_For the Table Book._
Two gentlemen their appetite had fed,
When, opening his toothpick-case, one said,
“It was not until lately that I knew
That _anchovies_ on terrâ firmâ grew.”
“Grew!” cried the other, “yes, they _grow_, indeed,
Like other fish, but not upon the land;
You might as well say grapes grow on a reed,
Or in the Strand!”
“Why, sir,” return’d the irritated other,
“My brother,
When at Calcutta,
Beheld them bonâ fide growing;
He wouldn’t utter
A lie for love or money, sir; so in
This matter you are thoroughly mistaken.”
“Nonsense, sir! nonsense! I can give no credit
To the assertion--none e’er saw or read it;
Your brother, like his evidence, should be shaken.”
“Be shaken, sir! let me observe, you are
Perverse--in short--”
“Sir,” said the other, sucking his cigar,
And then his port--
“If you _will_ say impossibles are true,
You may affirm just any thing you please--
That swans are quadrupeds, and lions blue,
And elephants inhabit Stilton cheese!
Only you must not _force_ me to believe
What’s propagated merely to deceive.”
“Then you force me to say, sir, you’re a fool,”
Return’d the bragger.
Language like this no man can suffer cool;
It made the listener stagger;
So, thunder-stricken, he at once replied,
“The traveller _lied_
Who had the impudence to tell it you.”
“Zounds! then d’ye mean to swear before my face
That anchovies don’t grow like cloves and mace?”
“I do!”
Disputants often after hot debates
Leave the contention as they found it--bone,
And take to duelling, or thumping _têtes_;
Thinking, by strength of artery, to atone
For strength of argument; and he who winces
From force of words, with force of arms convinces!
With pistols, powder, bullets, surgeons, lint,
Seconds, and smelling-bottles, and foreboding,
Our friends advanced; and now portentous loading
(Their hearts already loaded) serv’d to show
It might be better they shook hands--but no;
When each opines himself, though frighten’d, right,
Each is, in courtesy, oblig’d to fight!
And they _did_ fight: from six full measured paces
The unbeliever pull’d his trigger first;
And fearing, from the braggart’s ugly faces,
The whizzing lead had whizz’d its very worst,
Ran up, and with a _duelistic_ tear,
(His ire evanishing like morning vapours,)
Found _him_ possess’d of one remaining ear,
Who, in a manner sudden and uncouth,
Had given, not lent, the other ear to truth:
For, while the surgeon was applying lint,
He, wriggling, cried--“The deuce is in’t--
Sir! I meant--_capers_!”
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~Characters.~