Chapter XVIII: Part III: Mediæval Ages (12)

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

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

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

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

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

_AN ELEGY_

ON THE GLORY OF HER SEX, MRS. MARY BLAIZE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

_PARSON GRAY_

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

_A FAITHFUL PICTURE OF ORDINARY SOCIETY_

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

_THE COLUBRIAD_

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

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

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

_LET THE TOAST PASS_

FROM “THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL”

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

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

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

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

_LORD ERSKINE’S SIMILE_

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

_SHERIDAN’S CALENDAR_

January snowy,
February flowy,
March blowy,

April showry,
May flowry,
June bowery,

July moppy,
August croppy,
September poppy,

October breezy,
November wheezy,
December freezy.

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

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

_THE FRIEND OF HUMANITY AND THE KNIFE-GRINDER_

FRIEND OF HUMANITY

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

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

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

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

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

KNIFE-GRINDER

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

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

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

FRIEND TO HUMANITY

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

_HOLY WILLIE’S PRAYER_

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

_ADDRESS TO THE TOOTHACHE_

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE NINETEENTH CENTURY

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

_MRS. PARTINGTON_

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

And we add the ever popular Recipe for a Salad.

_SALAD_

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

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

His opinion,

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

is shown in this instance.

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

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

* * * * *

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

* * * * *

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

* * * * *

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

* * * * *

Whether the higher order of seraphim illuminati ever _sneeze_?

* * * * *

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

GOOD ACTIONS.--The greatest pleasure I know is to do a good action by stealth, and to have it found out by accident.

* * * * *

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

* * * * *

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

* * * * *

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

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

_THE TEN LOST TRIBES OF ISRAEL_

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

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

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

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

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

The gentlemen who speculate in chapels are the Puhites.

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

The freemasons are of the family of the Jachinites.

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

The Shuhamites are the cordwainers.

The Teamanites attend the sales of the East India Company.

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

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

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

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

_THE WELL OF ST. KEYNE_

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

_A “TRUE AND ORIGINAL” VERSION_

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

_RAISING THE DEVIL_

A LEGEND OF CORNELIUS AGRIPPA

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

_MURDER AS ONE OF THE FINE ARTS_

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

_AFTER SWIMMING THE HELLESPONT_

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

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

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

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

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

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

_FAITHLESS NELLY GRAY_

A PATHETIC BALLAD

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

_NO!_

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

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

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

_THE BABY’S DÉBUT_

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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