you will finde here in the dark, when I can find nothing my selfe in the light.

_WIT AND MIRTH. CHARGEABLY COLLECTED OUT OF TAVERNS,
ORDINARIES, INNES, BOWLING-GREENES AND ALLYES, ALEHOUSES,
TOBACCO-SHOPS, HIGHWAYES, AND WATER-PASSAGES. MADE UP, AND
FASHIONED INTO CLINCHES, BULLS, QUIRKES, YERKES, QUIPS, AND
JERKES. APOTHEGMATICALLY BUNDLED UP AND GARBLED AT THE REQUEST
OF JOHN GARRET’S GHOST_

Taylor the Water-Poet was one of the favourite authors of Robert Southey, who has given an account of his life and writings in his _Uneducated Poets_, and has quoted him largely in his _Common-Place Book_.

John Garret, at the request of whose ghost the Water-Poet professes to have formed the present collection, was a jester of the period, mentioned by Bishop Corbet and others. Heylin, author of the Cosmography, speaks of “Archy’s bobs, and Garrets sawcy jests.” In his dedication of the _Wit and Mirth_, Taylor alludes to Garret as “that old honest mirrour of mirth deceased.”

Taylor, to forestall possible cavils at his plagiarisms from others, or adoption of good sayings already published and well-known, expressly says in the dedication: “Because I had many of them [the jests] by relation and heare-say, I am in doubt that some of them may be in print in some other Authors, which I doe assure you is more than I doe know.”

* * * * *

One said, that hee could never have his health in _Cambridge_, and that if hee had lived there till this time, hee thought in his conscience that hee had dyed seven yeeres agoe.

A Judge upon the Bench did aske an old man how old he was. My Lord, said he, I am eight and fourscore. And why not fourscore and eight? said the Judge. The other repli’d: because I was eight, before I was fourescore.

* * * * *

A rich man told his nephew that hee had read a booke called _Lucius Apuleius of the Golden Asse_, and that he found there how Apuleius, after he had beene an asse many yeeres, by eating of Roses he did recover his manly shape againe, and was no more an asse: the young man replied to his uncle: Sir, if I were worthy to advise you, I would give you counsell to eate a salled of Roses once a weeke yourselfe.

* * * * *

A country man being demanded how such a River was called, that ranne through their Country, hee answered that they never had need to call the River, for it alwayes came without calling.

* * * * *

One borrowed a cloake of a Gentleman, and met one that knew him, who said: I thinke I know that cloake. It may be so, said the other, I borrowed it of such a Gentleman. The other told him that it was too short. Yea, but, quoth he that had the cloake, I will have it long enough, before I bring it home againe.

_OF THE WOMAN THAT FOLLOWED HER FOURTH HUSBANDS BERE AND WEPT_

A woman there was which had had iiii husbandys. It fourtuned also that this fourth husbande dyed and was brought to chyrche upon the bere; whom this woman folowed and made great mone, and waxed very sory, in so moche that her neyghbours thought she wolde swown and dye for sorow. Wherfore one of her gosseps cam to her, and spake to her in her ere, and bad her, for Godds sake, comfort her self and refrayne that lamentacion, or ellys it wold hurt her and peraventure put her in jeopardy of her life. To whom this woman answeryd and sayd: I wys, good gosyp, I have grete cause to morne, if ye knew all. For I have beryed iii husbandes besyde this man; but I was never in the case that I am now. For there was not one of them but when that I folowed the corse to chyrch, yet I was sure of an nother husband, before the corse cam out of my house, and now I am sure of no nother husband; and therfore ye may be sure I have great cause to be sad and hevy.

By thys tale ye may se that the olde proverbe ys trew, that it is as great pyte to se a woman wepe as a gose to go barefote.

A C. MERY TALYS

_OF THE MERCHAUNTE OF LONDON THAT DYD PUT NOBLES IN HIS MOUTHE IN HYS
DETHE BEDDE_

A ryche covetous marchant there was that dwellid in London, which ever gaderyd mony and could never fynd in hys hert to spend ought _upon_ hym selfe nor upon no man els. Whiche fell sore syke, and as he laye on hys deth bed had his purs lyenge at his beddys hede, and [he] had suche a love to his money that he put his hande in his purs, and toke out thereof x or xii li. in nobles and put them in his mouth. And because his wyfe and other perceyved hym very syke and lyke to dye, they exortyd hym to be confessyd, and brought the curate unto hym. Which when they had caused him to say Benedicite, the curate bad hym crye God mercy and shewe to hym his synnes. Than this seyck man began to sey: I crey God mercy I have offendyd in the vii dedly synnes and broken the x commaundementes; but because of the gold in his mouth he muffled so in his speche, that the curate could not well understande hym: wherfore the curat askyd hym, what he had in his mouthe that letted his spech. I wys, mayster parsone, quod the syke man, muffelynge, I have nothyng in my mouthe but a lyttle money; bycause I wot not whither I shal go, I thought I wold take some spendynge money with me: for I wot not what nede I shall have therof; and incontynent after that sayeng dyed, before he was confessyd or repentant that any man coulde perceyve, and so by lyklyhod went to the devyll.

By this tale ye may se, that they that all theyr lyves wyll never do charyte to theyr neghbours, that God in tyme of theyr dethe wyll not suffre them to have grace of repentaunce.

_OF THE SCOLER OF OXFORDE THAT PROVED BY SOVESTRY II CHYKENS III_

A ryche Frankelyn in the contrey havynge by his wyfe but one chylde and no mo, for the great affeccyon that he had to his sayd chylde founde hym at Oxforde to schole by the space of ii or iii yere. Thys yonge scoler, in a vacacyon tyme, for his disporte came home to his father. It fortuned afterwarde on a nyght, the father, the mother and the sayd yonge scoler

_5 lines wanting._

_I_ have studyed sovestry, and by that scyence I can prove, that these ii chekyns in the dysshe be thre chekyns. Mary, sayde the father, that wolde I fayne se. The scoller toke one of the chekyns in his hande and said: lo! here is one chekyn, and incontynente he toke bothe the chekyns in his hande jointely and sayd: here is ii chekyns; and one and ii maketh iii: ergo here is iii chekyns. Than the father toke one of the chekyns to him selfe, and gave another to his wyfe, and sayd thus: lo! I wyll have one of the chekyns to my parte, and thy mother shal have a nother, and because of thy good argumente thou shalte have the thyrde to thy supper: for thou gettyst no more meate here at this tyme; whyche promyse the father kepte, and so the scoller wente without his supper.

By this tale men may se, that it is great foly to put one to scole to lerne any subtyll scyence, whiche hathe no naturall wytte.

_OF THE COURTEAR THAT ETE THE HOT CUSTARDE_

A certayne merchaunt and a courtear, _being upon a time together_ at dyner having a hote custerd, _the courtear being_ somwhat homely of maner toke _parte of it and put it_ in hys mouth, whych was so hote that made him _shed teares._ The merchaunt, lookyng on him, thought that he had _ben weeping, and asked hym why_ he wept. This curtear, not wyllynge it to be _known that he had brent his_ mouth with the hote custerd, answered and said, sir: _quod he, I had_ a brother whych dyd a certayn offence wherfore he was hanged; _and, chauncing_ to think now uppon his deth, it maketh me to wepe. This merchaunt thought the courtear had said trew, and anon after the merchaunt was disposid to ete _of the custerd_, and put a sponefull of it in his mouth, and brent his mouth also, that his _eyes watered_. This courtear, that percevyng, spake to the merchaunt and seyd: sir, quod _he, pray_ why do ye wepe now? The merchaunt perseyved how he had _bene deceived_ and said: mary, quod he, I wepe, because thou wast not hangid, _when that_ they brother was hangyd.

_OF HYM THAT SOUGHT HIS WYFE AGAYNST THE STREME_

A man there was whose wyfe, as she came over a bridg, fell in to the ryver and was drowned; wherfore he wente and sought for her upward against the stream, wherat his neighboures, that wente with hym, marvayled, and sayde he dyd nought, he shulde go seke her downeward with the streme. Naye, quod he, I am sure I shall never fynde her that waye: for she was so waywarde and so contrary to every thynge, while she lyvedde, that I knowe very well nowe she is deed, she wyll go a gaynste the stream.

_OF THE FOOLE THAT THOUGHT HYM SELFE DEED_

There was a felowe dwellynge at Florence, called Nigniaca, whiche was nat verye wyse, nor all a foole, but merye and jocunde. A sorte of yonge men, for to laughe and pastyme, appoynted to gether to make hym beleve that he was sycke. So, whan they were agreed howe they wolde do, one of them mette hym in the mornynge, as he came out of his house, and bad him good morowe, and than asked him, if he were nat yl at ease? No, quod the foole, I ayle nothynge, I thanke God. By my faith, ye have a sickely pale colour, quod the other, and wente his waye.

Anone after, an other of them mette hym, and asked hym if he had nat an ague: for your face and colour (quod he) sheweth that ye be very sycke. Than the foole beganne a lyttel to doubt, whether he were sycke or no: for he halfe beleved that they sayd trouth. Whan he had gone a lytel farther, the thyrde man mette hym, and sayde: Jesu! manne, what do you out of your bed? ye loke as ye wolde nat lyve an houre to an ende. Nowe he doubted greatly, and thought verily in his mynde, that he had hadde some sharpe ague; wherfore he stode styll and wolde go no further; and, as he stode, the fourth man came and sayde: Jesu! man, what dost thou here, and arte so sycke? Gette the home to thy bedde: for I parceyve thou canste nat lyve an houre to an ende. Than the foles harte beganne to feynte, and [he] prayde this laste man that came to hym to helpe hym home. Yes, quod he, I wyll do as moche for the as for myn owne brother. So home he brought hym, and layde hym in his bed, and than he fared with hym selfe, as thoughe he wolde gyve up the gooste. Forth with came the other felowes, and saide he hadde well done to lay hym in his bedde. Anone after, came one whiche toke on hym to be a phisitian; whiche, touchynge the pulse, sayde the malady was so vehement, that he coulde nat lyve an houre. So they, standynge aboute the bedde, sayde one to an other: nowe he gothe his waye: for his speche and syght fayle him; by and by he wyll yelde up the goste. Therfore lette us close his eyes, and laye his hands a crosse, and cary hym forth to be buryed. And than they sayde lamentynge one to an other: O! what a losse have we of this good felowe, our frende?

The foole laye stylle, as one [that] were deade; yea, and thought in his mynde, that he was deade in dede. So they layde hym on a bere, and caryed hym through the cite. And whan any body asked them what they caryed, they sayd the corps of Nigniaca to his grave. And ever as they went, people drew about them. Among the prece ther was a taverners boy, the whiche, whan he herde that it was the cors of Nigniaca, he said to them: O! what a vile bestly knave, and what a stronge thefe is deed! by the masse, he was well worthy to have ben hanged longe ago. Whan the fole harde those wordes, he put out his heed and sayd: I wys, horeson, if I were alyve nowe, as I am deed, I wolde prove the a false lyer to thy face. They, that caryed him, began to laugh so hartilye, that they sette downe the bere, and wente theyr waye.

By this tale ye maye se, what the perswasion of many doth. Certaynly he is very wyse, that is nat inclined to foly, if he be stered thereunto by a multitude. Yet sapience is founde in fewe persones: and they be lyghtly olde sobre men.

* * * * *

A few further bits are added, being witty sayings from Camden, Bacon and the Jest Books and manuscripts of the period.

* * * * *

Queen Elizabeth seeing a gentleman in her garden, who had not felt the effect of her favours so soon as he expected, looking out of her window, said to him, in Italian, “What does a man think of, Sir Edward, when he thinks of nothing?” After a little pause, he answered, “He thinks, Madam, of a woman’s promise.” The queen shrunk in her head, but was heard to say, _Well, Sir Edward, I must not confute you: Anger makes dull men witty, but it keeps them poor_.

* * * * *

A certain nobleman sold a gentleman a horse for a good round sum, which he took upon his lordship’s word, that he had no fault. About three weeks after, he met my lord; “Why, your lordship told me,” says he, “that your horse had no fault, and he is blind of an eye.” _Well, Sir_, says my lord, _it is no fault, it is only a misfortune_.

* * * * *

A doctor of little learning, and less modesty, having talked much at table; one, much admiring him, asked another, when the doctor was gone, if he did not think him a great scholar? The answer was, _He may be learned, for aught I know, or can discover; but I never heard learning make such a noise_.

* * * * *

Sir Drue Drury called for tobacco-pipes at a tavern. The waiter brought some, and, in laying them down on the table, broke most of them. Sir Drue swore a great oath, that they were made of the same metal with the Commandments. “Why so?” says one. _Because they are so soon broken._

* * * * *

A rich usurer was very lame of one of his legs, and yet nothing of hurt outwardly to be seen, whereupon he sent for a surgeon for his advice; who, being more honest than ordinary, told him, “It was in vain to meddle with it, for it was only old age that was the cause.” _But why then_ (said the usurer) _should not my other leg be as lame as this, seeing that the one is no older than the other?_

* * * * *

A gentleman disputing about religion in Button’s Coffeehouse, some of the company said, “You talk of religion! I will hold you five guineas, you cannot repeat the Lord’s prayer; Sir Richard Steele here shall hold stakes.” The money being deposited, the gentleman began, _I believe in God_; and so went through his Creed. _Well_, said the other, _I own I have lost, but I did not think that you could have done it_.

* * * * *

A gentleman calling for small-beer at another gentleman’s table, finding it very hard, gave it the servant again without drinking. “What,” said the master of the house, “do you not like the beer?” _It is not to be found fault with_, answered the other, _for one should never speak ill of the dead_.

Some gentlemen being at a tavern together, for want of better diversion, some proposed play; but, said another of the company, “I have fourteen good reasons against gaming.” “What are those,” said another? “In the first place,” answered he, _I have no Money_. _Oh!_ said the first, _if you had four hundred reasons, you need not name another_.

* * * * *

Quin used to apply a story to the then ministry. A master of a brig calls out, _Who is there?_ A boy answered, _Will, Sir.--What are you doing?--Nothing, Sir.--Is Tom there?--Yes_, says Tom.--_What are you doing, Tom?--Helping Will, Sir._

* * * * *

A gentleman, passing a woman who was skinning eels, and observing the torture of the poor animals, asked her, how she could have the heart to put them to such pain. _Ah_, said she, _poor creatures! they be used to it_.

* * * * *

A silly priest at Trumpington being to read that place, _Eli, Eli, Lamasabachthani_, began to consider with himself, that it might be ridiculous and absurd for him to read it as it stood, because he was vicar of Trumpington, and not of Ely: and therefore he read it, _Trumpington, Trumpington, Lamasabachthani_.

* * * * *

It seems impossible, right here, not to digress, chronologically, for a moment.

Every one will have noticed that these old time jests are the foundations on which many modern stories are built, but the last one quoted above is so palpably the prototype of a current Boston story that it must be told.

* * * * *

A small child named Halliwell, spending the night with a neighbor, Mrs. Cabot, knelt at the knee of her hostess to say her evening prayer.

“Our Father who art in Heaven,” the little visitor began devoutly, “Cabot be thy name--”

“What? What do you mean?” asked the startled lady.

“Oh,” said the child, “of course, at home, I say ‘Halliwell be thy name,’ but here, I thought it more polite to say Cabot.”

* * * * *

It is held by most writers on the subject that the great influx of humor into literature took place in the latter half of the sixteenth century.

This is partly because the progressing art of printing brought about the influx of many elements into literature at that time, and also because then appeared the work of three of the greatest of the world’s humorists.

Shakespeare in England, Rabelais in France and Cervantes in Spain, gave us their immortal works.

Earlier in the century Thomas More in his _Utopia_ and Nicholas Udall in his _Ralph Royster Doyster_ wrote in humorously satiric vein, but these works are difficult to quote from satisfactorily.

Having reached the period when Humor began to be produced in various countries independently of one another, it becomes necessary to modify our strict chronological arrangement and consider the nations and their humorists separately.

Before this, broadly speaking, literature should be considered as a whole, but as great names began to appear in certain widely separated localities, a national division must be made.

And so, continuing in England, we come to William Shakespeare.

With Shakespeare’s greatness as a poet and dramatist we are not here concerned, but there are some critics who dispute his preeminence as a humorist.

While Hazlitt declared that in his opinion Molière was as great or greater than Shakespeare as a comic genius; Doctor Johnson, on the other hand, held that Shakespeare’s comedies are better than his tragedies.

However, few are found to support Johnson’s opinion, and Hazlitt qualifies his by saying that as Shakespeare’s imagination and poetry were the master qualities of his mind, the ludicrous was forced to take second place.

Both these worthies, however, agree on the question of Falstaff’s greatness, and Hazlitt takes this attitude.

“I would not be understood to say that there are not scenes or whole characters in Shakespeare equal in wit and drollery to anything upon record. Falstaff alone is an instance, which, if I would, I could not get over. He is the leviathan of all the creatures of the author’s comic genius, and tumbles about his unwieldy bulk in an ocean of wit and humour. But in general it will be found (if I am not mistaken), that even in the very best of these the spirit of humanity and the fancy of the poet greatly prevail over the mere wit and satire, and that we sympathize with his characters oftener than we laugh at them. His ridicule wants the sting of ill-nature. He had hardly such a thing as spleen in his composition. Falstaff himself is so great a joke, rather from his being so huge a mass of enjoyment than of absurdity.”

While with equal perceptive judgment “Falstaff,” says Dr. Johnson, “unimitated, unimitable Falstaff, how shall I describe thee? Thou compound of sense and vice; of sense which may be admired but not esteemed; of vice which may be despised, but hardly detested! Falstaff ... is a thief and a glutton, a coward and a boaster, always ready to cheat the weak and prey upon the poor; to terrify the timorous and insult the defenceless. At once obsequious and malignant, he satirizes in their absence those whom he lives by flattering.... Yet the man thus corrupt, thus despicable, makes himself necessary to the Prince that despises him, by the most pleasing of all qualities, perpetual gaiety, by an unfailing power of exciting laughter, which is the more freely indulged, as his wit is not of the splendid or ambitious kind, but consists in easy scapes and sallies of levity, which make sport, but raise no envy.”

One of the most difficult of all poets to quote from, we can only offer detached and fugitive fragments of Shakespeare’s plays; beginning with a bit quoted by Hazlitt and accompanied by his delightful observations thereon.

“Shakespeare takes up the meanest subjects with the same tenderness that we do an insect’s wing, and would not kill a fly. To give a more particular instance of what I mean, I will take the inimitable and affecting, though most absurd and ludicrous dialogue, between Shallow and Silence, on the death of old Double.”

* * * * *

_Shallow._ Come on, come on, come on; give me your hand, sir; give me your hand, sir; an early stirrer, by the rood. And how doth my good cousin Silence?

_Silence._ Good morrow, good cousin Shallow.

_Shallow._ And how doth my cousin, your bedfellow? and your fairest daughter, and mine, my god-daughter Ellen?

_Silence._ Alas, a black ouzel, cousin Shallow.

_Shallow._ By yea and nay, sir; I dare say, my cousin William is become a good scholar: he is at Oxford still, is he not?

_Silence._ Indeed, sir, to my cost.

_Shallow._ He must then to the inns of court shortly. I was once of Clement’s inn; where, I think, they will talk of mad Shallow yet.

_Silence._ You were called lusty Shallow then, cousin.

_Shallow._ I was called anything, and I would have done anything indeed, and roundly too. There was I, and little John Doit of Staffordshire, and black George Bare, and Francis Pickbone, and Will Squele, a Cotswold man, you had not four such swinge-bucklers in all the inns of court again; and, I may say to you, we knew where the bonarobas were, and had the best of them all at commandment. Then was Jack Falstaff, now Sir John, a boy, and page to Thomas Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk.

_Silence._ This Sir John, cousin, that comes hither anon about soldiers?

_Shallow._ The same Sir John, the very same: I saw him break Schoggan’s head at the court-gate, when he was a crack, not thus high; and the very same day did I fight with one Sampson Stockfish, a fruiterer, behind Gray’s-inn. O, the mad days that I have spent! and to see how many of mine old acquaintances are dead!

_Silence._ We shall all follow, cousin.

_Shallow._ Certain, ’tis certain, very sure, very sure: death (as the Psalmist saith) is certain to all, all shall die.--How a good yoke of bullocks at Stamford fair?

_Silence._ Truly cousin, I was not there.

_Shallow._ Death is certain. Is old Double of your town living yet?

_Silence._ Dead, sir.