worth ten pounds.
_Shallow._ And is old Double dead?
* * * * *
There is not anything more characteristic than this in all Shakespeare.
A finer sermon on mortality was never preached. We see the frail
condition of human life, and the weakness of the human understanding
in Shallow’s reflections on it; who, while the past is sliding
from beneath his feet, still clings to the present. The meanest
circumstances are shown through an atmosphere of abstraction that
dignifies them: their very insignificance makes them more affecting,
for they instantly put a check on our aspiring thoughts, and remind us
that, seen through that dim perspective, the difference between the
great and little, the wise and foolish, is not much. ‘One touch of
nature makes the whole world kin’: and old Double, though his exploits
had been greater, could but have had his day. There is a pathetic
_naïveté_ mixed up with Shallow’s commonplace reflections and
impertinent digressions. The reader laughs (as well he may) in reading
the passage, but he lays down the book to think. The wit, however
diverting, is social and humane. But this is not the distinguishing
characteristic of wit, which is generally provoked by folly, and spends
its venom upon vice.
The fault, then, of Shakespeare’s comic Muse is, in my opinion, that it
is too good-natured and magnanimous. It mounts above its quarry. It is
‘apprehensive, quick, forgetive, full of nimble, fiery, and delectable
shapes’: but it does not take the highest pleasure in making human
nature look as mean, as ridiculous, and contemptible as possible. It is
in this respect, chiefly, that it differs from the comedy of a later,
and (what is called) a more refined period.”
_FROM HENRY IV, PART I_
_Enter_ HENRY _Prince of Wales and_ SIR JOHN FALSTAFF.
_Falstaff._ Now, Hal, what time of day is it, lad?
_Prince Henry._ Thou art so fat-witted with drinking of old
sack, and unbuttoning thee after supper, and sleeping upon benches
after noon, that thou hast forgotten to demand that truly which thou
wouldst truly know. What a devil hast thou to do with the time of the
day? Unless hours were cups of sack, and minutes capons, and clocks
the tongues of bawds, and dials the signs of leaping-houses, and the
blessed sun himself a fair hot wench in flame-colored taffata, I see no
reason why thou should’st be so superfluous to demand the time of the
day.
_Falstaff._ Indeed, you come near me now, Hal; for we that take
purses, go by the moon and seven stars; and not by Phœbus--he, “that
wand’ring knight so fair.” And, I pray thee, sweet wag, when thou art
king, as God save thy grace (majesty I should say; for grace thou wilt
have none)--
_Prince Henry._ What! none?
_Falstaff._ No, by my troth; not so much as will serve to be
prologue to an egg and butter.
_Prince Henry._ Well, how then? come, roundly, roundly.
_Falstaff._ Marry, then, sweet wag, when thou art king, let not us
that are squires of the night’s body, be called thieves of the day’s
beauty; let us be--Diana’s foresters, gentlemen of the shade, minions
of the moon: and let men say, we be men of good government; being
governed, as the sea is, by our noble and chaste mistress the moon,
under whose countenance we--steal.
_Prince Henry._ Thou say’st well, and it holds well, too; for the
fortune of us, that are the moon’s men, doth ebb and flow like the sea;
being governed as the sea is, by the moon. As, for proof, now, a purse
of gold most resolutely snatched on Monday night, and most dissolutely
spent on Tuesday morning; got with swearing--_lay by_; and spent
with crying--_bring in_; now, in as low an ebb as the foot of the
ladder; and, by and by, in as high a flow as the ridge of the gallows.
_Falstaff._ By the Lord, thou say’st true, lad. And is not my
hostess of the tavern a most sweet wench?
_Prince Henry._ As the honey of Hybla, my old lad of the castle.
And is not a buff jerkin a most sweet robe of durance?
_Falstaff._ How now, how now, mad wag? what, in thy quips and thy
quiddities? what a plague have I to do with a buff jerkin?
_Prince Henry._ Why, what a pox have I to do with my hostess of
the tavern?
_Falstaff._ Well, thou hast called her to a reckoning many a time
and oft.
_Prince Henry._ Did I ever call for thee to pay thy part?
_Falstaff._ No, I’ll give thee thy due, thou hast paid all there.
_Prince Henry._ Yea, and elsewhere, so far as my coin would
stretch; and where it would not I have used my credit.
_Falstaff._ Yea, and so used it, that, were it not here apparent
that thou art heir apparent,--But, I pr’ythee, sweet wag, shall there
be gallows standing in England when thou art king? and resolution thus
fobbed as it is, with the rusty curb of old father antic the law? Do
not thou, when thou art king, hang a thief.
_Prince Henry._ No; thou shalt.
_Falstaff._ Shall I? Oh, rare! By the Lord, I’ll be a brave judge.
_Prince Henry._ Thou judgest false already; I mean thou shalt have
the hanging of the thieves, and so become a rare hangman.
_Falstaff._ Well, Hal, well; and in some sort it jumps with my
humor, as well as waiting in the court, I can tell you.
_Prince Henry._ For obtaining of suits?
_Falstaff._ Yea, for obtaining of suits; whereof the hangman hath
no lean wardrobe. ’Sblood, I am as melancholy as a gib-cat or a lugged
bear.
_Prince Henry._ Or an old lion; or a lover’s lute.
_Falstaff._ Yea, or the drone of a Lincolnshire bagpipe.
_Prince Henry._ What say’st thou to a hare, or the melancholy of
Moor-ditch.
_Falstaff._ Thou hast the most unsavory similes; and art, indeed,
the most comparative, rascalliest,--sweet young prince,--But Hal, I
pr’ythee trouble me no more with vanity. I would to God thou and I
knew where a commodity of good names were to be bought: an old lord of
the council rated me the other day in the street about you, sir; but I
marked him not; and yet he talked very wisely; but I regarded him not:
and yet he talked wisely, and in the street too.
_Prince Henry._ Thou didst well; for wisdom cries out in the
streets and no man regards it.
_Falstaff._ Oh, thou hast damnable iteration; and art, indeed,
able to corrupt a saint. Thou hast done much harm upon me, Hal,--God
forgive thee for it! Before I knew thee, Hal, I knew nothing; and
now am I, if a man should speak truly, little better than one of the
wicked. I must give over this life, and I will give it over; by the
Lord, and I do not, I am a villain; I’ll be damned for never a king’s
son in Christendom.
_Prince Henry._ Where shall we take a purse tomorrow, Jack?
_Falstaff._ Zounds, where thou wilt, lad; I’ll make one; an I do
not, call me villain, and baffle me.
_Prince Henry._ I see a good amendment of life in thee; from
praying to purse-taking.
_FROM MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING_
CONRADE, BORACHIO, DOGBERRY, VERGES, SEXTON, _and the_
WATCH.
_Dogberry._ Is our whole dissembly appeared?
_Verges._ Oh, a stool and a cushion for the sexton!
_Sexton._ Which be the malefactors?
_Dogberry._ Marry, that am I and my partner.
_Verges._ Nay, that’s certain. We have the exhibition to examine.
_Sexton._ But which are the offenders that are to be examined? Let
them come before master constable.
_Dogberry._ Yea, marry, let them come before me. What is your
name, friend?
_Borachio._ Borachio.
_Dogberry._ Pray, write down--Borachio.--Yours, sirrah?
_Conrade._ I am a gentleman, sir, and my name is Conrade.
_Dogberry._ Write down--master gentleman Conrade.--Masters, do you
serve God?
_Conrade, Borachio._ Yea, sir, we hope.
_Dogberry._ Write down--that they hope they serve God. And
write God first; for God defend but God should go before such
villains!--Masters, it is proved already that you are little better
than false knaves; and it will go near to be thought so shortly. How
answer you for yourselves?
_Conrade._ Marry, sir, we are none.
_Dogberry._ A marvellous witty fellow, I assure you; but I will go
about with him.--Come you hither, sirrah; a word in your ear, sir; I
say to you, it is thought you are false knaves.
_Borachio._ Sir, I say to you, we are none.
_Dogberry._ Well, stand aside.--’Fore God, they are both in a
tale. Have you writ down, that they are none?
_Sexton._ Master constable, you go not the way to examine: you
must call forth the watch that are their accusers.
_Dogberry._ Yea, marry, that’s the eftest way.--Let the watch come
forth.--Masters, I charge you, in the prince’s name, accuse these men.
_1st Watch._ This man said, sir, that Don John, the prince’s
brother, was a villain.
_Dogberry._ Write down--Prince John a villain. Why, this is flat
perjury, to call a prince’s brother villain.
_Borachio._ Master constable--
_Dogberry._ Pray thee, fellow, peace: I do not like thy look, I
promise thee.
_Sexton._ What heard you him say else?
_2d Watch._ Marry, that he had received a thousand ducats of Don
John, for accusing the Lady Hero wrongfully.
_Dogberry._ Flat burglary as ever was committed!
_Verges._ Yea, by the mass, that it is.
_Sexton._ What else, fellow?
_1st Watch._ And that Count Claudio did mean, upon his words, to
disgrace Hero before the whole assembly, and not marry her.
_Dogberry._ O villain! thou wilt be condemned into everlasting
redemption for this.
_Sexton._ What else?
_2d Watch._ This is all.
_Sexton._ And this is more, masters, than you can deny. Prince
John is this morning secretly stolen away; Hero was in this manner
accused, in this very manner refused, and, upon the grief of this,
suddenly died.--Master constable, let these men be bound, and brought
to Leonato’s: I will go before, and show him their examination.
(_Exit._)
_Dogberry._ Come, let them be opinioned.
_Verges._ Let them be in the hands--
_Conrade._ Off, coxcomb!
_Dogberry._ God’s my life! Where’s the sexton? Let him write
down--the prince’s officer, coxcomb.--Come, bind them.--Thou naughty
varlet!
_Conrade._ Away! You are an ass! you are an ass!
_Dogberry._ Dost thou not suspect my place? Dost thou not suspect
my years?--Oh, that he were here to write me down an ass!--But,
masters, remember that I am an ass; though it be not written down, yet
forget not than I am an ass.--No, thou villain, thou art full of piety,
as shall be proved upon thee by good witness. I am a wise fellow;
and, which is more, an officer; and, which is more, a householder;
and, which is more, as pretty a piece of flesh as any in Messina;
and one that knows the law, go to; and a rich fellow enough, go to;
and a fellow that hath had losses; and one that hath two gowns, and
everything handsome about him.--Bring him away.--Oh, that I had been
writ down an ass!
_FROM THE MERCHANT OF VENICE_
_Launcelot._ Certainly, my conscience will serve me to run this
Jew my master. The fiend is at mine elbow, and tempts me, saying to
me, “Gobbo, Launcelot Gobbo, good Launcelot,” or “good Gobbo,” or
“good Launcelot Gobbo, use your legs, take the start, run away.” My
conscience says, “No; take heed, honest Launcelot; take heed, honest
Gobbo”; or, as aforesaid, “honest Launcelot Gobbo; do not run; scorn
running with thy heels.” Well, the most courageous fiend bids me pack:
“Via!” says the fiend; “away!” says the fiend; “for the heavens, rouse
up a brave mind,” says the fiend, “and run.” Well, my conscience,
hanging about the neck of my heart, says very wisely to me, “My honest
friend Launcelot, being an honest man’s son,” or rather an honest
woman’s son; for, indeed, my father did something smack--something
grow to--he had a kind of taste--well, my conscience says, “Launcelot,
budge not.” “Budge,” says the fiend. “Budge not,” says my conscience.
“Conscience,” say I, “you counsel well.” “Fiend,” say I, “you counsel
well.” To be ruled by my conscience, I should stay with the Jew my
master, who--God bless the mark!--is a kind of devil; and to run
away from the Jew, I should be ruled by the fiend, who, saving your
reverence, is the devil himself. Certainly, the Jew is the very devil
incarnation; and, in my conscience, my conscience is a kind of hard
conscience to offer to counsel me to stay with the Jew. The fiend gives
the more friendly counsel: I will run, fiend; my heels are at your
commandment; I will run.
_FROM HAMLET_
POLONIUS _and_ HAMLET, _reading_.
_Polonius._ How does my good Lord Hamlet?
_Hamlet._ Well, God-’a’-mercy.
_Polonius._ Do you know me, my lord?
_Hamlet._ Excellent well; you are a fishmonger
_Polonius._ Not I, my lord.
_Hamlet._ Then I would you were so honest a man.
_Polonius._ Honest, my lord?
_Hamlet._ Ay, sir: to be honest, as this world goes, is to be one
man picked out of ten thousand.
_Polonius._ That’s very true, my lord.
_Hamlet._ For if the sun breed maggots in a dead dog, being a good
kissing carrion--Have you a daughter?
_Polonius._ I have, my lord.
_Hamlet._ Let her not walk i’ the sun: conception is a blessing;
but not as your daughter may conceive. Friend, look to’t.
_Polonius._ How say you by that? (_Aside._) Still harping on
my daughter. Yet he knew me not at first; he said I was a fishmonger.
He is far gone, far gone: and truly in my youth I suffered much
extremity for love; very near this. I’ll speak to him again.--What do
you read, my lord?
_Hamlet._ Words, words, words.
_Polonius._ What is the matter, my lord?
_Hamlet._ Between who?
_Polonius._ I mean the matter that you read, my lord.
_Hamlet._ Slanders, sir. For the satirical slave says here, that
old men have gray beards; that their faces are wrinkled; their eyes
purging thick amber or plum-tree gum; and that they have a plentiful
lack of wit, together with weak hams. All of which, sir, though I most
powerfully and potently believe, yet I hold it not honesty to have it
thus set down; for you yourself, sir, shall grow old as I am: if, like
a crab, you could go backward.
_Polonius._ (_Aside._) Though this be madness, yet there is
method in’t.--Will you walk out o’ the air, my lord?
_Hamlet._ Into my grave?
_Polonius._ Indeed, that is out o’ the air. (_Aside._) How
pregnant sometimes his replies are! A happiness that often madness hits
on, which reason and sanity could not so prosperously be delivered of.
I will leave him, and suddenly contrive the means of meeting between
him and my daughter.--My honourable lord, I will most humbly take my
leave of you.
_Hamlet._ You cannot, sir, take from me anything that I will more
willingly part withal: except my life, except my life, except my life.
_Polonius._ Fare you well, my lord.
_Hamlet._ These tedious old fools!
_FROM AS YOU LIKE IT_
ROSALIND _and_ ORLANDO
_Rosalind._ (_Aside._) I will speak to him like a saucy lackey, and
under that habit play the knave with him.--Do you hear, forester?
_Orlando._ Very well: what would you?
_Rosalind._ I pray you, what is’t o’clock?
_Orlando._ You should ask me, what time o’ day: there’s no clock
in the forest.
_Rosalind._ Then there is no true lover in the forest; else
sighing every minute, and groaning every hour, would detect the lazy
foot of Time as well as a clock.
_Orlando._ And why not the swift foot of Time? Had not that been
as proper?
_Rosalind._ By no means, sir. Time travels in divers paces with
divers persons. I’ll tell you, who Time ambles withal, who Time trots
withal, who Time gallops withal, and who he stands still withal.
_Orlando._ I prithee, who doth he trot withal?
_Rosalind._ Marry, he trots hard with a young maid, between the
contract of her marriage and the day it is solemnised: if the interim
be but a se’nnight, Time’s pace is so hard that it seems the length of
seven years.
_Orlando._ Who ambles Time withal?
_Rosalind._ With a priest that lacks Latin, and a rich man that
hath not the gout; for the one sleeps easily, because he cannot study;
and the other lives merrily, because he feels no pain: the one lacking
the burden of lean and wasteful learning; the other knowing no burden
of heavy, tedious penury. These Time ambles withal.
_Orlando._ Who doth he gallop withal?
_Rosalind._ With a thief to the gallows; for though he go as
softly as foot can fall, he thinks himself too soon there.
_Orlando._ Who stays it still withal?
_Rosalind._ With lawyers in the vacation; for they sleep between
term and term, and then they perceive not how Time moves.
_Orlando._ Where dwell you, pretty youth?
_Rosalind._ Here in the skirts of the forest, like fringe upon a
petticoat.
_Orlando._ Are you native of this place?
_Rosalind._ As the cony, that you see dwell where she is kindled.
_Orlando._ Your accent is something finer than you could purchase
in so removed a dwelling.
_Rosalind._ I have been told of so many: but, indeed, an old
religious uncle of mine taught me to speak, who was in his youth an
inland man; one that knew courtship too well, for there he fell in
love. I have heard him read many lectures against it; and I thank God
I am not a woman, to be touched with so many giddy offences as he hath
generally taxed their whole sex withal.
_Orlando._ Can you remember any of the principal evils that he
laid to the charge of women?
_Rosalind._ There were none principal: they were all like one
another, as half-pence are; every one fault seeming monstrous, till its
fellow fault came to match it.
_Orlando._ I prithee, recount some of them.
_Rosalind._ No; I will not cast away my physic but on those that
are sick. There is a man haunts the forest, that abuses our young
plants with carving Rosalind on their barks; hangs odes upon hawthorns,
and elegies on brambles; all, forsooth, deifying the name of Rosalind:
if I could meet that fancy-monger I would give him some good counsel,
for he seems to have the quotidian of love upon him.
_Orlando._ I am he that is so love-shaked. I pray you, tell me
your remedy.
_Rosalind._ There is none of my uncle’s marks upon you: he taught
me how to know a man in love; in which cage of rushes, I am sure, you
are not prisoner.
_Orlando._ What were his marks?
_Rosalind._ A lean cheek, which you have not; a blue eye, and
sunken, which you have not; an unquestionable spirit, which you have
not; a beard neglected, which you have not (but I pardon you for that,
for, simply, your having in beard is a younger brother’s revenue.
Then, your hose shall be ungartered, your bonnet unbanded, your sleeve
unbuttoned, your shoe untied, and everything about you demonstrating
a careless desolation. But you are no such man; you are rather
point-device in your accoutrements, as loving yourself, than seeming
the lover of any other.
_Orlando._ Fair youth, I would I could make thee believe I love.
_Rosalind._ Me believe it? You may as soon make her that you love
believe it; which, I warrant, she is apter to do than to confess she
does. That is one of the points in the which women still give the lie
to their consciences. But, in good sooth, are you he that hangs the
verses on the trees, wherein Rosalind is so admired?
_Orlando._ I swear to thee, youth, by the white hand of Rosalind,
I am that he, that unfortunate he.
_Rosalind._ But are you so much in love as your rhymes speak?
_Orlando._ Neither rhyme nor reason can express how much.
_Rosalind._ Love is merely a madness; and, I tell you, deserves as
well a dark house and a whip as madmen do. And the reason why they are
not so punished and cured is, that the lunacy is so ordinary that the
whippers are in love too. Yet I profess curing it by counsel.
_Orlando._ Did you ever cure any so?
_Rosalind._ Yes, one; and in this manner. He was to imagine me his
love, his mistress, and I set him every day to woo me: at which time
would I, being but a moonish youth, grieve, be effeminate, changeable,
longing, and liking; proud, fantastical, apish, shallow, inconstant,
full of tears, full of smiles; for every passion something, and for
no passion truly anything, as boys and women are, for the most part,
cattle of this colour: would now like him, now loathe him; then
entertain him, then forswear him; now weep for him, then spit at him;
that I drave my suitor from his mad humour of love, to a living humour
of madness, which was, to forswear the full stream of the world, and
to live in a nook merely monastic. And thus I cured him; and in this
way will I take upon me to wash your liver as clean as a sound sheep’s
heart, that there shall not be one spot of love in’t.
_Orlando._ I would not be cured, youth.
_Rosalind._ I would cure you, if you would but call me Rosalind,
and come every day to my cote, and woo me.
_Orlando._ Now, by the faith of my love, I will. Tell me where it
is.
_Rosalind._ Go with me to it, and I’ll show it you; and, by the
way, you shall tell me where in the forest you live. Will you go?
_Orlando._ With all my heart, good youth.
* * * * *
Francis, Lord Bacon, gave us much wise writing, and, incidentally much
of the wit of wisdom, but we look to him in vain for laughable humor.
A few epigrammatic selections from his essays are given.
* * * * *
All colours will agree in the dark.
* * * * *
This is certain, that a man that studieth revenge keepeth his own
wounds green, which otherwise would heal and do well.
* * * * *
Whosoever esteemeth too much of an amourous affection, quitteth both
riches and wisdom.
Money is like muck: not good except it be spread.
* * * * *
Princes are like to heavenly bodies, which cause good or evil times,
and which have much veneration, and no rest.
* * * * *
Old men object too much, consult too long, adventure too little, repent
too soon.
* * * * *
To take advice of some few friends is ever honourable; for lookers-on
many times see more than gamesters.
* * * * *
Suspicions that the mind of itself gathers are but buzzes; but
suspicions that are artificially nourished and put into men’s heads by
the tales and whisperings of others, have stings.
* * * * *
Reading maketh a full man, conference a ready man, and writing an exact
man. And therefore, if man write little, he had need have a great
memory; if he confer little, he had need have a present wit; and if he
read little, he had need have much cunning to seem to know that which
he doth not.
* * * * *
Sir John Harington, chiefly remembered for his translation of
_Orlando Furioso_, wrote clever humorous verse.
_OF A PRECISE TAILOR_
A tailor, thought a man of upright dealing--
True, but for lying, honest, but for stealing--
Did fall one day extremely sick by chance,
And on the sudden was in wondrous trance.
The fiends of hell, mustering in fearful manner,
Of sundry coloured silks displayed a banner
Which he had stolen, and wished, as they did tell,
That he might find it all one day in hell.
The man, affrighted with this apparition,
Upon recovery grew a great precisian.
He bought a Bible of the best translation,
And in his life he showed great reformation;
He walked mannerly, he talked meekly,
He heard three lectures and two sermons weekly;
He vowed to shun all company unruly,
And in his speech he used no oath but “truly”;
And, zealously to keep the Sabbath’s rest,
His meat for that day on the eve was drest;
And, lest the custom which he had to steal
Might cause him sometimes to forget his zeal,
He gives his journeyman a special charge,
That if the stuff, allowance being large,
He found his fingers were to filch inclined,
Bid him to have the banner in his mind.
This done--I scant can tell the rest for laughter--
A captain of a ship came three days after,
And brought three yards of velvet and three-quarters,
To make Venetians down below the garters.
He, that precisely knew what was enough,
Soon slipt aside three-quarters of the stuff.
His man, espying it, said, in derision,
“Master, remember how you saw the vision!”
“Peace, knave!” quoth he; “I did not see one rag
Of such a coloured silk in all the flag.”
_OF A CERTAIN MAN_
There was (not certain when) a certain preacher
That never learned, and yet became a teacher,
Who, having read in Latin thus a text
Of _erat quidam homo_, much perplext,
He seemed the same with studie great to scan,
In English thus: _There was a certain man._
But now (quoth he), good people, note you this:
He saith there _was_--he doth not say there _is_;
For in these days of ours it is most plain
Of promise, oath, word, deed, no man’s certain;
Yet by my text you see it comes to pass
That surely once a certain man there was;
But yet, I think, in all your Bible no man
Can find this text, _There was a certain woman_.
Ben Jonson, next to Shakespeare as a dramatist, is a master of satiric
wit. His strong, somewhat psychological comedies are difficult to quote
from except in long extracts.
_FROM “EVERY MAN IN HIS HUMOR”_
_Bobadil._ I will tell you, sir, by the way of private, and under
seal, I am a gentleman, and live here obscure, and to myself; but were
I known to her majesty and the lords (observe me), I would undertake,
upon this poor head and life, for the public benefit of the state, not
only to spare the entire lives of her subjects in general, but to save
the one-half, nay, three parts of her yearly charge in holding war, and
against what enemy soever. And how would I do it, think you?
_E. Knowell._ Nay, I know not, nor can I conceive.
_Bobadil._ Why, thus, sir. I would select nineteen more, to
myself, throughout the land; gentlemen they should be of good spirit,
strong and able constitution; I would choose them by an instinct, a
character that I have: and I would teach these nineteen the special
rules--as your punto, your reverso, your stoccata, your imbroccato,
your passado, your montanto--till they could all play very near, or
altogether as well as myself. This done, say the enemy were forty
thousand strong, we twenty would come into the field the tenth of
March, or thereabouts; and we would challenge twenty of the enemy; they
could not in their honor refuse us; well, we would kill them: challenge
twenty more, kill them; twenty more, kill them; twenty more, kill them
too; and thus would we kill every man his twenty a day, that’s twenty
score; twenty score, that’s two hundred; two hundred a day, five days
a thousand; forty thousand; forty times five, five times forty, two
hundred days kills them all up by computation. And this will I venture
my poor gentleman-like carcass to perform, provided there be no treason
practised upon us, by fair and discreet manhood; that is, civilly by
the sword.
_FROM “VOLPONE”_
_Volpone._ Lady, I kiss your bounty, and for this timely grace
you have done your poor Scoto, of Mantua, I will return you, over and
above my oil, a secret of that high and inestimable nature which shall
make you for ever enamoured on that minute, wherein your eye first
descended on so mean, yet not altogether to be despised, an object.
Here is a powder concealed in this paper, of which, if I should speak
to the worth, nine thousand volumes were but as one page, that page as
a line, that line as a word; so short is this pilgrimage of man, which
some call life, to the expression of it. Would I reflect on the price?
Why, the whole world is but as an empire, that empire as a province,
that province as a bank, that bank as a private purse to the purchase
of it. I will only tell you it is the powder that made Venus a goddess,
given her by Apollo, that kept her perpetually young, cleared her
wrinkles, firmed her gums, filled her skin, coloured her hair, from her
derived to Helen, and at the sack of Troy unfortunately lost: till now,
in this our age, it was as happily recovered, by a studious antiquary,
out of some ruins of Asia, who sent a moiety of it to the Court of
France, but much sophisticated, wherewith the ladies there now colour
their hair. The rest, at this present, remains with me, extracted to a
quintessence; so that, wherever it but touches in youth it perpetually
preserves, in age restores the complexion; seats your teeth, did they
dance like virginal jacks, firm as a wall; makes them white as ivory,
that were black as coal.
_A VINTNER_,
To whom Jonson was in debt, told him that he would excuse the payment,
if he could give an immediate answer to the following questions: What
God is best pleased with; what the devil is best pleased with: what the
world is best pleased with; and what he was best pleased with. Jonson,
without hesitation, replied thus:
God is best pleas’d, when men forsake their sin;
The devil’s best pleas’d, when they persist therein:
The world’s best pleas’d, when thou dost sell good wine;
And you’re best pleas’d, when I do pay for mine.
It was the fashion to flatter in those days, and King James had
abundance of such incense offered to him, though according to Ben
Jonson it was impossible to _flatter_ so perfect a monarch.
The dramatist addressed the following epigram _To the Ghost of
Martial_ (Ep. 36):
Martial, thou gav’st far nobler epigrams
To thy Domitian, than I can my James:
But in my royal subject I pass thee,
Thou flattered’st thine, mine cannot flatter’d be.
A thought which has been humorously expanded by Ben Jonson (Ep. 42):
Who says that Giles and Joan at discord be?
Th’ observing neighbours no such mood can see.
Indeed, poor Giles repents he married ever;
But that his Joan doth too. And Giles would never
By his free will be in Joan’s company;
No more would Joan he should. Giles riseth early,
And having got him out of doors is glad;
The like is Joan. But turning home is sad;
And so is Joan. Oft-times when Giles doth find
Harsh sights at home, Giles wisheth he were blind;
All this doth Joan. Or that his long-yearn’d life
Were quite outspun; the like wish hath his wife.
* * * * *
If now, with man and wife, to will and nill
The self-same things, a note of concord be,
I know no couple better can agree.
John Donne, one of the greatest preachers of the English church, was
also a noted wit, poet and courtier. Like his contemporaries his wit
was satirical, but in more playful vein than most.
_THE WILL_
Before I sigh my last gasp, let me breathe,
Great Love, some legacies: Here I bequeathe
Mine eyes to Argus, if mine eyes can see;
If they be blind, then, Love, I give them thee;
My tongue to fame; to embassadors mine ears;
To women or the sea, my tears.
Thou, Love, hast taught me heretofore,
By making me serve her who had twenty more,
That I should give to none but such as had too much before.
My constancy I to the planets give;
My truth to them who at the court do live;
My ingenuity and openness
To Jesuits; to buffoons my pensiveness;
My silence to any who abroad have been;
My money to a Capuchin.
Thou, Love, taught’st me, by appointing me
To love there where no love received can be,
Only to give to such as have an incapacity.
My faith I give to Roman Catholics;
All my good works unto the schismatics
Of Amsterdam; my best civility
And courtship to a university;
My modesty I give to soldiers bare;
My patience let gamesters share.
Thou, Love taught’st me, by making me
Love her that holds my love disparity,
Only to give to those that count my gifts indignity.
I give my reputation to those
Which were my friends; mine industry to foes;
To schoolmen I bequeathe my doubtfulness;
My sickness to physicians, or excess;
To Nature all that I in rhyme have writ;
And to my company my wit.
Thou, Love, by making me adore
Her who begot this love in me before,
Taught’st me to make as though I gave, when I do but restore.
To him for whom the passing bell next tolls
I give my physic-books; my written rolls
Of moral counsel I to Bedlam give;
My brazen medals unto them which live
In want of bread; to them which pass among
All foreigners, mine English tongue.
Thou, Love, by making me love one
Who thinks her friendship a fit portion
For younger lovers, dost my gifts thus disproportion.
Therefore I’ll give no more, but I’ll undo
The world by dying, because love dies too.
Then all your beauties will no more be worth
Than gold in mines where none doth draw it forth;
And all your graces no more use shall have
Than a sundial in a grave.
Thou, Love, taught’st me, by making me
Love her who doth neglect both thee and me,
To invent and practise this one way to annihilate all three.
Thomas Dekker was a prolific dramatic author of the period, and his
satirical characterizations are among the wittiest of his day.
_OBEDIENT HUSBANDS_
There is a humour incident to a woman, which is, when a young man
hath turmoiled himself so long that with much ado he hath gotten
into marriage, and hath perhaps met with a wife according to his own
desire, and perchance such an one that it had been better for him had
he lighted on another, yet he likes her so well that he would not have
missed her for any gold; for, in his opinion, there is no woman like
unto her. He hath a great delight to hear her speak, is proud of his
match, and is, peradventure, withal of so sheepish a nature, that he
has purposed to govern himself wholly by her counsel and direction,
so that if any one speak to him of a bargain, or whatsoever other
business, he tells them that he will have his wife’s opinion on it, and
if she be content, he will go through with it; if not, then will he
give it over.
Thus he is as tame and pliable as a jackanapes to his keeper. If the
Prince set forth an army, and she be unwilling that he should go,
who (you may think) will ask her leave, then must he stay at home,
fight who will for the country. But if she be desirous at any time to
have his room (which many times she likes better than his company),
she wants no journey to employ him in, and he is as ready as a page
to undertake them. If she chide, he answers not a word; generally,
whatsoever she does, or howsoever, he thinks it well done.
Judge, now, in what a case this silly calf is! Is not he, think you,
finely dressed, that is in such subjection? The honestest woman and
most modest of that sex, if she wear the breeches, is so out of reason
in taunting and controlling her husband--for this is their common
fault--and be she never so wise, yet a woman, scarce able to govern
herself, much less her husband and all his affairs; for, were it not
so, God would have made her the head. Which, since it is otherwise,
what can be more preposterous than that the head should be governed by
the foot?
If, then, a wise and honest woman’s superiority be unseemly, and breed
great inconvenience, how is he dressed, think you, if he light on a
fond, wanton, and malicious dame? Then doubtless he is soundly sped.
She will keep a sweetheart under his nose, yet is he so blind that he
can perceive nothing. But, for more security, she will many times send
him packing beyond sea, about some odd errand that she will buzz in his
ears, and he will perform it at her pleasure, though she send him forth
at midnight, in hail, rain, and snow, for he must be a man for all
weathers.
Their children, if they have any, must be brought up, apparelled,
taught, and fed according to her pleasure, and one point of their
learning is always to make no account of their father. Finally, she
orders all things as she thinks best herself, making no more account
of him, especially if he be in years, than men do of an old horse that
is put to labour. Thus is he mewed up, plunged in a sea of cares;
and yet he, kind fool, deems himself most happy in his happiness,
wherein he must now perforce remain while life doth last, and pity it
were he should want it, since he likes it so well.--_The Bachelor’s
Banquet._
Horace is thus amusingly introduced as in the act of concocting an ode:
To thee whose forehead swells with roses,
Whose most haunted bower
Gives life and scent to every flower,
Whose most adoréd name encloses
Things abstruse, deep and divine;
Whose yellow tresses shine
Bright as Eoan fire.
Oh, me thy priest inspire!
For I to thee and thine immortal name,
In--in--in golden tunes,
For I to thee and thine immortal name--
In--sacred raptures flowing, flowing, swimming, swimming:
In sacred raptures swimming,
Immortal name, game, dame, tame, lame, lame, lame,
[Foh,] hath, shame, proclaim, oh--
In sacred raptures flowing, will proclaim [no!].
Oh, me they priest inspire!
For I to thee and thine immortal name,
In flowing numbers filled with spright and flame (Good, good!)
In flowing numbers filled with spright and flame.
John Fletcher is believed to have composed the greater part of the
plays by Beaumont and Fletcher.
The _Laughing Song_ is attributed to Fletcher alone.
_LAUGHING SONG_
(_For several voices_)
Oh how my lungs do tickle! ha ha ha!
Of how my lungs do tickle! ho ho ho ho!
Set a sharp jest
Against my breast,
Then how my lungs do tickle!
As nightingales,
And things in cambric rails,
Sing best against a prickle.
Ha ha ha ha!
Ho ho ho ho ho!
Laugh! Laugh! Laugh! Laugh!
Wide! Loud! And vary!
A smile is for a simpering novice,--
One that ne’er tasted caviarë,
Nor knows the smack of dear anchovies.
Ha ha ha ha ha!
Ho ho ho ho ho!
A giggling waiting-wench for me,
That shows her teeth how white they be,--
A thing not fit for gravity,
For theirs are foul and hardly three.
Ha ha ha!
Ho ho ho!
“Democritus, thou ancient fleerer,
How I miss thy laugh, and ha’ since!”
There thou named the famous[est] jeerer
That e’er jeered in Rome or Athens.
Ha ha ha!
Ho ho ho!
“How brave lives he that keeps a fool,
Although the rate be deeper!”
But he that is his own fool, sir,
Does live a great deal cheaper.
“Sure I shall burst, burst, quite break,
Thou art so witty.”
“’Tis rare to break at court,
For that belongs to the city.”
Ha ha! my spleen is almost worn
To the last laughter.
“Oh keep a corner for a friend!
A jest may come hereafter.”
Bishop Corbet, more sociable and vivacious than many of his calling
wrote rollicking verses as well as wise and serious sermons.
Perhaps this is the first known example of sheer nonsense verse.
_LIKE TO THE THUNDERING TONE_
Like to the thundering tone of unspoke speeches,
Or like a lobster clad in logic breeches,
Or like the gray fur of a crimson cat,
Or like the mooncalf in a slipshod hat;
E’en such is he who never was begotten
Until his children were both dead and rotten.
Like to the fiery tombstone of a cabbage,
Or like a crab-louse with its bag and baggage,
Or like the four square circle of a ring,
Or like to hey ding, ding-a, ding-a, ding;
E’en such is he who spake, and yet, no doubt,
Spake to small purpose, when his tongue was out.
Like to a fair, fresh, fading, wither’d rose,
Or like to rhyming verse that runs in prose,
Or like the stumbles of a tinder-box,
Or like a man that’s sound yet sickness mocks;
E’en such is he who died and yet did laugh
To see these lines writ for his epitaph.
It may be that utter nonsense was more in vogue at this time than can
be definitely asserted, for such productions would, naturally, not be
preserved as were the more important matters.
This anonymous bit of nonsense is said to have been written in 1617,
and may be from the pen of the same worthy Bishop.
_NONSENSE_
Oh, that my lungs could bleat like butter’d Pease;
But bleating of my lungs hath caught the itch,
And are as mangy as the Irish seas
That offer wary windmills to the Rich.
I grant that Rainbowes being lull’d asleep,
Snort like a woodknife in a Lady’s eyes;
Which makes her grieve to see a pudding creep,
For Creeping puddings only please the wise.
Not that a hard-row’d herring should presume
To swing a tyth pig in a Cateskin purse;
For fear the hailstons which did fall at Rome,
By lesning of the fault should make it worse.
For ’tis most certain Winter woolsacks grow
From geese to swans if men could keep them so.
Till that the sheep shorn Planets gave the hint
To pickle pancakes in Geneva print.
Some men there were that did suppose the skie
Was made of Carbonado’d Antidotes;
But my opinion is, a Whale’s left eye,
Need not be coynéd all King Harry groates.
The reason’s plain, for Charon’s Westerne barge
Running a tilt at the Subjunctive mood,
Beckoned to Bednal Green, and gave him charge
To fasten padlockes with Antartic food.
The End will be the Mill ponds must be laded,
To fish for white pots in a Country dance;
So they that suffered wrong and were upbraded
Shall be made friends in a left-handed trance.
A charming lyric by Bishop Corbet is:
_FAREWELL TO THE FAIRIES_
“Farewell, rewards and fairies!”
Good housewives now may say,
For now foul sluts in dairies
Do fare as well as they.
And, though they sweep their hearths no less
Than maids were wont to do,
Yet who of late, for cleanliness,
Finds sixpence in her shoe?
Lament, lament, old Abbeys,
The fairies lost command!
They did but change priests’ babies,
But some have changed your land;
And all your children stoln from thence
Are now grown Puritans;
Who live as changelings ever since,
For love of your domains.
At morning and at evening both,
You merry were and glad,
So little care of sleep or sloth
These pretty ladies had;
When Tom came home from labour,
Or Cis to milking rose,
Then merrily went their tabor,
And nimbly went their toes.
Witness those rings and roundelays
Of theirs, which yet remain,
Were footed in Queen Mary’s days
On many a grassy plain;
But, since of late Elizabeth,
And later James, came in,
They never danced on any heath
As when the time hath been.
By which we note the fairies
Were of the old profession,
Their songs were Ave-Maries,
Their dances were procession:
But now, alas! they all are dead,
Or gone beyond the seas;
Or further for religion fled,
Or else they take their ease.
A tell-tale in their company
They never could endure,
And whoso kept not secretly
Their mirth was punished sure;
It was a just and Christian deed
To pinch such black and blue:
Oh how the commonwealth doth need
Such justices as you!
Bishop Corbet’s epigram on Beaumont’s early death is well known:
He that hath such acuteness and such wit,
As would ask ten good heads to husband it;
He, that can write so well that no man dare
Refuse it for the best, let him beware:
Beaumont is dead, by whose sole death appears,
Wit’s a disease consumes men in few years.
Sir Walter Raleigh, the graceful and brilliant courtier, is thought by
most students of the subject to have written _The Lie_. Though it
has been attributed to various authors the weight of evidence is in
favor of Raleigh.
_THE LIE_
Go, Soul, the body’s guest,
Upon a thankless errand;
Fear not to touch the best;
The truth shall be thy warrant.
Go, since I needs must die,
And give them all the lie.
Go tell the Court it glows
And shines like rotten wood;
Go tell the Church it shows
What’s good, but does no good.
If Court and Church reply,
Give Court and Church the lie.
Tell Potentates they live
Acting, but oh! their actions;
Not loved, unless they give,
Not strong but by their factions.
If Potentates reply,
Give Potentates the lie.
Tell men of high condition,
That rule affairs of state,
Their purpose is ambition;
Their practice only hate;
And if they do reply,
Then give them all the lie.
Tell those that brave it most,
They beg for more by spending,
Who in their greatest cost
Seek nothing but commending;
And if they make reply,
Spare not to give the lie.
Tell zeal it wants devotion;
Tell love it is but lust;
Tell time it is but motion;
Tell flesh it is but dust:
And wish them not reply,
For thou must give the lie.
Tell age it daily wasteth;
Tell honor how it alters;
Tell beauty how she blasteth;
Tell favor how it falters:
And as they shall reply,
Give every one the lie.
Tell wit how much it wrangles
In tickle points of niceness;
Tell wisdom she entangles
Herself in over-wiseness:
And when they do reply,
Straight give them both the lie.
Tell physic of her boldness;
Tell skill it is pretension;
Tell charity of coldness;
Tell law it is contention:
And as they do reply,
So give them still the lie.
Tell fortune of her blindness;
Tell nature of decay;
Tell friendship of unkindness;
Tell justice of delay:
And if they will reply,
Then give them all the lie.
Tell arts they have no soundness,
But vary by esteeming;
Tell schools they want profoundness,
And stand too much on seeming:
If arts and schools reply,
Give arts and schools the lie.
Tell faith it’s fled the city;
Tell how the country erreth;
Tell, manhood shakes off pity;
Tell, virtue least preferreth:
And if they do reply,
Spare not to give the lie.
So when thou hast, as I
Commanded thee, done blabbing,--
Although to give the lie
Deserves no less than stabbing,--
Yet, stab at thee that will,
No stab the soul can kill.
The following well-known and thoroughly characteristic verses
originally appeared in _Gammer Gurton’s Needle_, an old English
comedy, which was long supposed to be the earliest written in the
language, but which now ranks as the second in point of age. It was
written by John Still, afterwards Bishop of Bath and Wells.
_JOLLY GOOD ALE AND OLD_
I cannot eat but little meat;
My stomach is not good;
But sure I think that I can drink
With him that wears a hood.
Though I go bare, take ye no care,
I nothing am a-cold,
I stuff my skin so full within
Of jolly good ale and old.
Back and side go bare, go bare;
Both foot and hand go cold;
But, belly, God send thee good ale enough,
Whether it be new or old.
I love no roast but a nut-brown toast,
And a crab laid in the fire;
And little bread shall do me stead;
Much bread I nought desire.
No frost, no snow, no wind, I trow,
Can hurt me if I wold,
I am so wrapp’d, and thoroughly lapp’d,
Of jolly good ale and old.
Back and side, etc.
And Tib, my wife, that as her life
Loveth well good ale to seek,
Full oft drinks she, till ye may see
The tears run down her cheek:
Then doth she troul to me the bowl,
Even as a maltworm should,
And saith, “Sweetheart, I took my part
Of this jolly good ale and old.”
Back and side, etc.
Now let them drink till they nod and wink
Even as good fellows should do;
They shall not miss to have the bliss
Good ale doth bring men to.
And all poor souls that have scour’d bowls
Or have them lustily troul’d,
God save the lives of them and their wives,
Whether they be young or old.
Back and side, etc.
Sir John Davies, poet and lawyer, wrote many acrostics to Queen
Elizabeth, and other witty verses.
_ACROSTICS_
Earth now is green and heaven is blue;
Lively spring which makes all new,
Iolly spring doth enter.
Sweet young sunbeams do subdue
Angry aged winter.
Blasts are mild and seas are calm,
Every meadow flows with balm,
The earth wears all her riches,
Harmonious birds sing such a psalm
As ear and heart bewitches.
Reserve (sweet spring) this nymph of ours,
Eternal garlands of thy flowers,
Green garlands never wasting;
In her shall last our state’s fair spring,
Now and forever flourishing,
As long as heaven is lasting.
_THE MARRIED STATE_
Wedlock, indeed, hath oft comparèd been
To public feasts, where meet a public rout,
Where they that are without would fain go in,
And they that are within would fain go out.
John Marston, both dramatist and divine, gives us this bit of humorous
satire--
_THE SCHOLAR AND HIS DOG_
I was a scholar: seven useful springs
Did I deflower in quotations
Of cross’d opinions ’bout the soul of man;
The more I learnt, the more I learnt to doubt.
Delight my spaniel slept, whilst I baus’d leaves,
Toss’d o’er the dunces, pored on the old print
Of titled words: and still my spaniel slept.
Whilst I wasted lamp-oil, baited my flesh,
Shrunk up my veins: and still my spaniel slept.
And still I held converse with Zabarell,
Aquinas, Scotus, and the musty saw
Of antick Donate: still my spaniel slept.
Still on went I; first, _an sit anima_;
Then, an it were mortal. Oh, hold, hold! at that
They’re at brain buffets, fell by the ears amain
Pell-mell together; still my spaniel slept.
Then, whether ’t were corporeal, local, fixt,
_Ex traduce_, but whether ’t had free will
Or no, hot philosophers
Stood banding factions, all so strongly propt,
I stagger’d, knew not which was firmer part,
But thought, quoted, read, observ’d, and pryed,
Stufft noting-books: and still my spaniel slept.
At length he wak’d, and yawned; and by yon sky,
For aught I know he knew as much as I.
Following the example of Jest Books and collections of Merry Tales,
came the Anthologies.
The most important of these was the _Miscellany_, which went
through eight editions in thirty years, and is said to be the book of
songs and sonnets that Master Slender missed so much.
This book was first published in 1557 and was followed by many less
worthy collections.
In 1576 appeared _The Paradise of Dainty Devices_ which also ran
through many editions.
As a rule these collections were uninteresting and composed largely
of dull and prosy numbers. Their chief charm lay in their titles,
which were such as _A Gorgeous Gallery of Gallant Inventions_,
_A Handful of Pleasant Delights_, and _A Bouquet of Dainty
Conceits_.
Yet it must be remembered that this latter half of the Sixteenth
Century saw the splendid flowering of lyric poetry, and in the last
year appeared a famous book called _England’s Helicon_ or _The
Muses’ Harmony_, which was a sort of Golden Treasury of the
Elizabethan age.
This was supplemented two years later by the _Poetical Rhapsody_,
edited by Francis Davison, and from then on, the collected songs and
verses of England showed poetry from the masters.
Also there were produced at this period many translations, both of
the classics and of more modern works of various countries; though no
important humorous work was translated until the next century, when
Urquhart gave Rabelais to the English people.
FRENCH WIT AND HUMOR
Rutebœuf, the Trouvère, of the Thirteenth Century, if not the principal
author of the Fabliaux was the first to put them into rhyme.
Most of his tales are too long and rambling to quote, and we content
ourselves with one.
_THE ASS’S TESTAMENT_
A priest there was in times of old,
Fond of his church, but fonder of gold,
Who spent his days and all his thought
In getting what he preached was naught.
His chests were full of robes and stuff,
Corn filled his garners to the roof,
Stored up against the fair-times gay,
From Saint Rémy to Easter Day.
An ass he had within his stable,
A beast most sound and valuable.
For twenty years he lent his strength
For the priest, his master, till at length,
Worn out with work and age, he died.
The priest, who loved him, wept and cried;
And, for his service long and hard,
Buried him in his own churchyard.
Now turn we to another thing:
’Tis of a bishop that I sing.
No greedy miser he, I ween;
Prelate so generous ne’er was seen.
Full well he loved in company
Of all good Christians still to be;
When he was well, his pleasure still,
His medicine best when he was ill.
Always his hall was full, and there
His guests had ever best of fare.
Whate’er the bishop lack’d or lost
Was bought at once despite the cost;
And so, in spite of rent and score,
The bishop’s debts grew more and more.
For true it is--this ne’er forget--
Who spends too much gets into debt.
One day his friends all with him sat,
The bishop talking this and that,
Till the discourse on rich clerks ran,
Of greedy priests, and how their plan
Was all good bishops still to grieve,
And of their dues their lords deceive.
And then the priest of whom I’ve told
Was mention’d; how he loved his gold.
And because men do often use
More freedom than the truth would choose,
They gave him wealth, and wealth so much,
As those like him could scarcely touch.
“And then besides, a thing he’s done,
By which great profit might be won,
Could it be only spoken here.”
Quoth the bishop, “Tell it without fear.”
“He’s worse, my lord, than Bedouin,
Because his own dead ass, Baldwin,
He buried in the sacred ground.”
“If this is truth, as shall be found,”
The bishop cried, “a forfeit high
Will on his worldly riches lie.
Summon this wicked priest to me;
I will myself in this case be
The judge. If Robert’s word be true,
Mine are the fine and forfeit too.”
* * * * *
“Disloyal! God’s enemy and mine,
Prepare to pay a heavy fine.
Thy ass thou buriedst in the place
Sacred to church. Now, by God’s grace,
I never heard of crime more great.
What! Christian men with asses wait?
Now, if this thing be proven, know
Surely to prison thou wilt go.”
“Sir,” said the priest, “thy patience grant;
A short delay is all I want.
Not that I fear to answer now--
But give me what the laws allow.”
And so the bishop leaves the priest,
Who does not feel as if at feast.
But still, because one friend remains,
He trembles not at prison pains.
His purse it is which never fails
For tax or forfeit, fine or vails.
The term arrived, the priest appeared,
And met the bishop, nothing feared;
For ’neath his girdle safe there hung
A leathern purse, well stocked and strung
With twenty pieces fresh and bright,
Good money all, none clipped or light.
“Priest,” said the bishop, “if thou have
Answer to give to charge so grave,
’Tis now the time.”
“Sir, grant me leave
My answer secretly to give.
Let me confess to you alone,
And, if needs be, my sins atone.”
The bishop bent his head to hear,
The priest he whispered in his ear:
“Sir, spare a tedious tale to tell.
My poor ass served me long and well,
For twenty years my faithful slave,
Each year his work a saving gave
Of twenty sous---so that in all
To twenty livres the sum will fall;
And, for the safety of his soul,
To you, my lord, he left the whole.”
“’Twas rightly done,” the bishop said,
And gravely shook his godly head:
“And, that his soul to heaven may go,
My absolution I bestow.”
Now have you heard a truthful lay,
How with rich priests the bishops play;
And Rutebœuf the moral draws
That, spite of kings’ and bishops’ laws,
’Gainst evil is the man secure
That shields himself with money’s lure.
In the Fourteenth century, Eustache Deschampes wrote more than a
thousand ballades, virelais and other forms of light verse.
One of his ballades, here given in translation, is of a distinctly
modern type of wit.
_ADVICE TO A FRIEND ON MARRIAGE_
Ope! Who? A friend! What wouldst obtain?
Advice! Whereof? Is’t well to wed?
I wish to marry. What’s your pain?
No wife have I for board and bed,
By whom my house is wisely led.
One meek and fair I wish to gain,
Young, wealthy, too, and nobly bred;
You’re crazy--batter out your brain!
Consider! Grief can you sustain?
Women have tempers bold and dread;
When for a dish of eggs you’re fain,
Broth, cheese, you’ll have before you spread:
Now free, you’ll be a slave instead--
When married, you yourself have slain.
Think well. My first resolve is said;
You’re crazy--batter out your brain!
No wife will be like her you feign;
On angry words you shall be fed,
So shall you bitterly complain,
With woes too hard to bear, bested:
Better a life in forest led
Than of such beast to bear the strain.
No! The sweet fancy fills my head;
You’re crazy--batter out your brain!
_ENVOY_
Soon you will long that you were dead
When married; seek in street or lane
Some love. No! Passion bids me wed;
You’re crazy--batter out your brain!
Olivier Basselin who flourished in the Fifteenth century, and who was
a fuller by trade, is another one of the literary “Fathers,” his title
being, “Le Pere Joyeux du Vaudeville.” Born at Vire, surrounded by
valleys, it is held by some, while contradicted by others, that the
modern term vaudeville is a corruption of Vaux de Vire.
His songs are mostly convivial and his humor broad and rollicking.
_TO MY NOSE_
Fair Nose! whose rubies red have cost me many a barrel
Of claret wine and white,
Who wearest in thy rich and sumptuous apparel
Such red and purple light!
Great Nose! who looks at thee through some huge glass at revel,
More of thy beauty thinks:
For thou resemblest not the nose of some poor devil
Who only water drinks.
The turkey-cock doth wear, resembling thee, his wattles,
How many rich men now
Have not so rich a nose! To paint thee, many bottles
And much time I allow.
The glass my pencil is for thine illumination;
My color is the wine,
With which I’ve painted thee more red than the carnation,
By drinking of the fine.
’Tis said it hurts the eyes; but shall they be the masters?
Wine is the cure for all;
Better the windows both should suffer some disasters,
Than have the whole house fall.
_APOLOGY FOR CIDER_
Though Frenchmen at our drink may laugh,
And think their taste is wondrous fine,
The Norman cider, which we quaff,
Is quite the equal of his wine,--
When down, down, down it freely goes,
And charms the palate as it flows.
Whene’er a potent draught I take,
How dost thou bid me drink again?
Yet, pray, for my affection’s sake,
Dear Cider, do not turn my brain.
O, down, down, down it freely goes,
And charms the palate as it flow.
I find I never lose my wits,
However freely I carouse,
And never try in angry fits
To raise a tempest in the house;
Though down, down, down the cider goes,
And charms the palate as it flows.
To strive for riches in all stuff,
Just take the good the gods have sent;
A man is sure to have enough
If with his own he is content;
As down, down, down, the cider goes,
And charms the palate as it flows.
In truth that was a hearty bout;
Why, not a drop is left,--not one;
I feel I’ve put my thirst to rout;
The stubborn foe at last is gone.
So down, down, down the cider goes,
And charms the palate as it flows.
Francois Villon, born 1431, though not paternally designated, is
called, and rightly, the Prince of Ballade Makers.
Two translations are here given of one of his most popular poems, and
another witty Ballade is added.
_THE BALLADE OF DEAD LADIES_
_Translated by Dante Gabriel Rossetti_
Tell me now in what hidden way is
Lady Flora the lovely Roman?
Where’s Hipparchia, and where is Thais,
Neither of them the fairer woman?
Where is Echo, beheld of no man,
Only heard on river and mere,--
She whose beauty was more than human?...
But where are the snows of yester-year?
Where’s Héloïse, the learned nun,
For whose sake Abeillard, I ween,
Lost manhood and put priesthood on?
(From Love he won such dule and teen!)
And where, I pray you, is the Queen
Who willed that Buridan should steer
Sewed in a sack’s mouth down the Seine?...
But where are the snows of yester-year?
White Queen Blanche, like a queen of lilies,
With a voice like any mermaiden,--
Bertha Broad-foot, Beatrice, Alice,
And Ermengarde the lady of Maine,--
And that good Joan whom Englishmen
At Rouen doomed and burned her there,--
Mother of God, where are they then?...
But where are the snows of yester-year?
_Envoi:_
Nay, never ask this week, fair lord,
Where they are gone, nor yet this year,
Except with this for an overword,--
But where are the snows of yester-year?
_A BALLADE OF OLD TIME LADIES_
_Translated by John Payne_
Tell me, where, in what land of shade,
Hides fair Flora of Rome? and where
Are Thaìs and Archipiade,
Cousins-german in beauty rare?
And Echo, more than mortal fair,
That when one calls by river flow,
Or marish, answers out of the air?
But what has become of last year’s snow?
Where did the learn’d Héloïsa vade,
For whose sake Abelard did not spare
(Such dole for love on him was laid)
Manhood to lose and a cowl to wear?
And where is the queen who will’d whilere
That Buridan, tied in a sack, should go
Floating down Seine from the turret-stair?
But what has become of last year’s snow?
Blanche, too, the lily-white queen, that made
Sweet music as if she a siren were?
Broad-foot Bertha? and Joan, the maid,
The good Lorrainer the English bare
Captive to Rouen, and burn’d her there?
Beatrix, Eremburge, Alys--lo!
Where are they, virgins debonair?
But what has become of last year’s snow?
_Envoi_:
Prince, you may question how they fare,
This week, or liefer this year, I trow:
Still shall the answer this burden bear--
But what has become of last year’s snow?
_BALLAD OF THE WOMEN OF PARIS_
Albeit the Venice girls get praise
For their sweet speech and tender air,
And though the old women have wise ways
Of chaffering for amorous ware,
Yet at my peril dare I swear,
Search Rome, where God’s grace mainly tarries,
Florence and Savoy, everywhere,
There’s no good girl’s lip out of Paris.
The Naples women, as folk prattle,
Are sweetly spoken and subtle enough:
German girls are good at tattle,
And Prussians make their boast thereof;
Take Egypt for the next remove,
Or that waste land the Tartar harries,
Spain or Greece, for the matter of love,
There’s no good girl’s lip out of Paris.
Breton and Swiss know nought of the matter,
Gascony girls or girls of Toulouse;
Two fisherwomen with a half-hour’s chatter
Would shut them up by threes and twos;
Calais, Lorraine, and all their crews,
(Names enow the mad song marries)
England and Picardy, search them and choose,
There’s no good girl’s lip out of Paris.
_Envoi_:
Prince, give praise to our French ladies
For the sweet sound their speaking carries;
’Twixt Rome and Cadiz many a maid is,
But no good girl’s lip out of Paris.
From Clement Marot, a delightful French poet of the Sixteenth century,
we give the following two extracts translated by Leigh Hunt.
_A LOVE-LESSON_
A sweet “No! no!” with a sweet smile beneath
Becomes an honest girl,--I’d have you learn it;
As for plain “Yes!” it may be said, i’ faith.
Too plainly and too oft,--pray, well discern it!
Not that I’d have my pleasure incomplete,
Or lose the kiss for which my lips beset you;
But that in suffering me to take it, Sweet!
I’d have you say--“No! no! I will not let you.”
_MADAME D’ALBRET’S LAUGH_
Yes! that fair neck, too beautiful by half,
Those eyes, that voice, that bloom, all do her honour;
Yet, after all, that little giddy laugh
Is what, in my mind, sits the best upon her.
Good God! ’twould make the very streets and ways,
Through which she passes, burst into a pleasure!
Did melancholy come to mar my days
And kill me in the lap of too much leisure,
No spell were wanting, from the dead to raise me,
But only that sweet laugh wherewith she slays me.
About this time appeared the Heptameron, a series of tales of similar
form and character to the Decameron of Boccaccio. This work was
attributed to Margaret of Navarre, and doubtless was written by the
queen with the assistance of some of her people. The tales are too long
to quote.
Jehan du Pontalais wrote a clever satirical skit on the love of money.
_MONEY_
Who money has, well wages the campaign;
Who money has, becomes of gentle strain;
Who money has, to honor all accord:
He is my lord.
Who money has, the ladies ne’er disdain;
Who money has, loud praises will attain;
Who money has, in the world’s heart is stored,
The flower adored.
O’er all mankind he holds his conquering track--
They only are condemned who money lack.
Who money has, will wisdom’s credit gain;
Who money has, all earth is his domain;
Who money has, praise is his sure reward,
Which all afford.
Who money has, from nothing need refrain;
Who money has, on him is favor poured;
And, in a word,
Who money has, need never fear attack--
They only are condemned who money lack.
Who money has, in every heart does reign;
Who money has, all to approach are fain;
Who money has, of him no fault is told,
Nor harm can hold.
Who money has, none does his right restrain;
Who money has, can whom he will maintain;
Who money has, clerk, prior, by his gold,
Is straight enrolled.
Who money has, all raise, none hold him back--
They only are condemned who money lack.
Francois Rabelais was born in or about 1495, in Chinon, Touraine.
Successively, monk, physician and scientist, he is best known as a
master of humor and grotesque invention. His romance of Gargantua and
Pantagruel is an extravagant, satirical criticism of the follies and
vices of the period, burlesquing the current abuses of government and
religion.
Unable to escape a paternal label,
An able writer in the _Foreign Quarterly Review_ speaks of
Rabelais as “an author without parallel in the history of literature:
an author who is the literary parent of many authors, since without him
we should probably have never known a Swift, a Sterne, a Jean Paul, or,
in fact, any of the irregular humorists: an author who did not appear
as a steadily shining light to the human race, but as a wild, startling
meteor, predicting the independence of thought, and the downfall of
the authority of ages: an author who for the union of heavy learning
with the most miraculous power of imagination, is perhaps without a
competitor.”
The works of Rabelais abound in learning and serious intent, but the
riotous humor and flashing wit are presented with an accompaniment of
repulsive coarseness intolerable to the modern mind.
This phase, however, was a part of the manners and customs of his time,
and to philosophers and students Rabelais will ever be a mine of deep
and recondite wisdom and thought.
Indicative of his wildly extravagant fancy are the following extracts.
_OF THE ECLIPSES THIS YEAR_
This year there will be so many eclipses of the sun and moon, that I
fear (not unjustly) our pockets will suffer inanition, be full empty,
and our feeling at a loss. Saturn will be retrograde, Venus direct,
Mercury as unfixed as quicksilver. And a pack of planets won’t go as
you would have them.
For this reason the crabs will go side-long, and the rope-makers
backward; the little stools will get upon the benches, and the spits on
the racks, and the bands on the hats; fleas will be generally black;
bacon will run away from peas in lent; there won’t be a bean left in a
twelfth cake, nor an ace in a flush; the dice won’t run as you wish,
tho’ you cog them, and the chance that you desire will seldom come;
brutes shall speak in several places; Shrovetide will have its day; one
part of the world shall disguise itself to gull and chouse the other,
and run about the streets like a parcel of addle-pated animals and mad
devils; such a hurly-burly was never seen since the devil was a little
boy; and there will be above seven and twenty irregular verbs made this
year, if Priscian don’t hold them in. If God don’t help us, we shall
have our hands and hearts full.
_OF THE DISEASES THIS YEAR_
This year the stone-blind shall see but very little; the deaf shall
hear but scurvily; the dumb shan’t speak very plain; the rich shall
be somewhat in a better case than the poor, and the healthy than the
sick. Whole flocks, herds, and droves of sheep, swine and oxen; cocks
and hens, ducks and drakes, geese and ganders, shall go to pot; but
the mortality will not be altogether so great among apes, monkeys,
baboons and dromedaries. As for old age, ’twill be incurable this year,
because of the years past. Those who are sick of the pleurisy will
feel a plaguy stitch in their sides; catarrhs this year shall distill
from the brain on the lower parts; sore eyes will by no means help the
sight; ears shall be at least as scarce and short in Gascony, and among
knights of the post, as ever; and a most horrid and dreadful, virulent,
malignant, catching, perverse and odious malady, shall be almost
epidemical, insomuch that many shall run mad upon it, not knowing what
nails to drive to keep the wolf from the door, very often plotting,
contriving, cudgeling and puzzling their weak shallow brains, and
syllogizing and prying up and down for the philosopher’s stone, tho’
they only get Midas’s lugs by the bargain. I quake for very fear when
I think on’t; for I assure you, few will escape this disease, which
Averroes calls lack of money, and by consequence of the last year’s
comet, and Saturn’s retrogradation, there will be a horrid clutter
between the cats and the rats, hounds and hares, hawks and ducks, and
eke between the monks and eggs.
_OF THE FRUITS OF THE EARTH THIS YEAR_
I find by the calculations of Albumazar in his book of the great
conjunction, and elsewhere, that this will be a plentiful year of
all manner of good things to those who have enough; but your hops
of Picardy will go near to fare the worse for the cold. As for oats
they’ll be a great help to horses. I dare say, there won’t be much
more bacon than swine. Pisces having the ascendant, ’twill be a mighty
year for muscles, cockles, and periwinkles. Mercury somewhat threatens
our parsly-beds, yet parsly will be to be had for money. Hemp will
grow faster than the children of this age, and some will find there’s
but too much on’t. There will be a very few _bon-chretiens_, but
choak-pears in abundance. As for corn, wine, fruit and herbs, there
never was such plenty as will be now, if poor folks may have their wish.
_RABELAIS IMITATES DIOGENES_
(_From the Author’s Prologue to Book III._)
When Philip, King of Macedon, enterprised the siege and ruin of
Corinth, the Corinthians having received certain intelligence by their
spies, that he with a numerous army in battle array was coming against
them, were all of them, not without cause, most terribly afraid; and,
therefore, were not neglective of their duty, in doing their best
endeavors to put themselves in a fit posture to resist his hostile
approach, and defend their own city. Some from the fields brought
into the fortified places their movables, cattle, corn, wine, fruit,
victuals and other necessary provisions. Others did fortify and rampire
their walls, set up little fortresses, bastions, squared ravelins,
digged trenches, cleansed countermines, fenced themselves with gabions,
contrived platforms, emptied casemates, barricaded the false brayes,
erected the cavalliers, repaired the contrescarpes, plaistered the
courtines, lengthened ravelins, stopped parapets, mortised barbacans,
new pointed the portcullises with fine steel or good iron, fastened the
herses and cataracts, placed their sentries and doubled their patrol.
Every one did watch and ward, and not one was exempted from carrying
the basket. Some polished corselets, varnished backs and breasts,
cleaned the headpieces, mailcoats, brigandins, salads, helmets,
murrions, jacks, gushets, gorgets, hoguines, brassars and cuissars,
corselets, haubergeons, shields, bucklers, targets, greves, gauntlets
and spurs.
Others made ready bows, slings, cross-bows, pellets, catapults,
migraines or fire-balls, firebrands, balists, scorpions, and other such
warlike engines, repugnatory, and destructive to the Helepolides.
They sharpened and prepared spears, staves, pikes, brown bills,
halberts, long hooks, lances, zagages, quarterstaves, eelspears,
partisans, troutstaves, clubs, battle-axes, maces, darts, dartlets,
glaves, javelins, javelots, and truncheons.
They set edges upon scimetars, cutlasses, badelairs, backswords, tucks,
rapiers, bayonets, arrow-heads, dags, daggers, mandousians, poniards,
whinyards, knives, skenes, chipping knives, and raillons.
Diogenes seeing them all so warm at work, and himself not employed
by the magistrates in any business whatsoever, he did very seriously
(for many days together, without speaking one word) consider, and
contemplate the countenance of his fellow-citizens.
Then on a sudden, as if he had been roused up and inspired by a martial
spirit, he girded his cloak, scarf-ways, about his left arm, tucked
up his sleeves to the elbow, trussed himself like a clown gathering
apples, and giving to one of his old acquaintance his wallet, books,
and opistographs, away went he out of town towards a little hill or
promontory of Corinth called Craneum; and there on, the strand, a
pretty level place, did he roll his jolly tub, which served him for an
house to shelter him from the injuries of the weather: there, I say, in
a great vehemency of spirit, did he turn it veer it, wheel it, whirl
it, frisk it, jumble it, shuffle it, hurdle it, tumble it, hurry it,
jolt it, jostle it, overthrow it, evert it, invert it, subvert it,
overturn it, beat it, thwack it, bump it, batter it, knock it, thrust
it, push it, jerk it, shock it, shake it, toss it, throw it, overthrow
it upside down, topsyturvy, tread it, trample it, stamp it, tap it,
ting it, ring it, tingle it, towl it, sound it, resound it, stop it,
shut it, unbung it, close it, unstopple it. And then again in a mighty
bustle he bandied it, slubbered it, hacked it, whittled it, wayed it,
darted it, hurled it, staggered it, reeled it, swinged it, brangled it,
tottered it, lifted it, heaved it, transformed it, transfigured it,
transposed it, transplaced it, reared it, raised it, hoised it, washed
it, dighted it, cleansed it, rinsed it, nailed it, settled it, fastened
it, shackled it, fettered it, levelled it, blocked it, tugged it, tewed
it, carried it, bedashed it, bewrayed it, parched it, mounted it,
broached it, nicked it, notched it, bespattered it, decked it, adorned
it, trimmed it, garnished it, gaged it, furnished it, bored it, pierced
it, tapped it, rumbled it, slid it down the hill, and precipitated it
from the very height of the Craneum; then from the foot to the top
(like another Sisyphus with his stone) bore it up again, and every way
so banged it and belabored it, that it was ten thousand to one he had
not struck the bottom of it out.
Which when one of his friends had seen, and asked him why he did
so toil his body, perplex his spirit, and torment his tub? the
philosopher’s answer was, that not being employed in any other office
by the Republic, he thought it expedient to thunder and storm it so
tempestuously upon his tub, that amongst a people so fervently busy
and earnest at work, he alone might not seem a loitering slug and lazy
fellow. To the same purpose may I say to myself,--
Tho’ I be rid from fear,
I am not void of care.
For perceiving no account to be made of me towards the discharge of a
trust of any great concernment, and considering that through all the
parts of this most noble kingdom of France, both on this and on the
other side of the mountains, every one is most diligently exercised
and busied; some in the fortifying of their own native country, for
its defence; others, in the repulsing of their enemies by an offensive
war; and all this with a policy so excellent, and such admirable order,
so manifestly profitable for the future, whereby France shall have
its frontiers most magnifically enlarged, and the French assured of a
long and well-grounded peace, that very little withholds me from the
opinion of good Heraclitus, which affirmeth war to be the parent of all
good things; and therefore do I believe that war is in Latin called
_bellum_, not by antiphrasis, as some patchers of old rusty Latin
would have us to think, because in war there is little beauty to be
seen; but absolutely and simply; for that in war (_bellum_ in
_Latin_) appears all that is good and graceful, _bon_ and
_bel_ in French, and that by the wars is purged out all manner
of wickedness and deformity. For proof whereof the wise and pacific
Solomon could no better represent the unspeakable perfection of the
divine wisdom, than by comparing it to the due disposure and ranking of
an army in battle array, well provided and ordered.
Therefore by reason of my weakness and inability, being reputed by my
compatriots unfit for the offensive part of warfare; and on the other
side, being no way employed in matter of the defensive, although it had
been but to carry burdens, fill ditches, or break clods, each whereof
had been to me indifferent, I held it not a little disgraceful to be
only an idle spectator of so many valorous, eloquent, and warlike
persons, who in the view and sight of all Europe act this notable
interlude or tragicomedy, and not exert myself, and contribute thereto
this nothing, my all; which remained for me to do. For, in my opinion,
little honor is due to such as are mere lookers on, liberal of their
eyes, and of their strength parsimonious; who conceal their crowns and
hide their silver; scratching their head with one finger like grumbling
puppies, gaping at the flies like tithe calves; clapping down their
ears like Arcadian asses at the melody of musicians, who with their
very countenances in the depth of silence express their consent to the
prosopopeia.
Having made this choice and election, it seemed to me that my exercise
therein would be neither unprofitable nor troublesome to any, whilst I
should thus set agoing my Diogenical Tub.
_THE LOST HATCHET_
There once lived a poor honest country fellow of Gravot, Tom Wellhung
by name, a wood-cleaver by trade, who in that low drudgery made shift
so to pick up a sorry livelihood. It happened that he lost his hatchet.
Now tell me who ever had more cause to be vexed than poor Tom? Alas,
his whole estate and life depended on his hatchet; by his hatchet he
earned many a fair penny of the best wood-mongers or log-merchants,
among whom he went a-jobbing; for want of his hatchet he was like to
starve; and had Death but met him six days after without a hatchet, the
grim fiend would have mowed him down in the twinkling of a bed-staff.
In this sad case he began to be in a heavy taking, and called upon
Jupiter with most eloquent prayers (for, you know, necessity was the
mother of eloquence), with the whites of his eyes turned up toward
heaven, down on his marrow-bones, his arms reared high, his fingers
stretched wide, and his head bare, the poor wretch without ceasing was
roaring out by way of Litany at every repetition of his supplications,
“My hatchet, Lord Jupiter, my hatchet, my hatchet, only my hatchet,
oh, Jupiter, or money to buy another, and nothing else; alas, my poor
hatchet!”
Jupiter happened then to be holding a grand council about certain
urgent affairs, and old Gammer Cybele was just giving her opinion, or,
if you had rather have it so, it was young Phœbus the Beau; but, in
short, Tom’s outcry and lamentations were so loud that they were heard
with no small amazement at the council-board by the whole consistory
of the gods. “What a devil have we below,” quoth Jupiter, “that howls
so horridly? By the mud of Styx, haven’t we had all along, and haven’t
we here still, enough to do to set to rights a world of puzzling
businesses of consequence? Let us, however, despatch this howling
fellow below; you, Mercury, go see who it is, and discover what he
wants.” Mercury looked out at heaven’s trapdoor, through which, as I
am told, they hear what’s said here below. By the way, one might well
enough mistake it for the scuttle of a ship; though Icaromenippus said
it was like the mouth of a well. The light-heeled deity saw that it
was honest Tom, who asked for his lost hatchet; and, accordingly, he
made his report to the Synod. “Marry,” said Jupiter, “we are finely
holped up, as if we had now nothing else to do here but to restore lost
hatchets. Well, he must have it for all that, for so ’tis written in
the Book of Fate, as well as if it was worth the whole Duchy of Milan.
The truth is, the fellow’s hatchet is as much to him as a kingdom to a
king. Come, come, let no more words be scattered about it; let him have
his hatchet again. Run down immediately, and cast at the poor fellow’s
feet three hatchets! his own, another of gold, and a third of massy
silver, all of one size; then, having left it to his will to take his
choice, if he take his own, and be satisfied with it, give him t’other
two. If he take another, chop his head off with his own; and henceforth
serve me all those losers of hatchets after that manner.”
Having said this, Jupiter, with an awkward turn of his head, like a
jackanapes swallowing pills, made so dreadful a phiz that all the
vast Olympus quaked again. Heaven’s foot-messenger, thanks to his
low-crowned, narrow-brimmed hat, and plume of feathers, heel-pieces,
and running-stick with pigeon-wings, flings himself out at heaven’s
wicket, through the empty deserts of the air, and in a trice nimbly
alights on the earth, and throws at friend Tom’s feet the three
hatchets, saying to him: “Thou hast bawled long enough to be a-dry; thy
prayers and requests are granted by Jupiter; see which of these three
is thy hatchet, and take it away with thee.”
Wellhung lifts up the golden hatchet, peeps upon it, and finds it very
heavy; then staring on Mercury cries, “Gadzooks, this is none of mine;
I won’t ha’t.” The same he did with the silver one, and said, “’Tis not
this either; you may e’en take them again.” At last, he takes up his
own hatchet, examines the end of the helve, and finds his mark there;
then, ravished with joy, like a fox that meets some straggling poultry,
and sneering from the tip of the nose, he cries, “By the Mass, this
is my hatchet; Master God, if you will leave it me, I will sacrifice
to you a very good and huge pot of milk, brim full, covered with fine
strawberries, next Ides, _i.e._, the 15th of May.”
“Honest fellow,” said Mercury, “I leave it thee; take it; and because
thou hast wished and chosen moderately, in point of hatchet, by
Jupiter’s command I give thee these two others; thou hast now wherewith
to make thyself rich: be honest.”
Honest Tom gave Mercury a whole cart-load of thanks, and paid reverence
to the most great Jupiter. His old hatchet he fastened close to his
leathern girdle, and girds it about his breech like Martin of Cambray;
the two others, being more heavy, he lays on his shoulder. Thus he
plods on, trudging over the fields, keeping a good countenance among
his neighbors and fellow-parishioners, with one merry saying or other,
after Patelin’s way.
The next day, having put on a clean white jacket, he takes on his
back the two precious hatchets, and comes to Chinon, the famous city,
noble city, ancient city, yea, the first city in the world, according
to the judgment and assertion of the most learned Massoreths. In
Chinon he turned his silver hatchet into fine testons, crown-pieces,
and other white cash; his golden hatchet into fine angels, curious
ducats, substantial ridders, spankers, and rose nobles. Then with
them purchases a good number of farms, barns, houses, outhouses,
thatch-houses, stables, meadows, orchards, fields, vineyards, woods,
arable lands, pastures, ponds, mills, gardens, nurseries, oxen,
cows, sheep, goats, swine, hogs, asses, horses, hens, cocks, capons,
chickens, geese, ganders, ducks, drakes, and a world of all other
necessaries, and in a short time became the richest man in all the
country. His brother bumpkins, and the yeomen and other country-puts
thereabout, perceiving his good fortune, were not a little amazed,
insomuch that their former pity of poor Tom was soon changed into an
envy of his so great and unexpected rise; and, as they could not for
their souls devise how this came about, they made it their business to
pry up and down, and lay their heads together, to inquire, seek, and
inform themselves by what means, in what place, on what day, what hour,
how, why, and wherefore, he had come by this great treasure.
At last, hearing it was by losing his hatchet, “Ha, ha!” said they,
“was there no more to do, but to lose a hatchet, to make us rich?” With
this they all fairly lost their hatchets out of hand. The devil a one
that had a hatchet left; he was not his mother’s son, that did not lose
his hatchet. No more was wood felled or cleared in that country through
want of hatchets. Nay, the Æsopian apologue even saith, that certain
petty country gents, of the lower class, who had sold Wellhung their
little mill and little field to have wherewithal to make a figure at
the next muster, having been told that this treasure was come to him by
that means only, sold the only badge of their gentility, their swords,
to purchase hatchets to go to lose them, as the silly clodpates did, in
hopes to gain store of coin by that loss.
You would have truly sworn they had been a parcel of your petty
spiritual usurers, Rome-bound, selling their all, and borrowing of
others to buy store of mandates, a pennyworth of a new-made pope.
Now they cried out and brayed, and prayed and bawled, and lamented and
invoked Jupiter, “My hatchet! My hatchet! Jupiter, my hatchet!” On this
side, “My hatchet!” On that side, “My hatchet! Ho, ho, ho, ho, Jupiter,
my hatchet!” The air round about rung again with the cries and howlings
of these rascally losers of hatchets.
Mercury was nimble in bringing them hatchets; to each offering that
which he had lost, as also another of gold, and a third of silver.
Everywhere he still was for that of gold, giving thanks in abundance
to the great giver Jupiter; but in the very nick of time, that they
bowed and stooped to take it from the ground, whip in a trice, Mercury
lopped off their heads, as Jupiter had commanded. And of heads thus cut
off, the number was just equal to that of the lost hatchets.
--_Gargantua and Pantagruel._
There is an epigram in Martial, and one of the very good ones--for he
has all sorts--where he pleasantly tells the story of Cælius, who, to
avoid making his court to some great men of Rome, to wait their rising,
and to attend them abroad, pretended to have the gout; and the better
to color this, anointed his legs and had them lapped up in a great many
swathings, and perfectly counterfeited both the gesture and countenance
of a gouty person; till in the end, Fortune did him the kindness to
make him one indeed.
“Tantum cura potest, et ars doloris!
Desit fingere Cælius podagram.”
I think I have read somewhere in Appian, a story like this, of one who
to escape the proscriptions of the triumvirs of Rome, and the better to
be concealed from the discovery of those who pursued him, having hidden
himself in a disguise, would yet add this invention, to counterfeit
having but one eye; but when he came to have a little more liberty,
and went to take off the plaster he had a great while worn over his
eye, he found he had totally lost the sight of it indeed, and that it
was absolutely gone. ’Tis possible that the action of sight was dulled
from having been so long without exercise, and that the optic power
was wholly retired into the other eye for we evidently perceive that
the eye we keep shut sends some part of its virtue to its fellow, so
that it will swell and grow bigger; and so, inaction, with the heat of
ligatures and plaster might very well have brought some gouty humor
upon this dissembler of Martial.
Reading in Froissart the vow of a troop of young English gallants,
to keep their left eyes bound up till they had arrived in France and
performed some notable exploit upon us, I have often been tickled with
the conceit: suppose it had befallen them as it did the Roman, and
they had returned with but one eye apiece to their mistresses, for
whose sakes they had made his ridiculous vow.
Mothers have reason to rebuke their children when they counterfeit
having but one eye, squinting, lameness, or any other personal defect;
for, besides that their bodies being then so tender may be subject to
take an ill bent, Fortune, I know not how, sometimes seems to delight
in taking us at our word; and I have heard several examples related
of people who have become really sick, by only feigning to be so. I
have always used, whether on horseback or on foot, to carry a stick in
my hand, and even to affect doing it with an elegant air; many have
threatened that this fancy would one day be turned into necessity: if
so, I should be the first of my family to have the gout.
But let us a little lengthen this chapter, and add another anecdote
concerning blindness. Pliny reports of one who, dreaming he was blind,
found himself so indeed in the morning without any preceding infirmity
in his eyes. The force of imagination might assist in this case, as I
have said elsewhere, and Pliny seems to be of the same opinion; but it
is more likely that the motions which the body felt within, of which
physicians, if they please, may find out the cause, taking away his
sight, were the occasion of his dream.
Let us add another story, not very improper for this subject, which
Seneca relates in one of his epistles: “You know,” says he, writing
to Lucilius, “that Harpaste, my wife’s fool, is thrown upon me as an
hereditary charge for I have naturally an aversion to those monsters;
and if I have a mind to laugh at a fool, I need not seek him far, I
can laugh at myself. This fool has suddenly lost her sight: I tell
you a strange, but a very true thing; she is not sensible that she is
blind, but eternally importunes her keeper to take her abroad, because
she says the house is dark. That what we laugh at in her, I pray you
to believe, happens to every one of us: no one knows himself to be
avaricious or grasping: and again, the blind call for a guide, while we
stray of our own accord. I am not ambitious, we say; but a man cannot
live otherwise at Rome; I am not wasteful, but the city requires a
great outlay; ’tis not my fault if I am choleric--if I have not yet
established any certain course of life: ’tis the fault of youth. Let us
not seek our disease out of ourselves; ’tis in us, and planted in our
bowels; and the mere fact that we do not perceive ourselves to be sick,
renders us more hard to be cured. If we do not betimes begin to see to
ourselves, when shall we have provided for so many wounds and evils
wherewith we abound? And yet we have a most sweet and charming medicine
in philosophy; for of all the rest we are sensible of no pleasure till
after the cure: this pleases and heals at once.” This is what Seneca
says, that has carried me from my subject, but there is advantage in
the change.
As in England, the French published many jest books containing short
anecdotes or epigrams, as well as the ubiquitous noodle stories.
* * * * *
A wife said to her husband, who was much attached to reading, “I wish
I were a book, that I might always have your company.” _Then_,
answered he, _I should wish you an almanac, that I might change once
a year_.
* * * * *
It was said of a malicious parasite, that he never opened his mouth
but at the expense of others; because he always ate at the tables of
others, and spoke ill of everybody.
* * * * *
The Duke of Vivonne, who was a heretic in medicine, being indisposed,
his friends sent for a physician. When the Duke was told a physician
was below, he said, _Tell him I cannot see him, because I am not
well. Let him call again at another time_.
* * * * *
The Marechal de Faber, at a siege, was pointing out a place with his
finger. As he spoke, a musket-ball carried off the finger. Instantly
stretching another, he continued his discourse, _Gentlemen, as I was
saying_--. This was true _sang froid_.
A man, carrying on an unjust process, was advised to pray to God for
its success. _Stop, stop_, replied he, _God must hear nothing of
this_.
* * * * *
Another princess of France, being espoused by the king of Spain, in
passing through a town, on her way to Madrid, the magistrates of the
place, which was a famous mart for stockings, waited on the queen with
a present of a dozen pairs of remarkable fineness. The Spanish grandee,
who attended her, full of the jealous humour of his nation, said, in
a passion. “You fools, know that a queen of Spain has no legs.” The
magistrates retired in terror, and the poor queen, weeping sadly, said,
_Must I then have both my legs cut off?_
* * * * *
In a village of Poitou, a peasant’s wife, after a long illness, fell
into a lethargy. She was thought dead; and being only wrapped in linen,
as the custom of burying the poor in that country is, she was carried
to the place of interment. In going to church, the body, being borne
aloft, was caught hold of by some briars, and so scratched, that as
if bled by a surgeon, she revived. Fourteen years after, she died in
earnest, as was thought; and as they carried her to church, the husband
exclaimed, _For God’s sake, do not go near the briars_.
* * * * *
A gentleman, seeing in his yard a mass of rubbish, blamed his people
for not removing it. A domestic said, no cart could be got. “Why,”
answered the master, “do you not make a pit beside the rubbish, and
bury it?” “But,” answered the domestic, “where shall we put the earth
that comes out of the pit?” _You great fool_, replied his master,
_make the pit so large as to hold all_.
* * * * *
A lady sitting near the fire, and telling a long story, a spark flew on
her gown, and she did not perceive it till it had burnt a good while.
_I saw it at first, madam_, said a lady who was present, _but I
could not be so rude as to interrupt you_.
When Rabelais lay on his death-bed, he could not help jesting at the
very last moment; for, having received the extreme unction, a friend
coming to see him, said, he hoped he was prepared for the next world.
_Yes, yes_, answered Rabelais, _I am ready for my journey now;
they have just greased my boots_.
GERMAN WIT AND HUMOR
Brandt’s _Das Narrenschiff_, or _The Ship of Fools_, a long
satirical poem, was published at the close of the Fifteenth century.
It was followed by _The Boats of Foolish Women_ and other
imitative works.
Among them, was _The Praise of Folly_, by Desiderius Erasmus, a
Dutch classical scholar and satirist.
The following is from the Dedicatory Epistle which introduces _The
Praise of Folly_, and which is addressed to Sir Thomas More.
“But those who are offended at the lightness and pedantry of this
subject, I would have them consider that I do not set myself for the
first example of this kind, but that the same has been oft done by many
considerable authors. For thus, several ages since, Homer wrote of no
more weighty a subject than of a war between the frogs and mice; Virgil
of a gnat and a pudding cake; and Ovid of a nut. Polycrates commended
the cruelty of Busiris; and Isocrates, that corrects him for this, did
as much for the injustice of Glaucus. Favorinus extolled Thersites,
and wrote in praise of a quartane ague. Synesius pleaded in behalf of
baldness; and Lucian defended a sipping fly. Seneca drollingly related
the deifying of Claudius; Plutarch the dialogue betwixt Gryllus and
Ulysses; Lucian and Apuleius the story of an ass; and somebody else
records the last will of a hog, of which St. Hierom makes mention. So
that, if they please, let themselves think the worst of me, and fancy
to themselves that I was, all this while, a playing at push-pin, or
riding astride on a hobby-horse. For how unjust is it, if when we allow
different recreations to each particular course of life, we afford no
diversion to studies; especially when trifles may be a whet to more
serious thoughts, and comical matters may be so treated of, as that
a reader of ordinary sense may possibly thence reap more advantage
than from some more big and stately argument.... As to what relates
to myself, I must be forced to submit to the judgment of others, yet,
except I am too partial to be judge in my own case, I am apt to believe
I have praised Folly in such a manner as not to have deserved the name
of fool for my pains.”
A short extract from the book follows.
“It is one farther very commendable property of fools, that
they always speak the truth, than which there is nothing more
noble and heroical. For so, though Plato relates it as a
sentence of Alcibiades, that in the sea of drunkenness truth
swims uppermost, and so wine is the only teller of truth, yet
this character may more justly be assumed by me, as I can make
good from the authority of Euripides, who lays down this as an
axiom, ‘Children and fools always speak the truth.’ Whatever the
fool has in his heart, he betrays in his face; or what is more
notifying, discovers it by his words; while the wise man, as
Euripides observes, carries a double tongue; the one to speak
what may be said, the other what ought to be; the one what
truth, the other what time requires; whereby he can in a trice
so alter his judgment, as to prove that to be now white, which
he had just swore to be black; like the satyr at his porridge,
blowing hot and cold at the same breath; in his lips professing
one thing, when in his heart he means another.
Furthermore, princes in their greatest splendor seem upon this
account unhappy, in that they miss the advantage of being told
the truth, and are shammed off by a parcel of insinuating
courtiers, that acquit themselves as flatterers more than as
friends. But some will perchance object that princes do not love
to hear the truth, and therefore wise men must be very cautious
how they behave themselves before them, lest they should take
too great a liberty in speaking what is true, rather than what
is acceptable. This must be confessed, truth indeed is seldom
palatable to the ears of kings, yet fools have so great a
privilege as to have free leave, not only to speak bare truths,
but the most bitter ones too; so as the same reproof which, had
it come from the mouth of a wise man would have cost him his
head, being blurted out by a fool, is not only pardoned, but
well taken, and rewarded. For truth has naturally a mixture of
pleasure, if it carry with it nothing of offence to the person
whom it is applied to; and the happy knack of ordering it so, is
bestowed only on fools....”
However, but few individual names stand out in the early German
literature that can by any stretch of definition be called humorous.
As in all other countries, legends and folk lore tales were rife, and
eventually produced popular heroes about whom stories were invented.
Brother Rush, who seems to be merely a demon of darkness, is first
found in print in Germany in 1515.
He is a tricksy sprite and goes through various vicissitudes of rather
dull interest.
He was followed by Tyll Eulenspiegel, a far more popular personage, and
translated to England under the name of Owleglas or Howleglas.
Eulenspiegel was a shrewd and cunning proposition and had many
startling adventures, two of which are here given.
_EULENSPIEGEL’S PRANKS_
_The Golden Horseshoes_
Eulenspiegel came to the court of the King of Denmark, who liked him
well, and said that if he would make him some diversion, then might he
have the best of shoes for his horse’s hoofs. Eulenspiegel asked the
king if he was minded to keep his word well and truly, and the king did
answer most solemnly, “Yes.”
Now did Eulenspiegel ride his horse to a goldsmith, by whom he
suffered to be beaten upon the horse’s hoofs shoes of gold with silver
nails. This done, Eulenspiegel went to the king, that the king might
send his treasurer to pay for the shoeing. The treasurer believed
he should pay a blacksmith, but Eulenspiegel conducted him to the
goldsmith, who did require and demand one hundred Danish marks. This
would the treasurer not pay, but went and told his master.
Therefore the king caused Eulenspiegel to be summoned into his
presence, and spoke to him:
“Eulenspiegel, why did you have such costly shoes? Were I to shoe all
my horses thus, soon would I be without land or any possessions.”
To which Eulenspiegel did make reply:
“Gracious King, you did promise me the best of shoes for my horse’s
hoofs, and I did think the best were of gold.”
Then the king laughed:
“You shall be of my court, for you act upon my very word.”
And the king commanded his treasurer to pay the hundred marks for the
horse’s golden shoes. But these Eulenspiegel caused to be taken off,
and iron shoes put on in their stead; and he remained many a long day
in the service of the King of Denmark.
_Paying with the Sound of a Penny_
Eulenspiegel was at a tavern where the host did one day put the meat
on the spit so late that Eulenspiegel got hungry for dinner. The host,
seeing his discontent, said to him:
“Who cannot wait till the dinner be ready, let him eat what he may.”
Therefore Eulenspiegel went aside, and ate some dry bread; after that
he had eaten he sat by the fire and turned the spit until the meat was
roasted. Then was the meat borne upon the table, and the host, with the
guests, did feast upon it. But Eulenspiegel stayed on the bench by the
fire, nor would he sit at the board, since he told the host that he had
his fill from the odor of the meat. So when they had eaten, and the
host came to Eulenspiegel with the tray, that he might place in it the
price of the food, Eulenspiegel did refuse, saying:
“Why must I pay for what I have not eaten?”
To which the host replied, in anger:
“Give me your penny; for by sitting at the fire, and swallowing the
savor of the meat, you had the same nourishment as though you had
partaken of the meat at the board.”
Then Eulenspiegel searched in his purse for a penny, and threw it on
the bench, saying to the host:
“Do you hear this sound?”
“I do, indeed,” answered the host.
Then did Eulenspiegel pick up the penny and restore it to his purse;
which done, he spoke again:
“To my belly the odor of the meat is worth as much as the sound of the
penny is to you.”
* * * * *
About this time came into being the tales of the Schildburgers, or
Noodles, who correspond to the Gothamites of England.
Schildburg, we are told, was a town “in Misnopotamia, beyond Utopia,
in the kingdom of Calecut.” The Schildburgers were originally so
renowned for their wisdom, that they were continually invited into
foreign countries to give their advice, until at length not a man was
left at home, and their wives were obliged to assume the charge of the
duties of their husbands. This became at length so onerous, that the
wives held a council, and resolved on despatching a solemn message in
writing to call the men home. This had the desired effect; all the
Schildburgers returned to their own town, and were so joyfully received
by their wives that they resolved upon leaving it no more. They
accordingly held a council, and it was decided that, having experienced
the great inconvenience of a reputation of wisdom, they would avoid
it in future by assuming the character of fools. One of the first
evil results of their long neglect of home affairs was the want of a
council-hall, and this want they now resolved to supply without delay.
They accordingly went to the hills and woods, cut down the timber,
dragged it with great labour to the town, and in due time completed
the erection of a handsome and substantial building. But, when they
entered their new council-hall, what was their consternation to find
themselves in perfect darkness! In fact, they had forgotten to make
any windows. Another council was held, and one who had been among the
wisest in the days of their wisdom, gave his opinion very oracularly;
the result of which was that they should experiment on every possible
expedient for introducing light into the hall, and that they should
first try that which seemed most likely to succeed. They had observed
that the light of day was caused by sunshine, and the plan proposed was
to meet at mid-day when the sun was brightest, and fill sacks, hampers,
jugs, and vessels of all kinds, with sunshine and daylight, which they
proposed afterwards to empty into the unfortunate council-hall. Next
day, as the clock struck one, you might see a crowd of Schildburgers
before the council-house door, busily employed, some holding the sacks
open, and others throwing the light into them with shovels and any
other appropriate implements which came to hand. While they were thus
labouring, a stranger came into the town of Schildburg, and, hearing
what they were about, told them they were labouring to no purpose,
and offered to show them how to get the daylight into the hall. It is
unnecessary to say more than that this new plan was to make an opening
in the roof, and that the Schildburgers witnessed the effect with
astonishment, and were loud in their gratitude to the new comer.
The Schildburgers met with further difficulties before they completed
their council-hall. They sowed a field with salt, and when the
salt-plant grew up next year, after a meeting of the council, at which
it was stiffly disputed whether it ought to be reaped, or mowed, or
gathered in in some other manner, it was finally discovered that
the crop consisted of nothing but nettles. After many accidents of
this kind, the Schildburgers are noticed by the emperor, and obtain
a charter of incorporation and freedom, but they profit little by
it. In trying some experiments to catch mice, they set fire to their
houses, and the whole town is burnt to the ground, upon which, in their
sorrow, they abandon it altogether, and become, like the Jews of old,
scattered over the world, carrying their own folly into every country
they visit.
Another tale relates how the boors of Schilda contrived to get their
millstone twice down from a high mountain:
The boors of Schilda had built a mill, and with extraordinary labour
they had quarried a millstone for it out of a quarry which lay on
the summit of a high mountain; and when the stone was finished, they
carried it with great labour and pain down the hill. When they had
got to the bottom, it occurred to one of them that they might have
spared themselves the trouble of carrying it down by letting it roll
down. “Verily,” said he, “we are the stupidest of fools to take these
extraordinary pains to do that which we might have done with so little
trouble. We will carry it up, and then let it roll down the hill
by itself, as we did before with the tree which we felled for the
council-house.”
This advice pleased them all, and with greater labour they carried
the stone to the top of the mountain again, and were about to roll it
down, when one of them said, “But how shall we know where it runs to?
Who will be able to tell us aught about it?” “Why,” said the bailiff,
who had advised the stone being carried up again, “this is very easily
managed. One of us must stick in the hole [for the millstone, of
course, had a hole in the middle], and run down with it.” This was
agreed to, and one of them, having been chosen for the purpose, thrust
his head through the hole, and ran down the hill with the millstone.
Now at the bottom of the mountain was a deep fish-pond, into which the
stone rolled, and the simpleton with it, so that the Schildburgers
lost both stone and man, and not one among them knew what had become
of them. And they felt sorely angered against their old companion who
had run down the hill with the stone, for they considered that he had
carried it off for the purpose of disposing of it. So they published a
notice in all the neighbouring boroughs, towns, and villages, calling
on them, that “if any one come there with a millstone round his neck,
they should treat him as one who had stolen the common goods, and give
him to justice.” But the poor fellow lay in the pond, dead. Had he been
able to speak, he would have been willing to tell them not to worry
themselves on his account, for he would give them their own again. But
his load pressed so heavily upon him, and he was so deep in the water,
that he, after drinking water enough--more, indeed, than was good for
him--died; and he is dead at the present day, and dead he will, shall,
and must remain!
The earliest known edition of the history of the Schildburgers was
printed in 1597, but the story itself is no doubt older. It will be
seen at once that it involves a satire upon the municipal towns of the
middle ages.
ITALIAN WIT AND HUMOR
Of Italian wit and humor up to and through the Sixteenth Century there
is little to be said. Translators who have given us in English the
early literature of Italy have been so concerned with the serious
poetry and prose that they neglected the lighter veins.
If, indeed, there were any worth while.
The outstanding name of the Fourteenth Century is that of Giovanni
Boccaccio.
But though the Decameron, a collection of one hundred stories, is a
mirror of the humorous taste of that time, the stories are for the most
part, long, dull and prosy.
They relate the intrigues of lovers in a freely licentious way, but
both humorous description and witty repartee are consciously lacking.
One of the most amusing of the decent tales is here given, also a
sonnet of Boccaccio’s translated by Rossetti.
_OF THREE GIRLS AND THEIR TALK_
By a clear well, within a little field
Full of green grass and flowers of every hue,
Sat three young girls, relating (as I knew)
Their loves. And each had twined a bough to shield
Her lovely face; and the green leaves did yield
The golden hair their shadow,--while the two
Sweet colours mingled, both blown lightly through
With a soft wind for ever stirr’d and still’d.
After a little while one of them said
(I heard her)--“Think! if ere the next hour struck
Each of our lovers should come here to-day,
Think you that we should fly or feel afraid?”
To whom the others answer’d--“From such luck
A girl would be a fool to run away!”
_THE STOLEN PIG_
Calandrino had a little farm, not far from Florence, which came to him
through his wife. There he used to have a pig fatted every year, and
some time about December he and his wife went always to kill and salt
it for the use of the family. Now it happened once--she being unwell
at the time--that he went thither by himself to kill his pig; which
Bruno and Buffalmacco hearing, and knowing she was not to be there,
they went to spend a few days with a great friend of theirs, a priest
in Calandrino’s neighborhood. Now the pig had been killed the very day
they came thither, and Calandrino, seeing them along with the priest,
called to them and said, “Welcome, kindly; I would gladly you should
see what a good manager I am.” Then, taking them into the house, he
showed them this pig. They saw that it was fat, and were told by him
that it was to be salted for his family. “Salted, booby?” said Bruno.
“Sell it, let us make merry with the money, and tell your wife that it
was stolen.” “No,” said Calandrino, “she will never believe it; and,
besides, she would turn me out of doors. Trouble me, then, no further
about any such thing, for I will never do it.” They said a great deal
more to him, but all to no purpose. At length he invited them to
supper, but did it in such a manner that they refused.
After they had come away from him, said Bruno to Buffalmacco, “Suppose
we steal this pig from him to-night.” “How is it possible?” “Oh,
I know well enough how to do it, if he does not remove it in the
meantime from the place where we just now saw it.” “Then let us do it,
and afterward we and the parson will make merry over it.” The priest
assured them that he should like it above all things. “We must use a
little art,” quoth Bruno; “you know how covetous he is, and how freely
he drinks when it is at another’s cost. Let us get him to the tavern,
where the parson shall make a pretense of treating us all, out of
compliment to him. He will soon get drunk, and then the thing will be
easy enough, as there is nobody in the house but himself.”
This was done, and Calandrino, finding that the parson was to pay, took
his glasses pretty freely, and, getting his dose, walked home betimes,
left the door open, thinking that it was shut, and so went to bed.
Buffalmacco and Bruno went from the tavern to sup with the priest, and
as soon as supper was over they took proper tools with them to get into
the house; but finding the door open, they carried off the pig to the
priest’s and went to bed likewise.
In the morning, as soon as Calandrino had slept off his wine, he rose,
came down-stairs, and finding the door open and his pig gone, began to
inquire of everybody if they knew anything of the matter; and receiving
no tidings of it, he made a terrible outcry, saying, “What shall I do
now? Somebody has stolen my pig!” Bruno and Buffalmacco were no sooner
out of bed than they went to his house to hear what he would say;
and the moment he saw them he roared out, “Oh, my friends, my pig is
stolen!” Upon this Bruno whispered to him and said, “Well, I am glad
to see you wise in your life for once.” “Alas!” quoth he, “it is too
true.” “Keep to the same story,” said Bruno, “and make noise enough for
every one to believe you.”
Calandrino now began to bawl louder, “Indeed! I vow and swear to you
that it is stolen.” “That’s right; be sure you let everybody hear you,
that it may appear so.” “Do you think that I would forswear myself
about it? May I be hanged this moment if it is not so!” “How is it
possible!” quoth Bruno; “I saw it but last night; never imagine that
I can believe it.” “It is so, however,” answered he, “and I am undone.
I dare not now go home again, for my wife will never believe me, and
I shall have no peace this twelve-month.” “It is a most unfortunate
thing,” said Bruno, “if it be true; but you know I put it into your
head to say so last night, and you should not make sport both of your
wife and us at the same time.”
At this Calandrino began to roar out afresh, saying, “Good God! you
make me mad to hear you talk. I tell you once for all it was stolen
this very night!” “Nay, if it be so,” quoth Buffalmacco, “we must think
of some way to get it back again.” “And what way must we take,” said he
“to find it?” “Depend upon it,” replied the other, “that nobody came
from the Indies to steal it; it must be somewhere in your neighborhood,
and if you could get the people together I could make a charm, with
some bread and cheese, that would soon discover the thief.” “True,”
said Bruno, “but they would know in that case what you were about; and
the person that has it would never come near you.” “How must we manage,
then?” said Buffalmacco. “Oh!” replied Bruno, “you shall see me do it
with some pills of ginger and a little wine, which I will ask them to
come and drink. They will have no suspicion what our design is, and we
can make a charm of these as well as of the bread and cheese.” “Very
well,” quoth the other. “What do you say, Calandrino? Have you a mind
we should try it?” “For Heaven’s sake do,” he said; “if I only knew who
the thief is, I should be half comforted.” “Well, then,” quoth Bruno,
“I am ready to go to Florence for the things, if you will only give me
some money.” He happened to have a few florins in his pocket, which he
gave him, and off went Bruno.
When he got to Florence, Bruno went to a friend’s house and bought a
pound of ginger made into pills. He also got two pills made of aloes,
which had a private mark that he should not mistake them, being candied
over with sugar like the rest. Then, having bought a jar of good
wine, he returned to Calandrino, and said, “To-morrow you must take
care to invite every one that you have the least suspicion of; it is
a holiday, and they will be glad to come. We will finish the charm
to-night, and bring the things to your house in the morning, and then I
will take care to do and say on your behalf what is necessary upon such
an occasion.”
Calandrino did as he was told, and in the morning he had nearly all the
people in the parish assembled under an elm-tree in the churchyard. His
two friends produced the pills and wine, and, making the people stand
round in a circle, Bruno said to them, “Gentlemen, it is fit that I
should tell you the reason of your being summoned here in this manner,
to the end, if anything should happen which you do not like, that I
be not blamed for it. You must know, then, that Calandrino had a pig
stolen last night, and, as some of the company here must have taken
it, he, that he may find out the thief, would have every man take and
eat one of these pills, and drink a glass of wine after it. Whoever
the guilty person is, you will find he will not be able to get a bit
of it down, but it will taste so bitter that he will be forced to spit
it out. Therefore, to prevent such open shame, he had better, whoever
he is, make a secret confession to the priest, and I will proceed no
further.”
All present declared their readiness to eat; so, placing them all in
order, he gave every man his pill and coming to Calandrino, he gave one
of the aloe pills to him, which he straightway put into his mouth, and
no sooner did he began to chew it than he was forced to spit it out.
Every one was now attentive to see who spit his pill out, and while
Bruno kept going round, apparently taking no notice of Calandrino, he
heard somebody say behind him, “Hey-day! what is the meaning of its
disagreeing so with Calandrino?” Bruno now turned suddenly about, and
seeing that Calandrino had spit out his pill, he said, “Stay a little,
honest friends, and be not too hasty in judging; it may be something
else that has made him spit, and therefore he shall try another.” So he
gave him the other aloe pill, and then went on to the rest that were
unserved. But if the first was bitter to him, this he thought much
more so. However, he endeavored to get it down as well as he could.
But it was impossible; it made the tears run down his cheeks, and he
was forced to spit it out at last, as he had done the other. In the
meantime Buffalmacco was going about with the wine; but when he and all
of them saw what Calandrino had done, they began to bawl out that he
had robbed himself, and some of them abused him roundly.
After they were all gone, Buffalmacco said, “I always thought that you
yourself were the thief, and that you were willing to make us believe
the pig was stolen in order to keep your money in your pocket, lest we
should expect a treat upon the occasion.” Calandrino, who had still the
taste of the aloes in his mouth, fell a-swearing that he knew nothing
of the matter. “Honor bright, now, comrade,” said Buffalmacco, “what
did you get for it?” This made Calandrino quite furious.
To crown all, Bruno struck in: “I was just now told,” said he, “by
one of the company, that you have a mistress in this neighborhood to
whom you are very kind, and that he is confident you have given it to
her. You know you once took us to the plains of Mugnone, to look for
some black stones, when you left us in the lurch, and pretended you
had found them; and now you think to make us believe that your pig is
stolen, when you have either given it away or sold it. You have played
so many tricks upon us, that we intend to be fooled no more by you.
Therefore, as we have had a deal of trouble in the affair, you shall
make us amends by giving us two couple of fowls, unless you mean that
we should tell your wife.”
Calandrino, now perceiving that he would not be believed, and being
unwilling to have them add to his troubles by bringing his wife upon
his back, was forced to give them the fowls, which they joyfully
carried off along with the pork.
--_The Decameron._
Rather earlier than Boccaccio lived Rustico di Filippo, who gives us
the following satirical bit.
_THE MAKING OF MASTER MESSERIN_
When God had finished Master Messerin,
He really thought it something to have done:
Bird, man, and beast had got a chance in one,
And each felt flattered, it was hoped, therein.
For he is like a goose i’ the windpipe thin,
And like a camelopard high i’ the loins,
To which for manhood, you’ll be told, he joins
Some kind of flesh hues and a callow chin.
As to his singing, he affects the crow,
As to his learning, beasts in general,
And sets all square by dressing like a man.
God made him, having nothing else to do,
And proved there is not anything at all
He cannot make, if that’s a thing He can.
Among other collections of tales was the _Novellino_, collected by
Massuchio di Salerno, about the middle of the Fifteenth Century.
We quote
_THE INHERITANCE OF A LIBRARY_
Jeronimo, who had inherited the place of master and head of the house,
found himself in possession of many thousand florins in ready money.
Wherefore the youth, seeing that he himself had endured no labor and
weariness in gathering together the same, forthwith made up his mind
not to place his affection in possessions of this sort, and at once
began to array himself in sumptuous garments, to taste the pleasures of
the town in the company of certain chosen companions of his, to indulge
in amorous adventures, and in a thousand other ways to dissipate his
substance abroad without restraint of any kind. Not only did he banish
from his mind all thought and design of continuing his studies, but he
even went so far as to harbor against the books, which his father had
held in such high esteem and reverence and had bequeathed to him, the
most fierce and savage hatred. So violent, indeed, was his resentment
against them that he set them down as the worst foes he had in the
world.
On a certain day it happened that the young man, either by accident
or for some reason of his own, betook himself into the library of his
dead father, and there his eye fell upon a vast quantity of handsome
and well-arranged books, such as are wont to be found in places of this
sort. At the first sight of these he was somewhat stricken with fear,
and with a certain apprehension that the spirit of his father might
pursue him; but, having collected his courage somewhat, he turned with
a look of hatred on his face toward the aforesaid books and began to
address them in the following terms:
“Books, books, so long as my father was alive you waged against me war
unceasing, forasmuch as he spent all his time and trouble either in
purchasing you, or in putting you in fair bindings; so that, whenever
it might happen that there came upon me the need of a few florins or
of certain other articles, which all youths find necessary, he would
always refuse to let me have them, saying that it was his will and
pleasure to dispense his money only in the purchase of such books as
might please him. And over and beyond this, he purposed in his mind
that I, altogether against my will, should spend my life in close
companionship with you, and over this matter there arose between us
many times angry and contumelious words. Many times, also, you have put
me in danger of being driven into perpetual exile from this my home.
Therefore it cannot but be pleasing to God--since it is no fault of
yours that I was not hunted forth from this place--that I should send
you packing from this my house in such fashion that not a single one
of you will ever behold my door again. And, in sooth, I wonder more
especially that you have not before this disordered my wits, a feat
you might well have accomplished with very little more trouble on your
part, in your desire to do with me as you did with my father, according
to my clear recollection. He, poor man, as if he had become bemused
through conversing with you alone, was accustomed to demean himself
in strange fashion, moving his hands and his head in such wise that
over and over again I counted him to be one bereft of reason. Now, on
account of all this, I bid you have a little patience, for the reason
that I have made up my mind to sell you all forthwith, and thus in a
single hour to avenge myself for all the outrages I have suffered on
your account and, over and beyond this, to set myself free from the
possible danger of going mad.”
After he had thus spoken, and had packed up divers volumes of the
aforesaid books--one of his servants helping him in the work--he sent
the parcel to the house of a certain lawyer, who was a friend of his,
and then in a very few words came to an agreement with the lawyer as to
the business, the issue of the affair being that, though he had simply
expelled the books from his house, and had not sold them, he received,
nevertheless, on account of the same, several hundred florins. With
these, added to the money which still remained in his purse, he
continued to pursue the course of pleasure he had begun.
* * * * *
Another ironical skit is by Francesco Berni, entitled
_LIVING IN BED_
Yet field-sports, dice, cards, balls, and such like courses,
Things which he might be thought to set store by,
Gave him but little pleasure. He liked horses,
But was content to let them please his eye--
Buying them, not squaring with his resources.
Therefore his _summum bonum_ was to lie
Stretch’d at full length--yea, frankly be it said,
To do no single thing but lie in bed.
’Twas owing all to that infernal writing.
Body and brains had borne such grievous rounds
Of kicks, cuffs, floors, from copying and inditing,
That he could find no balsam for his wounds,
No harbor for his wreck half so inviting
As to lie still, far from all sights and sounds,
And so, in bed, do nothing on God’s earth
But try and give his senses a new birth.
“Bed--bed’s the thing, by Heaven!” thus would he swear.
“Bed is your only work, your only duty.
Bed is one’s gown, one’s slippers, one’s armchair,
Old coat; you’re not afraid to spoil its beauty.
Large you may have it, long, wide, brown, or fair,
Down-bed or mattress, just as it may suit ye.
Then take your clothes off, turn in, stretch, lie double;
Be but in bed, you’re quit of earthly trouble!”
Borne to the fairy palace then, but tired
Of seeing so much dancing, he withdrew
Into a distant room, and there desired
A bed might be set up, handsome and new,
With all the comforts that the case required:
Mattresses huge, and pillows not a few
Put here and there, in order that no ease
Might be found wanting to cheeks, or arms, or knees.
The bed was eight feet wide, lovely to see,
With white sheets, and fine curtains, and rich loops
Things vastly soothing to calamity;
The coverlet hung light in silken droops;
It might have held six people easily;
But he disliked to lie in bed by groups.
A large bed to himself, that was his notion,
With room enough to swim in--like the ocean.
In this retreat there joined him a good soul,
A Frenchman, one who had been long at court,
An admirable cook--though, on the whole,
His gains of his deserts had fallen short.
For him was made, cheek, as it were, by jowl,
A second bed of the same noble sort,
Yet not so close but that the folks were able
To set between the two a dinner-table.
Here was served up, on snow-white table-cloths,
Each daintiest procurable comestible
In the French taste (all others being Goths),
Dishes alike delightful and digestible.
Only our scribe chose sirups, soups, and broths,
The smallest trouble being a detestable
Bore, into which not ev’n his dinner led him.
Therefore the servants always came and fed him.
Nothing at these times but his head was seen;
The coverlet came close beneath his chin;
And then, from out the bottle or tureen,
They fill’d a silver pipe, which he let in
Between his lips, all easy, smooth, and clean,
And so he filled his philosophic skin.
And not a finger all the while he stirred,
Nor, lest his tongue should tire, scarce uttered word.
The name of that same cook was Master Pierre;
He told a tale well--something short and light.
Quoth scribe, “Those people who keep dancing there
Have little wit.” Quoth Pierre, “You’re very right.”
And then he told a tale, or hummed an air;
Then took a sip of something, or a bite;
And then he turned himself to sleep; and then
Awoke and ate. And then he slept again.
One more thing I may note that made the day
Pass well--one custom, not a little healing,
Which was, to look above him, as he lay.
And count the spots and blotches in the ceiling;
Noting what shapes they took to, and which way,
And where the plaster threatened to be peeling;
Whether the spot looked new, or old, or what--
Or whether ’twas, in fact, a spot or not.
--From _Roland Enamored_.
Francho Sacchetti, poet and novelist, wrote many stories and verses in
lighter vein.
_ON A WET DAY_
As I walk’d thinking through a little grove,
Some girls that gather’d flowers came passing me,
Saying--“Look here! look there!” delightedly.
“O here it is!” “What’s that?” “A lily? love!”
“And there are violets!”
“Farther for roses! O the lovely pets!
The darling beauties! O the nasty thorn!
Look here, my hand’s all torn!”
“What’s that that jumps?” “O don’t! it’s a grasshopper!”
“Come, run! come, run!
Here’s blue-bells!” “O what fun!”
“Not that way! stop her!”
“Yes! this way!” “Pluck them then!”
“O, I’ve found mushrooms! O look here!” “O, I’m
Quite sure that farther on we’ll get wild thyme.”
“O, we shall stay too long; it’s going to rain;
There’s lightning; O! there’s thunder!”
“O sha’n’t we hear the vesper bell? I wonder.”
“Why, it’s not nones, you silly little thing!
And don’t you hear the nightingales that sing--
Fly away O die away?”
“O, I hear something; hush!”
“Why, where? what is it then?” “Ah! in that bush.”
So every girl here knocks it, shakes and shocks it:
Till with the stir they make
Out skurries a great snake.
“O Lord! O me! Alack! Ah me! alack!”
They scream, and then all run and scream again,
And then in heavy drops comes down the rain.
Each running at the other in a fright,
Each trying to get before the other, and crying.
And flying, and stumbling, tumbling, wrong or right;--
One sets her knee
There where her foot should be;
One has her hands and dress
All smother’d up with mud in a fine mess;
And one gets trampled on by two or three.
What’s gathered is let fall
About the wood, and not pick’d up at all.
The wreaths of flowers are scatter’d on the ground,
And still as, screaming, hustling, without rest,
They run this way and that and round and round,
She thinks herself in luck who runs the best.
I stood quite still to have a perfect view,
And never noticed till I got wet through.
--_Translated by Rossetti._
This brings us to Benvenuto Cellini, who, though not classed among the
humorists, gives us many flashes of wit and humor in his celebrated
Biography.
_A COMPULSORY MARRIAGE AT SWORD’S POINT_
One of those busy personages who delight in spreading mischief came to
inform me that Paolo Micceri had taken a house for his new lady and her
mother, and that he made use of the most injurious and contemptuous
expressions regarding me, to wit:
“Poor Benvenuto! he paid the piper while I danced; and now he goes
about boasting of the exploit. He thinks I am afraid of him--I, who can
wear a sword and dagger as well as he. But I would have him to know my
weapons are as keen as his. I, too, am a Florentine, and come of the
Micceri, a much better house than the Cellini any time of day.”
In short, the vile informer painted the things in such colors to my
disadvantage that it fired my whole blood. I was in a fever of the most
dangerous kind. And feeling it must kill me unless it found vent, I had
recourse to my usual means on such occasions. I called to my workman,
Chioccia, to accompany me, and told another to follow me with my horse.
On reaching the wretch’s house, finding the door half open, I entered
abruptly in. There he sat with his precious “lady-love,” his boasted
sword and dagger beside him, in the very act of jesting with the elder
woman upon my affairs. To slam the door, draw my sword and present the
point to his throat, was the work of a moment, giving him no time to
think of defending himself:
“Vile poltroon, recommend thy soul to God! Thou art a dead man!”
In the excess of his terror he cried out thrice, in a feeble voice,
“Mama! mama! mama! Help, help, help!”
At this ludicrous appeal, so like a girl’s, and the ridiculous manner
in which it was uttered, though I had a mind to kill, I lost half my
rage and could not forbear laughing. Turning to Chioccia, however, I
bade him make fast the door; for I was resolved to inflict the same
punishment upon all three. Still with my sword-point at his throat,
and pricking him a little now and then, I terrified him with the most
desperate threats, and finding that he made no defense, was rather at
a loss how to proceed. It was too poor a revenge--it was nothing--when
suddenly it came into my head to make it effectual, and compel him to
espouse the girl upon the spot.
“Up! Off with that ring on thy finger, villain!” I cried. “Marry her
this instant, and then I shall have my full revenge.”
“Anything--anything you like, provided you will not kill me,” he
eagerly answered.
Removing my sword a little:
“Now, then,” I said, “put on the ring.”
He did so, trembling all the time.
“This is not enough. Go and bring me two notaries to draw up the
contract.” Then, addressing the girl and her mother in French:
“While the notaries and witnesses are coming, I will give you a word of
advice. The first of you that I know to utter a word about my affairs,
I will kill you--all three. So remember.”
I afterward said in Italian to Paolo:
“If you offer the slightest opposition to the least thing I choose to
propose, I will cut you up into mince-meat with this good sword.”
“It is enough,” he interrupted in alarm, “that you will not kill me. I
will do whatever you wish.”
So this singular contract was duly drawn out and signed. My rage
and fever were gone. I paid the notaries, and went home.--_The
Biography._
_CRITICISM OF A STATUE OF HERCULES_
Bandinello was incensed to such a degree that he was ready to burst
with fury, and turning to me said, “What faults have you to find with
my statues?”
I answered, “I will soon tell them, if you have but the patience to
hear me.”
He replied, “Tell them, then.”
The duke and all present listened with the utmost attention. I began
by promising that I was sorry to be obliged to lay before him all
the blemishes of his work, and that I was not so properly delivering
my own sentiments as declaring what was said of it by the artistic
school of Florence. However, as the fellow at one time said something
disobliging, at another made some offensive gesture with his hands or
his feet, he put me into such a passion that I behaved with a rudeness
which I should otherwise have avoided.