Chapter XXIII: Part II (2)

_Here is the tale--and now you have the whole of it,
Here is the story, well and wisely-planned,
Beauty--Duty--these make up the soul of it--
But, ah, my little readers, will you mark and understand?_

Arthur Thomas Quiller-Couch, writing often over the pseudonym of Q, is most versatile and talented. He, too, loved to dally with the muse of Imitation.

_DE TEA FABULA_

_Plain Language from Truthful James_

Do I sleep? Do I dream?
Am I hoaxed by a scout?
Are things what they seem,
Or is Sophists about?
Is our το τι ηυ ειναι a failure, or is Robert Browning played out?

Which expressions like these
May be fairly applied
By a party who sees
A Society skied
Upon tea that the Warden of Keble had biled with legitimate pride.

’Twas November the third,
And I says to Bill Nye,
“Which it’s true what I’ve heard:
If you’re, so to speak, fly,
There’s a chance of some tea and cheap culture, the sort recommended
as High.”

Which I mentioned its name,
And he ups and remarks:
“If dress-coats is the game
And pow-wow in the Parks,
Then I’m nuts on Sordello and Hohenstiel-Schwangau and similar
Snarks.”

Now the pride of Bill Nye
Cannot well be express’d;
For he wore a white tie
And a cut-away vest:
Says I, “Solomon’s lilies ain’t in it, and they was reputed well
dress’d.”

But not far did we wend,
When we saw Pippa pass
On the arm of a friend
--Dr. Furnivall ’t was,
And he wore in his hat two half-tickets for London, return,
second-class.

“Well,” I thought, “this is odd.”
But we came pretty quick
To a sort of a quad
That was all of red brick,
And I says to the porter,--“R. Browning: free passes; and kindly
look slick.”

But says he, dripping tears
In his check handkerchief,
“That symposium’s career’s
Been regrettably brief,
For it went all its pile upon crumpets and busted on gunpowder
leaf!”

Then we tucked up the sleeves
Of our shirts (that were biled),
Which the reader perceives
That our feelings were riled,
And we went for that man till his mother had doubted the traits of
her child.

Which emotions like these
Must be freely indulged
By a party who sees
A Society bulged
On a reef the existence of which its prospectus had never divulged.

But I ask,--Do I dream?
Has it gone up the spout?
Are things what they seem,
Or is Sophists about?
Is our τὸ τι ἦυ εἶναι a failure, or is Robert Browning played out?

James Kenneth Stephen, like so many of the English minor poets, expresses his humorous vein best in parody.

Stephen’s light verse belongs mostly to his undergraduate days.

_A SONNET_

Two voices are there: one is of the deep;
It learns the storm-cloud’s thunderous melody,
Now roars, now murmurs with the changing sea,
Now bird-like pipes, now closes soft in sleep:
And one is of an old half-witted sheep
Which bleats articulate monotony.
And indicates that two and one are three,
That grass is green, lakes damp, and mountains steep:
And, Wordsworth, both are thine: at certain times
Forth from the heart of thy melodious rhymes,
The form and pressure of high thoughts will burst:
At other times--good Lord! I’d rather be
Quite unacquainted with the A B C
Than write such hopeless rubbish as thy worst.

_A THOUGHT_

If all the harm that women have done
Were put in a bundle and rolled into one,
Earth would not hold it,
The sky could not enfold it,
It could not be lighted nor warmed by the sun;
Such masses of evil
Would puzzle the devil,
And keep him in fuel while Time’s wheels run.

But if all the harm that’s been done by men
Were doubled, and doubled, and doubled again,
And melted and fused into vapour, and then
Were squared and raised to the power of ten,
There wouldn’t be nearly enough, not near,
To keep a small girl for the tenth of a year.

_THE MILLENNIUM_

TO R. K.

_As long I dwell on some stupendous
And tremendous (Heaven defend us!)
Monstr’-inform’-ingens-horrendous
Demoniaco-seraphic
Penman’s latest piece of graphic._
ROBERT BROWNING.

Will there never come a season
Which shall rid us from the curse
Of a prose which knows no reason
And an unmelodious verse:
When the world shall cease to wonder
At the genius of an Ass,
And a boy’s eccentric blunder
Shall not bring success to pass:

When mankind shall be delivered
From the clash of magazines,
And the inkstand shall be shivered
Into countless smithereens:
When there stands a muzzled stripling,
Mute, beside a muzzled bore:
When the Rudyards cease from Kipling
And the Haggards Ride no more?

_SCHOOL_

If there is a vile, pernicious,
Wicked and degraded rule,
Tending to debase the vicious,
And corrupt the harmless fool;
If there is a hateful habit
Making man a senseless tool,
With the feelings of a rabbit
And the wisdom of a mule;
It’s the rule which inculcates,
It’s the habit which dictates
The wrong and sinful practice of going into school.

If there’s anything improving
To an erring sinner’s state,
Which is useful in removing
All the ills of human fate;
If there’s any glorious custom
Which our faults can dissipate,
And can casually thrust ’em
Out of sight and make us great;
It’s the plan by which we shirk
Half our matu-ti-nal work,
The glorious institution of always being late.

Barry Pain, journalist and author, following the trend of the hour, produced this amusing set of parodies.

_THE POETS AT TEA_

1--(_Macaulay, who made it_)

Pour, varlet, pour the water,
The water steaming hot!
A spoonful for each man of us,
Another for the pot!
We shall not drink from amber,
Nor Capuan slave shall mix
For us the snows of Athos
With port at thirty-six;
Whiter than snow the crystals,
Grown sweet ’neath tropic fires,
More rich the herbs of China’s field,
The pasture-lands more fragrance yield;
For ever let Britannia wield
The tea-pot of her sires!

2--(_Tennyson, who took it hot_)

I think that I am drawing to an end:
For on a sudden came a gasp for breath.
And stretching of the hands, and blinded eyes,
And a great darkness falling on my soul.
O Hallelujah!... Kindly pass the milk.

3--(_Swinburne, who let it get cold_)

As the sin that was sweet in the sinning
Is foul in the ending thereof,
As the heat of the summer’s beginning
Is past in the winter of love:
O purity, painful and pleading!
O coldness, ineffably gray!
Oh, hear us, our handmaid unheeding,
And take it away!

4--(_Cowper, who thoroughly enjoyed it_)

The cosy fire is bright and gay,
The merry kettle boils away
And hums a cheerful song.
I sing the saucer and the cup;
Pray, Mary, fill the tea-pot up,
And do not make it strong.

5--(_Browning, who treated it allegorically_)

Tut! Bah! We take as another case--
Pass the bills on the pills on the window-sill; notice the capsule
(A sick man’s fancy, no doubt, but I place
Reliance on trade-marks, Sir)--so perhaps you’ll
Excuse the digression--this cup which I hold
Light-poised--Bah, it’s spilt in the bed!--well, let’s on go--
Hold Bohea and sugar, Sir; if you were told
The sugar was salt, would the Bohea be Congo?

6--(_Wordsworth, who gave it away_)

“Come, little cottage girl, you seem
To want my cup of tea;
And will you take a little cream?
Now tell the truth to me.”

She had a rustic, woodland grin,
Her cheek was soft as silk,
And she replied, “Sir, please put in
A little drop of milk.”

“Why, what put milk into your head?
’Tis cream my cows supply”;
And five times to the child I said,
“Why, pig-head, tell me, why?”

“You call me pig-head,” she replied;
“My proper name is Ruth.
I called that milk”--she blushed with pride--
“You bade me speak the truth.”

7--(_Poe, who got excited over it_)

Here’s a mellow cup of tea, golden tea!
What a world of rapturous thought its fragrance brings to me!
Oh, from out the silver cells
How it wells!
How it smells!
Keeping tune, tune, tune
To the tintinnabulation of the spoon.
And the kettle on the fire
Boils its spout off with desire,
With a desperate desire
And a crystalline endeavour
Now, now to sit, or never,
On the top of the pale-faced moon,
But he always came home to tea, tea, tea, tea, tea,
Tea to the n--th.

8--(_Rossetti, who took six cups of it_)

The lilies lie in my lady’s bower
(O weary mother, drive the cows to roost),
They faintly droop for a little hour;
My lady’s head droops like a flower.

She took the porcelain in her hand
(O weary mother, drive the cows to roost);
She poured; I drank at her command;
Drank deep, and now--you understand!
(O weary mother, drive the cows to roost.)

9--(_Burns, who liked it adulterated_)

Weel, gin ye speir, I’m no inclined,
Whusky or tay--to state my mind,
Fore ane or ither;
For, gin I tak the first, I’m fou,
And gin the next, I’m dull as you,
Mix a’ thegither.

10--(_Walt Whitman, who didn’t stay more than a minute_)

One cup for myself-hood,
Many for you. Allons, camerados, we will drink together,
O hand-in-hand! That tea-spoon, please, when you’ve done with it.
What butter-colour’d hair you’ve got. I don’t want to be personal.
All right, then, you needn’t. You’re a stale-cadaver.
Eighteen-pence if the bottles are returned.
Allons, from all bat-eyed formula.

F. Anstey (pen name of J. B. Guthrie) wrote many novels and short skits as well as verses. Like many of his contemporaries he is especially happy in a parody vein.

_SELECT PASSAGES FROM A COMING POET_

_Disenchantment_

My Love has sicklied unto Loath,
And foul seems all that fair I fancied--
The lily’s sheen’s a leprous growth,
The very buttercups are rancid.

_Abasement_

With matted head a-dabble in the dust,
And eyes tear-sealèd in a saline crust
I lie all loathly in my rags and rust--
Yet learn that strange delight may lurk in self-disgust.

_Stanza Written in Depression Near Dulwich_

The lark soars up in the air;
The toad sits tight in his hole;
And I would I were certain which of the pair
Were the truer type of my soul!

_To My Lady_

Twine, lanken fingers, lily-lithe,
Gleam, slanted eyes, all beryl-green,
Pout, blood-red lips that burst a-writhe,
Then--kiss me, Lady Grisoline!

_The Monster_

Uprears the monster now his slobberous head,
Its filamentous chaps her ankles brushing;
Her twice-five roseal toes are cramped in dread,
Each maidly instep mauven-pink is flushing.

_A Trumpet Blast_

Pale Patricians, sunk in self-indulgence,
Blink your blearèd eyes. Behold the Sun--
Burst proclaim in purpurate effulgence,
Demos dawning, and the Darkness done!

Hilaire Belloc, in addition to wiser matters, wrote most amusing nonsense animal verses.

_THE PYTHON_

A python I should not advise,--
It needs a doctor for its eyes,
And has the measles yearly.

However, if you feel inclined
To get one (to improve your mind,
And not from fashion merely),
Allow no music near its cage;
And when it flies into a rage
Chastise it most severely.

I had an Aunt in Yucatan
Who bought a Python from a man
And kept it for a pet.
She died because she never knew
These simple little rules and few;--
The snake is living yet.

_THE BISON_

The Bison is vain, and (I write it with pain)
The Door-mat you see on his head
Is not, as some learned professors maintain,
The opulent growth of a genius’ brain;
But is sewn on with needle and thread.

_THE MICROBE_

The Microbe is so very small
You cannot make him out at all,
But many sanguine people hope
To see him through a microscope.
His jointed tongue that lies beneath
A hundred curious rows of teeth;
His seven tufted tails with lots
Of lovely pink and purple spots
On each of which a pattern stands,
Composed of forty separate bands;
His eyebrows of a tender green;
All these have never yet been seen--
But Scientists, who ought to know,
Assure us that they must be so....
Oh! let us never, never doubt
What nobody is sure about!

_THE FROG_

Be kind and tender to the Frog,
And do not call him names,
As “Slimy-Skin,” or “Polly-wog,”
Or likewise, “Uncle James,”
Or “Gape-a-grin,” or “Toad-gone-wrong,”
Or “Billy-Bandy-knees”;
The Frog is justly sensitive
To epithets like these.

No animal will more repay,
A treatment kind and fair,
At least, so lonely people say
Who keep a frog (and, by the way,
They are extremely rare).

Gilbert K. Chesterton, England’s great humorist of today, is cleverly gay in his French Forms.

_A BALLADE OF SUICIDE_

The gallows in my garden, people say,
Is new and neat and adequately tall.
I tie the noose on in a knowing way
As one that knots his necktie for a ball;
But just as all the neighbours--on the wall--
Are drawing a long breath to shout “Hurray!”
The strangest whim has seized me.... After all
I think I will not hang myself to-day.

To-morrow is the time I get my pay--
My uncle’s sword is hanging in the hall--
I see a little cloud all pink and grey--
Perhaps the rector’s mother will _not_ call--
I fancy that I heard from Mr. Gall
That mushrooms could be cooked another way--
I never read the works of Juvenal--
I think I will not hang myself to-day.

The world will have another washing day;
The decadents decay; the pedants pall;
And H. G. Wells has found that children play,
And Bernard Shaw discovered that they squall;
Rationalists are growing rational--
And through thick woods one finds a stream astray,
So secret that the very sky seems small--
I think I will not hang myself to-day.

_Envoi_

Prince, I can hear the trump of Germinal,
The tumbrils toiling up the terrible way;
Even today your royal head may fall--
I think I will not hang myself to-day.

_A BALLADE OF AN ANTI-PURITAN_

They spoke of Progress spiring round,
Of Light and Mrs. Humphry Ward--
It is not true to say I frowned,
Or ran about the room and roared;
I might have simply sat and snored--
I rose politely in the club
And said, “I feel a little bored;
Will someone take me to a pub?”

The new world’s wisest did surround
Me; and it pains me to record
I did not think their views profound,
Or their conclusions well assured;
The simple life I can’t afford,
Besides, I do not like the grub--
I want a mash and sausage, “scored”--
Will someone take me to a pub?

I know where Men can still be found,
Anger and clamorous accord,
And virtues growing from the ground,
And fellowship of beer and board,
And song, that is a sturdy cord,
And hope, that is a hardy shrub,
And goodness, that is God’s last word--
Will someone take me to a pub?

_Envoi_

Prince, Bayard would have smashed his sword
To see the sort of knights you dub--
Is that the last of them--O Lord!
Will someone take me to a pub?

FRENCH HUMOR

Voltaire, the assumed name of François Marie Arouet, was one of the most famous of French writers. Plays, fiction, criticism and letters are among his celebrated works.

We can quote but a short bit from his novel of _Candide_:

* * * * *

The tutor Pangloss was the oracle of the house, and little Candide listened to his lessons with all the ready faith natural to his age and disposition.

Pangloss used to teach the science of metaphysico-theologo-cosmologo-noodleology. He demonstrated most admirably that there is no effect without a cause, and that, in this best of all possible worlds, the castle of my lord baron was the most magnificent of castles, and my lady the best of all possible baronesses.

“It has been proved,” said he, “that things cannot be otherwise than they are; for, everything being made for a certain end, the end for which everything is made is necessarily the best end. Observe how noses were made to carry spectacles, and spectacles we have accordingly. Our legs are clearly intended for shoes and stockings, so we have them. Stone has been formed to be hewn and dressed for building castles, so my lord has a very fine one, for it is meet that the greatest baron in the province should have the best accommodation. Pigs were made to be eaten, and we eat pork all the year round. Consequently those who have asserted that all is well have said what is silly; they should have said of everything that is, that it is the best that could possibly be.”

Candide listened attentively, and innocently believed all that he heard; for he thought Mlle. Cunégonde extremely beautiful, though he never had the boldness to tell her so. He felt convinced that, next to the happiness of being born Baron of Thundertentronckh, the second degree of happiness was to be Mlle. Cunégonde, the third to see her every day, and the fourth to hear Professor Pangloss, the greatest philosopher in the province, and therefore in all the world.

One day Mlle. Cunégonde, while taking a walk near the castle, in the little wood which was called the park, saw through the bushes Dr. Pangloss giving a lesson in experimental physics to her mother’s chambermaid, a little brunette, very pretty and very willing to learn. As Mlle. Cunégonde had a great taste for science, she watched with breathless interest the repeated experiments that were carried on under her eyes; she clearly perceived that the doctor had sufficient reason for all he did; she saw the connection between causes and effects, and returned home much agitated, though very thoughtful, and filled with a yearning after scientific pursuits, for sharing in which she wished that young Candide might find sufficient reason in her, and that she might find the same in him.

She met Candide as she was on her way back to the castle, and blushed; the youth blushed likewise. She bade him good morning in a voice that struggled for utterance; and Candide answered her without well knowing what he was saying. Next day, as the company were leaving the table after dinner, Cunégonde and Candide found themselves behind a screen. Cunégonde let fall her handkerchief; Candide picked it up; she innocently took hold of his hand, and the young man, as innocently, kissed hers with an ardor, a tenderness, and a grace quite peculiar; their lips met and their eyes sparkled. His lordship, the Baron of Thundertentronckh, happened to pass by the screen, and, seeing that particular instance of cause and effect, drove Candide out of the castle with vigorous kicks. Cunégonde swooned away, but, as soon as she recovered, my lady the baroness boxed her ears, and all was confusion and consternation in that most magnificent and most charming of all possible castles.

Marc Antoine Desaugiers was a Parisian song writer and author of vaudeville.

His wit was cynical and his versification of a facile sort.

_THE ETERNAL YAWNER_

Ah! well-a-day, in all the earth
What can one do?
Where for amusement seek, or mirth?
Ah! well-a-day, in all the earth
What can one do
To cease from yawning here below?

Of mortal man, what is the rôle?
To bustle, eat, and labor ply;
To plot, grow old, and then to die?
Not very lively this, or droll.
Ah! well-a-day, etc.

No wonder in my mind begets
The sun, which poets call sublime;
Not this the first or second time
He rises, runs his race, and sets.
Ah! well-a-day, etc.

To one dull course the seasons cling:
For full five thousand years we view
The summer following after spring,
And winter autumn’s close pursue.
Ah! well-a-day, etc.

My watch (a friend of little use),
Whose hands their tedious circuit ply,
Tells me how slow the hours fly,
Not how I may my hours amuse.
Ah! well-a-day, etc.

I half the world have traveled o’er,
To see if men diversion found;
But everywhere, on every ground,
I saw what I had seen before.
Ah! well-a-day, etc.

In weariness which I abhorred,
Wishing to know how sped the great,
I dined with men of high estate,
And murmured as I left their board,
Ah! well-a-day, etc.

Wishing to see if, when in love,
Life some unworn amusement has,
Love I attempted, but alas!
Love in all climes the same doth prove.
Ah! well-a-day, etc.

Thus being, at this early age,
Of all things sick, both night and day,
In hopes to be more blithe and gay
I did in settled life engage.
Ah! well-a-day, etc.

The street where now my life I led,
By neighborhood my steps brought on
To th’ Institute and Odéon,
Which every day I visited.
Ah! well-a-day, etc.

By writing this (hope quickly gone),
To cheer my spirits I essayed;
But yawned the while this song was made,
And now I sing it, still I yawn:
Ah! well-a-day, etc.

Pierre Jean de Béranger was one of France’s greatest lyric poets. His versatility compassed songs of every sort from political to bacchanalian, from amatory to philosophical.

_THE EDUCATION OF YOUNG LADIES_

What! this Monsieur de Fénélon
The girls pretend to school!
Of Mass and needlework he prates;
Mama, he’s but a fool.
Balls, concerts, and the piece just out,
Can teach us better far, no doubt:
Tra la la la, tra la la la,
Thus are young ladies taught, Mama!

Let others mind their work; I’ll play,
Mama, the sweet duet,
That for my master’s voice and mine
Is from Armida set.
If Rénaud felt love’s burning flame,
I feel some shootings of the same:
Tra la la la, tra la la la,
Thus are young ladies taught, Mama!

Let others keep accounts; I’ll dance,
Mama, an hour or two;
And from my master learn a step
Voluptuous and new.
At this long skirt my feet rebel;
To loop it up a bit were well.
Tra la la la, tra la la la,
Thus are young ladies taught, Mama!

Let others o’er my sister watch;
Mama, I’d rather trace--
I’ve wondrous talent--at the Louvre
The Apollo’s matchless grace:
Throughout his figure what a charm!
’Tis naked, true--but that’s no harm
Tra la la la, tra la la la,
Thus are young ladies taught, Mama!

Mama, I must be married soon,
Even fashion says no less;
Besides, there is an urgent cause,
I must, Mama, confess.
The world my situation sees--
But there they laugh at scrapes like these.
Tra la la la, tra la la la,
Thus are young ladies taught, Mama!

_THE DEAD ALIVE_

When a bore gets hold of me,
Dull and overbearing,
Be so kind as pray for me,
I’m as dead as herring.
When the thrusts of pleasure glib
In my sides are sticking,
Poking fun at every rib,
I’m alive and kicking.

When a snob his £ s. d.
Jingles in his breeches,
Be so kind as pray for me,
I’m as dead as ditches.
When a birthday’s champagne-corks
Round my ears are clicking,
Marking time with well-oil’d works,
I’m alive and kicking.

Kings and their supremacy
Occupy the table,
Be so kind as pray for me,
I’m as dead as Abel.
Talk about the age of wine
(Bought by cash or ticking),
So you bring a sample fine,
I’m alive and kicking.

When a trip to Muscovy
Tempts a conquest glutton,
Be so kind as pray for me,
I’m as dead as mutton.
Match me with a tippling foe,
See who first wants picking
From the dead man’s field below,
I’m alive and kicking.

When great scribes to poetry
March, by notions big led,
Be so kind as pray for me,
I’m as dead as pig-lead.
When you start a careless song,
Not at grammar sticking,
Good to push the wine along.
I’m alive and kicking.

When a bigot, half-hours three,
Spouts in canting gloom’s tones,
Be so kind as pray for me,
I’m as dead as tombstones.
When in cloisters underground,
Built of stone or bricking,
Orders of the screw you found,
I’m alive and kicking.

Bourbons back in France we see
(Sure we don’t much need ’em),
Be so kind as pray for me,
I’m as dead as freedom.
Bess returns, and still our throats
Find us here a-slicking,
Sitting free without our coats--
I’m alive and kicking.

Forced to leave this company,
Bottle-wine and horn-ale,
Be so kind as pray for me,
I’m as dead as door-nail.
Pledging, though, a quick return,
Soon my anchor sticking
On the shore for which I yearn--
I’m alive and kicking.

A great name that ushers in the Nineteenth century is that of Honoré de Balzac, chief of the realistic school of French novelists. His humor is keen and is never lacking in his somewhat diversified writings.

From his well known _Contes Drolatiques_ we give two stories.

_A SLIGHT MISUNDERSTANDING_

Louis XI had given the Abbey of Turpenay to a gentleman who, enjoying the revenue, had called himself M. de Turpenay. It happened that the king being at Plessis-les-Tours, the real abbot, who was a monk, came and presented himself before the king, and presented a petition, remonstrating with him that, canonically and monastically, he was entitled to the abbey, and the usurping gentleman wronged him of his right, and therefore he called upon his Majesty to have justice done to him. Nodding his peruke, the king promised to render him contented. This monk, importunate as are all hooded animals, came often at the end of the king’s meals, who, bored with the holy water of the convent, called friend Tristan and said to him, “Old fellow, there is here a Turpenay who annoys me; rid the world of him for me.”

Tristan, taking a frock for a monk, or a monk for a frock, came to this gentleman, whom all the court called M. de Turpenay, and, having accosted him, managed to lead him on one side, then, taking him by the button-hole, gave him to understand that the king desired he should die. He tried to resist, supplicating and supplicating to escape, but in no way could he obtain a hearing. He was delicately strangled between the head and shoulders, so that he expired; and, three hours afterwards, Tristan told the king that he was despatched. It happened five days later, which is the space in which souls come back again, that the monk came into the room where the king was, and when he saw him he was much astonished. Tristan was present; the king called him, and whispered into his ear:

“You have not done what I told you to.”

“Saving your Majesty, I have done it. Turpenay is dead.”

“Eh? I meant this monk.”

“I understood the gentleman!”

“What, it is done, then?”

“Yes, your Majesty.”

“Very well, then”--turning toward the monk--“come here, monk.” The monk approached. The king said to him, “Kneel down.” The poor monk began to shiver in his shoes. But the king said to him, “Thank God that He has not willed that you should be executed as I had ordered. He who took your estates has been instead. God has done you justice. Go and pray to God for me, and don’t stir out of your convent.”

This proves the good-heartedness of Louis XI. He might very well have hanged the monk, the cause of the error. As for the aforesaid gentleman, it was given out that he had died in the king’s service.

_INNOCENCE_

When Queen Catherine was princess royal, to make herself welcome to the king, her father-in-law, who at that time was very ill indeed, she presented him from time to time with Italian pictures, knowing that he liked them much, being a friend of Sire Raphael d’Urbino and of the Sires Primaticcio and Leonardo da Vinci, to whom he sent large sums of money. She obtained from her family a precious picture, painted by a Venetian named Titian (painter to the Emperor Charles, and in very high favor), in which there were portraits of Adam and Eve at the moment when God left them to wander about the terrestrial paradise. They were painted full height, in the costume of the period, in which it is difficult to make a mistake, because they were attired in their ignorance, and caparisoned with the divine grace which enveloped them--a difficult thing to execute on account of the color, but one in which the said Sire Titian excelled. The picture was put into the room of the poor king, who was then ill with the disease of which he eventually died. It had a great success at the Court of France, where every one wished to see it; but no one was able to until after the king’s death, since at his desire it was allowed to remain in his room as long as he lived.

One day Catherine took with her to the king’s room her son Francis and little Margy, who began to talk at random, as children will. Now here, now there, these children had heard this picture of Adam and Eve spoken about, and had tormented their mother to take them to see it. Since the two little ones sometimes amused the old king, the princess royal complied with their request.

“You wished to see Adam and Eve, who were our first parents; there they are,” said she.

Then she left them in great astonishment before Titian’s picture, and seated herself by the bedside of the king, who delighted to watch the children.

“Which of the two is Adam?” said Francis, nudging his sister Margaret’s elbow.

“You silly,” replied she, “they would have to be dressed for one to know that!”

* * * * *

Louis Charles Alfred de Musset was a celebrated French poet and man of letters. Though he died in early middle age, he left many volumes of wise and witty writings.

_THE SUPPER-PARTY OF THE THREE CAVALIERS_

“Be silent, all of you!” cried Mimi. “I want to talk a little now. Since the magnificent M. Marcel does not care for fables, I am going to relate a true story, _et quorum pars magna fui_.”

“Do you speak Latin?” asked Eugène.

“As you perceive,” Mlle. Pinson answered. “I have inherited that sentence from my uncle, who served under the great Napoleon, and who always repeated it before he gave us an account of a battle. If you don’t know the meaning of the words, I’ll teach you free of charge. They mean, ‘I give you my word of honor.’ Well, then, you are to know that one night last week I went with two of my friends, Blanchette and Rougette, to the Odéon theater----”

“Watch me cut the cake,” interrupted Marcel.

“Cut ahead, but listen,” Mlle. Pinson continued. “As I was saying, I went with Blanchette and Rougette to the Odéon to see a tragedy. Rougette, as you know, has just lost her grandmother, and has inherited four hundred francs. We had taken a box, opposite to which, in the pit, sat three students. These young men liked our looks, and, on the pretext that we were alone and unprotected, invited us to supper.”

“Immediately?” asked Marcel. “That was gallant indeed. And you refused, I suppose?”

“By no means,” said Mimi. “We accepted the invitation, and in the intermission, without waiting for the end of the play, we all went off to Viot’s restaurant.”

“With your cavaliers?”

“With our cavaliers. The leader, of course, began by telling us that he had nothing, but such little obstacles did not disconcert us. We ordered everything we wanted. Rougette took pen and paper, and ordered a veritable marriage-feast: shrimps, an omelet with sugar, fritters, mussels, eggs with whipped cream--in fact, all the delicacies imaginable. To tell the truth, our young gentlemen pulled wry faces----”

“I have no doubt of it!” said Marcel.

“We didn’t care. When everything was brought in we began to act the part of great ladies. We approved of nothing, but found everything disgusting. Hardly was any dish brought in but we sent it out again. ‘Waiter, take this away; it’s intolerable; where did you get the horrible stuff?’ Our unknown gentlemen wanted to eat, but found it impossible. In a word, we supped as Sancho dined, and in our vigor nearly broke several dishes.”

“Nice conduct! And who was to pay for it all?”

“That is precisely the question that our three unknown gentlemen asked one another. To judge by what we overheard of their whispered conversation, one of them owned six francs, the second a good deal less, and the third had only his watch, which he generously pulled out of his pocket. So the three unfortunates went up to the cashier, intending to gain a delay of some sort. What answer do you suppose they received?”

“I imagine that you would be kept there, and your gentlemen sent to jail.”

“You are wrong,” said Mlle. Pinson. “Before going in Rougette had taken her precautions, and had paid for everything in advance. You can imagine the scene when Viot answered, ‘Gentlemen, everything is paid.’ Our three unknown gentlemen looked at us as never three dogs looked at three bishops, with pitiful stupefaction mixed with pure tenderness. But we, without seeming to notice anything unusual, went down-stairs and ordered a cab. ‘Dear Marquise,’ said Rougette to me, ‘we ought to take these gentlemen home.’ ‘Certainly, dear Countess,’ answered I. Our poor young gallants did not know what to say, they looked so sheepish. They wanted to get rid of our politeness, and asked not to be taken home, even refusing to give their address. No wonder, either, because they felt sure that they were having to do with great ladies, and they lived in Fish-Cat Street!”

The two students, the friends of Marcel, who, up to this time, had done nothing but smoke their pipes and drink in silence, appeared little pleased with this story. Their faces grew red, and they seemed to know as much about this unfortunate supper as Mimi herself, at whom they glanced restlessly. Marcel, laughing, said:

“Tell us who they were, Mlle. Mimi. Since it happened last week it does not matter.”

“Never!” cried the girl. “Play a trick on a man--yes. But ruin his career--never!”

“You are right,” said Eugène, “and are acting even more wisely than you yourself are aware of. There is not a single young fellow at college who has not some such mistake or folly behind him, and yet it is from among these very people that France draws her most distinguished men.”

“Yes,” said Marcel, “that’s true. There are peers of France who now dine at Flicoteau’s, but who once could not pay their bills. But,” he added, and winked, “haven’t you seen your unknown gentlemen again?”

“What do you take us for?” answered Mlle. Pinson in a severe and almost offended tone. “You know Blanchette and Rougette, and do you suppose that I----?”

“Very well,” said Marcel, “don’t be angry. But isn’t this a nice state of affairs? Here are three giddy girls, who may not be able to pay their next day’s dinner, and who throw away their money for the sake of mystifying three poor unoffending devils!”

“But why did they invite us to supper?” asked Mlle. Pinson.--“_Mimi Pinson._”

* * * * *

Charles Paul de Kock was a novelist and dramatist. A short quotation from _A Much Worried Gentleman_ shows the ubiquitous mother-in-law jest.

_THÉOPHILE’S MOTHER-IN-LAW_

“Son-in-law, you will offer me your arm; your wife will take her cousin’s.”

“Yes, mother-in-law.”

“Furthermore, when we get to the caterer’s for dinner, you must not whisper to your wife. People might suspect something unrefined.”

“Yes, mother-in-law.”

“Neither must you kiss her.”

“Why, you object to me kissing my wife?”

“Before people, yes. It’s very bad form. Haven’t you time enough for it at home?”

“True.”

“At table you will not sit next to your wife, but next to me.”

“That’s agreed.”

“During the meal you will take care that no comic songs on your marriage are sung. Those who write them usually permit themselves indelicate jokes, so that the ladies are put out. That is the worst taste possible.”

“I’ll see that none are sung.”

“You will dance only once with your wife during the evening. Understand me--only once.”

“But, why, why?”

“Because it is proper to let the bride accept the invitations of relatives, friends, and strangers.”

“But I didn’t marry in order that my wife should dance with everybody except myself!”

“Do you wish to insinuate, son-in-law, that you can instruct me concerning the usages of polite society? You are beginning well.”

“I assure you, mother-in-law, that I had no intention----”

“That will do. I accept your excuses. We now come to a more delicate matter, to--but, of course, you must understand me.”

“I confess that I do not at all.”

“Listen, son-in-law. Some newly married young men, on their wedding-night, when the ball is at its gayest, take the liberty of carrying off their wives, and disappearing with them about twelve o’clock.”

“And you object to that?”

“Fie, sir, fie! If you were to be guilty of such a thing, I would make your wife sue for a divorce the day after your marriage.”

“Be easy, then; I will not disappear. But when may I go away with my wife?”

“I shall take my daughter with me, and arrange an opportune time when the decencies of the situation may be observed.”

“And who will take me?”

“You will go alone, but you will not go, understand me well, until there isn’t a cat left at the ball.”

“I shall be getting to bed very late, then. Some of the people will want square dances and country dances, and----”

“You will get to bed soon enough, son-in-law.”

“But why all this, mother-in-law?”

“That will do, M. Tamponnet! It is not becoming that this conversation be prolonged.”

* * * * *

Alexandre Dumas, the Elder, was a noted novelist and dramatist. His output was enormous, and the wit, though always discernible, was subordinate to matters of heroism, adventure and the like.

_CHAPTER TOUCHING THE OLFACTORY ORGAN_

Has it ever occurred to you, dear reader, how admirable an organ the nose is?

The nose; yes, the nose.

And how useful an article this very nose is to every creature which, as Ovid says, lifts its face to heaven?

Well, strange as it may seem, monstrous ingratitude that it is, no poet has yet thought of addressing an ode to the nose!

So it has been left to me, who am not a poet, or who, at least, claim to rank only after our greatest poets, to conceive such an idea.

Truly, the nose is unfortunate.

So many things have been invented for the eyes:

Songs and compliments and kaleidoscopes, pictures and scenery and spectacles.

And for the ears:

Ear-rings, of course, and _Robert the Devil_, _William Tell_, and _Fra Diavolo_, Stradivarius violins and Érard pianos and Sax trumpets.

And for the mouth:

Lent, plain cooking, _The Gastronomists’ Calendar_, _The Gormand’s Dictionary_. Soups of every kind have they made for it, from Russian broth to French cabbage-soup; dishes for it are connected with the reputations of the greatest men, from Soubise cutlets to Richelieu puddings; its lips have been compared to coral, its teeth to pearls, its breath to perfume. Before it have been set plumed peacocks and undrawn snipes; and, for the future, it has been promised whole roast larks.

But what has been invented for the nose?

Attar of roses and snuff.

You have not done well, oh, my masters the philanthropists; oh, my brothers the poets!

And yet how faithfully this limb----

“It is not a limb!” cry the scientists.

I beg your pardon, gentlemen, and retract. This appendage--Ah yes, I was saying with what touching fidelity this appendage has done service for you.

The eyes sleep, the mouth closes, the ears are deaf.

The nose is always on duty.

It watches over your repose and contributes to your health. Feet, hands, all other parts of the body are stupid. The hands are often caught in foolish acts; the feet stumble, and in their clumsiness allow the body to fall. And when they do, they get off free, and the poor nose is punished for their misdeeds.

How often do you not hear it said: “Mr. So-and-So has broken his nose.”

There have been a great many broken noses since the creation of the world.

Can any one give a single instance of a nose broken through any fault of its own?

No; but, nevertheless, the poor nose is always being scolded.

Well, it endures it all with angelic patience. True, it sometimes has the impertinence to snore. But where and when did you ever hear it complain?...

But let us forget for a moment the utility of the nose, and regard it only from the esthetic point of view.

A cedar of Lebanon, it tramples underfoot the hyssop of the mustache; a central column, it provides a support for the double arch of the eyebrows. On its capital perches the eagle of thought. It is enwreathed with smiles. With what boldness did the nose of Ajax confront the storm when he said, “I will escape in spite of the gods.” With what courage did the nose of the great Condé--whose greatness really derived from his nose--with what courage did the nose of the great Condé enter before all others, before the great Condé himself, the entrenchments of the Spanish at Lens and Rocroy, where their conqueror boldly flourished the staff of command? With what assurance was Dugazon’s nose thrust before the public, that nose which knew how to wriggle in forty-two different ways, and each way funnier than the last?

No, I do not believe that the nose should be permitted to remain in the obscurity into which man’s ingratitude has hitherto forced it.

I suggest as one reason why the nose has submitted to this injustice the fact that Occidental noses are so small.

But the deuce is to pay if the noses of the West are the only noses.

There are the Oriental noses, which are very handsome noses.

Do you question the superiority of these noses to your own, gentlemen of Paris, of Vienna, of St. Petersburg?

In that case, my Viennese friends, go by the Danube; you Parisians, take the steamer; Petersburgers, the sledge; and say these simple words:

“To Georgia.”

But I forewarn you of deep humiliation. Should you bring to Georgia one of the largest noses in Europe, at the gate of Tiflis they would gaze at you in astonishment and exclaim:

“What a pity that this gentleman has lost his nose on the way.” ...

Ah, sweet Heaven! those beautiful Georgian noses! Robust noses, magnificent noses!

They are all shapes:

Round, fat, long, large.

There is every color:

White, pink, crimson, violet.

Some are set with rubies, others with pearls. I saw one set with turquoises.

In Georgia, Vakhtang IV abolished the fathom, the meter, and the yard, keeping only the nose.

Goods are measured off by the nose.

They say, “I bought seventeen noses of flannel for a dressing-gown, seven noses of cloth for a pair of breeches, a nose and a half of satin for a cravat.”

Let us add, finally, that the Georgian ladies find this more convenient than European measures.

* * * * *

Théophile Gautier, poet, artist and novelist was identified with the romantic movement in French literature.

A charming art of description was his, as may be seen in the story of the _Lap Dog_.

_FANFRELUCHE_

To write in praise of this marvelous lap-dog, one should pluck a quill from the wing of Love himself; the hands of the Graces alone would be light enough to trace his picture; nor would the touch of Latour be too soft.

His name was Fanfreluche, a pretty name for a dog, and one that he bore with honor.

Fanfreluche was no larger than his mistress’s hand, and it is well known that the marquise has the smallest hand in the world; and yet he seemed larger to the eye, assuming almost the proportions of a small sheep, for he had silky hair a foot in length, and so fine and soft and lustrous that the tresses of Minette were a mere mop by contrast. When he presented his paw, and one pressed it a little, one was astonished to feel nothing at all. Fanfreluche was rather a ball of silk, from which two beautiful brown eyes and a little red nose glittered, than an actual dog. Such a dog could only have belonged to the mother of Love, who lost him in Cytherea, where the marquise, on one of her occasional visits, found him. Look for a moment at this fascinatingly exquisite face. Would not Roxalana herself have been jealous of that delicately tipped-up nose, divided in the middle by a little furrow just like Anne of Austria’s?

What vivacity in that quick eye! And that double row of white teeth, no larger than grains of rice, which, at the least emotion, sparkled in all their brilliance--what duchess would not envy them? And this charming Fanfreluche, apart from his physical attractions, possessed a thousand social graces: he danced the minuet with exquisite grace, knew how to give his paw and tell the hour, capered before the queen and great ladies of France, and distinguished his right paw from his left. And Fanfreluche was learned, and knew more than the members of the Academy. If he was not a member of that body it was because he did not desire it, thinking, no doubt, to shine rather by his absence. The abbé declared that he was as strong as a Turk in the dead languages, and that, if he did not talk, it was from pure malice and to vex his mistress.

Then, too, Fanfreluche had not the vivacity of common dogs. He was very dainty, and very hard to please. He absolutely refused to eat anything but little pies of calves’ brains made especially for him; he would drink nothing but cream from a little Japanese saucer. Only when his mistress dined in town would he consent to nibble at the wing of a chicken, and to take sweets for dessert; but he did not grant this favor to every one, and one had to have an excellent cook to gain it. Fanfreluche had only one little fault. But who is perfect in this world? He loved cherries in brandy and Spanish snuff, of which he took a little pinch from time to time. But the latter is a weakness he shared with the Prince of Condé.

When he heard the cover of the general’s golden snuff-box click, it was a treat to see him sit up on his little hind legs and brush the carpet with his silken tail; and, if the marquise was engrossed in the pleasures of whist, and did not watch him closely, he would jump on the abbé’s lap, who fed him with brandied cherries. And Fanfreluche, whose head was not strong, would become as tipsy as a Swiss guard and two choristers, would perform the queerest little tricks on the carpet, and become extraordinarily ferocious on the subject of the calves of the chevalier, who, to preserve what little was left of them, would draw up his legs on his chair. Then Fanfreluche was no longer a little dog, but a little lion, and the marquise alone could manage him. His picture would not be complete without mentioning the droll little naughtinesses that he was guilty of before being stowed away into his muff, and put to bed in his niche of rosewood, padded with white satin and edged with blue silk cord.

Henri Murger, a noted litterateur, wrote on themes both gloomy and merry. More than most, he ran the gamut from grave to gay, from lively to severe.

Among his best known works are his Bohemian Life Sketches. From the subjoined bit, it may be seen that boresome parties obtain in all times and nations.

_AN EVENING RECEPTION_

Toward the end of the month of December the messengers of Bidault’s agency received for distribution about a hundred copies of a circular of which we certify the following to be a true and genuine copy:

* * * * *

Messieurs Rodolphe and Marcel request the honor of your company at a reception, on Christmas Eve, Saturday next. There is going to be some fun.

P. S. We only live once!

_Program_

I

7 P.M. The rooms will open: lively and animated conversation.

8 P.M. The ingenious authors of _The Mountain in Labor_, a comedy rejected by the Odéon, will take a turn round the rooms.

8.30 P.M. M. Alexandre Schaunard, the distinguished artist, will execute his Imitative Symphony for the piano, called _The Influence of Blue in Art_.

9 P.M. First reading of a memoir on the abolition of the penalty of tragedy.

9.30 P.M. M. Gustave Colline, hyperphysical philosopher, and M. Schaunard will commence a debate on comparative philosophy and metapolitics. In order to prevent any possible collision, the two disputants will be tied together.

10 P.M. M. Tristan, a literary man, will relate the story of his first love. M. Alexandre Schaunard will play a pianoforte accompaniment.

10.30 P.M. Second reading of the memoir on the abolition of the penalty of tragedy.

11 P.M. _The Story of a Cassowary Hunt_, by a foreign prince.

II

At midnight M. Marcel, historical painter, will make a white chalk drawing, with his eyes bandaged. Subject: The interview between Napoleon and Voltaire in the Champs Élysées. At the same time M. Rodolphe will improvise a parallel between the author of _Zaïre_ and the author of _The Battle of Austerlitz_.

12.30 A.M. M. Gustave Colline, in modest undress, will give a revival of the athletic sports of the Fourth Olympiad.

1 A.M. Third reading of the memoir on the abolition of the penalty of tragedy, followed by a collection in aid of authors of tragedies likely to be thrown out of employment.

2 A.M. Sports and quadrilles, which will be kept up till morning.

6 A.M. Rise of the sun upon the scene. Final chorus.

The ventilators will be open during the whole of the reception.

* * * * *

N. B. Any person attempting to read or recite poetry will be immediately ejected from the rooms and taken into custody; you are also requested not to take away candle-ends.

* * * * *

Victor Marie Hugo, celebrated poet, novelist and dramatist, was a recognized leader of the Romantic school of Nineteenth century France.

Quotation from his works is hard to do in brief, but an amusing story is given from _Tales of a Grandfather_.

_THE GOOD FLEA AND THE WICKED KING_

Once upon a time there was a wicked king, who made his people very unhappy. Everybody detested him, and those whom he had put in prison and beheaded would have liked to whip him. But how? He was the strongest, he was the master, he did not have to give account to any one, and when he was told his subjects were not content, he replied:

“Well, what of it? I don’t care a rap!” Which was an ugly answer.

As he continued to act like a king, and as every day he became a little more wicked than the day before, this set a certain little flea to thinking over the matter. It was a little bit of a flea, who was of no consequence at all, but full of good sentiments. This is not the nature of fleas in general; but this one had been very well brought up; it bit people with moderation, and only when it was very hungry.

“What if I were to bring the king to reason?” it said to itself. “It is not without danger. But no matter--I will try.”

That night the wicked king, after having done all sorts of naughty things during the day, was calmly going to sleep when he felt what seemed to be the prick of a pin.

“Bite!”

He growled, and turned over on the other side.

“Bite! Bite! Bite!”

“Who is it that bites me so?” cried the king in a terrible voice.

“It is I,” replied a very little voice.

“You? Who are you?”

“A little flea who wishes to correct you.”

“A flea? Just you wait! Just you wait, and you shall see!”

And the king sprang from his bed, twisted his coverings, and shook the sheets, all of which was quite useless, for the good flea had hidden itself in the royal beard.

“Ah,” said the king, “it has gone now, and I shall be able to get a sound sleep.”

But scarcely had he laid his head on the pillow, when--

“Bite!”

“How? What? Again?”

“Bite! Bite!”

“You dare to return, you abominable little flea? Think for a moment what you are doing! You are no bigger than a grain of sand, and you dare to bite one of the greatest kings on earth!”

“Well, what of it? I don’t care a rap!” answered the flea in the very words of the king.

“Ah, if I only had you!”

“Yes, but you haven’t got me!”