Chapter XVII: Part III: Mediæval Ages (11)

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

_Professor of Philosophy._ Yes, sir.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

_FAREWELL TO CHLORIS_

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

* * * * *

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

* * * * *

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

* * * * *

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

* * * * *

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

* * * * *

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

* * * * *

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

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

* * * * *

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

* * * * *

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

* * * * *

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

* * * * *

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

* * * * *

Hypocrisy is the homage which vice renders to virtue.

* * * * *

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

* * * * *

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

* * * * *

Affected simplicity is refined imposture.

* * * * *

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

* * * * *

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

_FROM LES PROVINCIALES_

_ON MENTAL RESERVATIONS_

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

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

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

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

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

_THE COUNCIL HELD BY THE RATS_

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

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

_THE COCK AND THE FOX_

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

_THE CROW AND THE FOX_

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

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

His wit was keen and his satire sharp.

_TO PERRAULT_

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

_ON COTIN_

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

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

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

_IPHIS_

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

_THOUGHTS_

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

* * * * *

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

* * * * *

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

* * * * *

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

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

* * * * *

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

* * * * *

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

* * * * *

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

* * * * *

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

_DIATRIBE AGAINST WATER_

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

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

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

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

_ADVICE TO AN INNKEEPER_

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

_TO A POET_

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

GERMAN HUMOR

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

_THE DONKEY’S VOICE_

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

--_Judas, the Arch-Rogue._

_A BURDENSOME WIFE_

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

--_Hie! Fie!_

_ST. ANTHONY’S SERMON TO THE FISHES_

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY

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

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

_AGAINST ABOLISHING CHRISTIANITY_

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

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

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

_THE FURNITURE OF A WOMAN’S MIND_

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

_SUNT QUI SERVARI NOLUNT_

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

_ON HIS OWN DEAFNESS_

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

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

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

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

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

_LINES BY A PERSON OF QUALITY_

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

_WORMS_

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

_EPIGRAM ON MRS. TOFTS_

(_A celebrated Opera Singer._)

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

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

_THE WILL OF A VIRTUOSO_

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

_THE SPLENDID SHILLING_

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

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

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

JOHN ARBUTHNOT

_A DISSERTATION ON DUMPLINGS_

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

* * * * *

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

* * * * *

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

* * * * *

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

* * * * *

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

* * * * *

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

* * * * *

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

* * * * *

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

* * * * *

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

* * * * *

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

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

Which brings us to Samuel Johnson.

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

_ON LYING NEWS-WRITERS_

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

_AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG_

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

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

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