Close by the threshold of a door nailed fast,

Three kittens sat; each kitten looked aghast.

I, passing swift and inattentive by,

At the three kittens cast a careless eye;

Not much concerned to know what they did there;

Not deeming kittens worth a poet’s care.

But presently, a loud and furious hiss

Caused me to stop, and to exclaim, “What’s this

When lo! upon the threshold met my view,

With head erect, and eyes of fiery hue,

A viper long as Count de Grasse’s queue.

Forth from his head his forked tongue he throws,

Darting it full against a kitten’s nose;

Who, having never seen, in field or house,

The like, sat still and silent as a mouse;

Only projecting, with attention due,

Her whiskered face, she asked him, “Who are you?”

On to the hall went I, with pace not slow,

But swift as lightning, for a long Dutch hoe:

With which well armed, I hastened to the spot

To find the viper--but I found him not.

And, turning up the leaves and shrubs around,

Found only that he was not to be found;

But still the kittens, sitting as before,

Sat watching close the bottom of the door.

“I hope,” said I, “the villain I would kill

Has slipped between the door and the door-sill;

And if I make despatch, and follow hard,

No doubt but I shall find him in the yard”:

(For long ere now it should have been rehearsed,

’Twas in the garden that I found him first.)

E’en there I found him: there the full-grown cat

His head, with velvet paw, did gently pat;

As curious as the kittens erst had been

To learn what this phenomenon might mean.

Filled with heroic ardour at the sight,

And fearing every moment he would bite,

And rob our household of our only cat

That was of age to combat with a rat;

With outstretched hoe I slew him at the door

And taught him never to come there no more!

Richard Brinsley Sheridan, brilliant dramatist and gifted political

orator, wrote many plays, from which it is not possible to quote at

length.

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

here given.

_LET THE TOAST PASS_

FROM “THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL”

Here’s to the maiden of bashful fifteen;

Here’s to the widow of fifty;

Here’s to the flaunting extravagant quean,

And here’s to the housewife that’s thrifty.

Let the toast pass,

Drink to the lass,

I’ll warrant she’ll prove an excuse for the glass.

Here’s to the charmer whose dimples we prize,

Now to the maid who has none, sir;

Here’s to the girl with a pair of blue eyes,

And here’s to the nymph with but one, sir.

Let the toast pass, etc.

Here’s to the maid with a bosom of snow;

Now to her that’s as brown as a berry;

Here’s to the wife with a face full of woe,

And now to the damsel that’s merry.

Let the toast pass, etc.

For let ’em be clumsy, or let ’em be slim,

Young or ancient, I care not a feather;

So fill a pint bumper quite up to the brim,

So fill up your glasses, nay, fill to the brim,

And let us e’en toast them together.

Let the toast pass, etc.

_LORD ERSKINE’S SIMILE_

Lord Erskine, at woman presuming to rail,

Called a wife a tin canister tied to one’s tail;

And fair Lady Anne, while this raillery he carries on,

Seems hurt at his lordship’s degrading comparison.

But wherefore degrading, if taken aright?

A canister’s useful and polished and bright,

And if dirt its original purity hide,

’Tis the fault of the puppy to whom it is tied.

_SHERIDAN’S CALENDAR_

January snowy,

February flowy,

March blowy,

April showry,

May flowry,

June bowery,

July moppy,

August croppy,

September poppy,

October breezy,

November wheezy,

December freezy.

George Colman, the Younger, best known as a comic dramatist, also wrote

many poetical travesties, which he published under various titles,

including the well known one of Broad Grins. These compositions show a

broad humor, not always in the best taste.

George Canning, among other amusements, chose to ridicule the Sapphic

rhymes of Southey, and wrote this burlesque upon the humanitarian

sentiments of Southey in his younger days, as well as of the Sapphic

stanzas in which he sometimes embodied them.

_THE FRIEND OF HUMANITY AND THE KNIFE-GRINDER_

FRIEND OF HUMANITY

Needy knife-grinder! whither are you going?

Rough is the road; your wheel is out of order.

Bleak blows the blast;--your hat has got a hole in’t;

So have your breeches!

Weary knife-grinder! little think the proud ones,

Who in their coaches roll along the turnpike-

Road, what hard work ’tis crying all day,

“Knives and

Scissors to grind O!”

Tell me, knife-grinder, how came you to grind knives?

Did some rich man tyrannically use you?

Was it the squire? or parson of the parish?

Or the attorney?

Was it the squire for killing of his game? or

Covetous parson for his tithes distraining?

Or roguish lawyer made you lose your little

All in a lawsuit?

(Have you not read the Rights of Man, by Tom Paine?)

Drops of compassion tremble on my eyelids,

Ready to fall as soon as you have told your

Pitiful story.

KNIFE-GRINDER

Story! God bless you! I have none to tell, sir;

Only, last night, a-drinking at the Chequers,

This poor old hat and breeches, as you see, were

Torn in a scuffle.

Constables came up for to take me into

Custody; they took me before the justice;

Justice Oldmixon put me into the parish

Stocks for a vagrant.

I should be glad to drink your honor’s health in

A pot of beer, if you will give me sixpence;

But for my part, I never love to meddle

With politics, sir.

FRIEND TO HUMANITY

I give thee sixpence! I will see thee damned first,--

Wretch! whom no sense of wrongs can rouse to vengeance,--

Sordid, unfeeling, reprobate, degraded,

Spiritless outcast!

_(Kicks the knife-grinder, overturns his wheel, and exit in a

transport of republican enthusiasm and universal philanthropy.)_

* * * * *

Robert Burns, one of the chief names in Scottish literature, has been

called the Dictionary of Poetical Quotations.

Byron said, “The rank of Burns is the very first of his art”; and the

many-sided Scotchman had both admirers and detractors galore.

It has been noted that the Scotch have a sense of humor, “because

it is a gift.” Burns’ sense of humor secures for him a high place

among humorists, and though coarse in his expressions, he is not

intentionally vulgar.

_HOLY WILLIE’S PRAYER_

Holy Willie was a small farmer, leading elder to Dr. Auld, austere in

speech, scrupulous to all outward appearances, a professing Christian.

He experienced, however, “a sore fall”; he was “found out” to be a

hypocrite after Burns’ castigation, and was expelled the church for

embezzling the money of the poor of the parish. His name was William

Fisher.

O Thou, wha in the Heavens dost dwell,

Wha, as it pleases best thysel’,

Sends ane to Heaven and ten to Hell,

A’ for thy glory,

And no for onie guid or ill

They’ve done afore thee.

I bless and praise thy matchless might,

Whan thousands thou hast left in night,

That I am here afore thy sight,

For gifts and grace,

A burning an’ a shining light

To a’ this place.

What was I, or my generation,

That I should get such exaltation?

I, wha deserve such just damnation,

For broken laws,

Five thousand years ’fore my creation,

Thro’ Adam’s cause.

When frae my mither’s womb I fell,

Thou might hae plung’d me into Hell,

To gnash my gums, to weep and wail

In burnin’ lake,

Where damned Devils roar and yell,

Chain’d to a stake.

Yet I am here a chosen sample,

To show thy grace is great and ample;

I’m here a pillar in thy temple,

Strong as a rock.

A guide, a buckler, an example,

To a’ thy flock.

O L--d, thou kens what zeal I bear,

When drinkers drink, and swearers swear,

And singin’ here, and dancing there,

Wi’ great and sma’:

For I am keepit by thy fear,

Free frae them a’.

But yet, O L--d! confess I must,

At times I’m fash’d wi’ fleshly lust,

An’ sometimes, too, wi’ warldly trust--

Vile self gets in;

But thou remembers we are dust,

Defil’d in sin.

O L--d! yestreen, thou kens, wi’ Meg--

Thy pardon I sincerely beg,

O! may it ne’er be a livin’ plague

To my dishonor,

An’ I’ll ne’er lift a lawless leg

Again upon her.

Besides, I farther maun allow,

Wi’ Lizzie’s lass, three times I trow;

But, L--d, that Friday I was fou,

When I came near her,

Or else thou kens thy servant true

Wad ne’er hae steer’d her.

May be thou lets this fleshly thorn

Beset thy servant e’en and morn,

Lest he owre high and proud should turn,

’Cause he’s sae gifted;

If sae, thy hand maun e’en be borne,

Until thou lift it.

L--d, bless thy chosen in this place,

For here thou hast a chosen race;

But G--d confound their stubborn face,

And blast their name,

Wha bring thine elders to disgrace,

An’ public shame.

L--d, mind Gawn Hamilton’s deserts,

He drinks, an swears, an’ plays at cartes,

Yet has sae monie takin’ arts,

Wi’ great and sma’,

Frae God’s ain priests the people’s hearts

He steals awa’.

An’ whan we chasten’d him therefore,

Thou kens how he bred sic a splore,

As set the warld in a roar

O’ laughin’ at us,

Curse thou his basket and his store,

Kail and potatoes.

L--d, hear my earnest cry an’ pray’r,

Against that presbyt’ry o’ Ayr;

Thy strong right hand, L--d, make it bare,

Upo’ their heads;

L--d, weigh it down, and dinna spare,

For their misdeeds.

O L--d, my G--d, that glib-tongued Aiken,

My very heart and saul are quakin’,

To think how we stood sweatin’, shakin’,

An’ swat wi’ dread,

While he wi’ hingin’ lips gaed snakin’,

And hid his head.

L--d, in the day of vengeance try him,

L--d, visit them wha did employ him,

And pass not in thy mercy by ’em,

Nor hear their pray’r;

But, for thy people’s sake, destroy ’em,

And dinna spare.

But, L--d, remember me and mine

Wi’ mercies temp’ral and divine,

That I for gear and grace may shine,

Excelled by nane,

An’ a’ the glory shall be thine,

Amen, Amen.

_ADDRESS TO THE TOOTHACHE_

My curse upon thy venomed stang,

That shoots my tortured gums alang;

An’ through my lugs gies mony a twang,

Wi’ gnawing vengeance!

Tearing my nerves wi’ bitter pang,

Like racking engines.

When fevers burn, or ague freezes,

Rheumatics gnaw, or cholic squeezes;

Our neighbor’s sympathy may ease us,

Wi’ pitying moan;

But thee,--thou hell o’ a’ diseases,

Aye mocks our groan.

Adown my beard the slavers trickle;

I throw the wee stools o’er the mickle,

As round the fire the giglets keckle

To see me loup;

While, raving mad, I wish a heckle

Were in their doup.

O’ a’ the numerous human dools,

Ill har’sts, daft bargains, cutty-stools,

Or worthy friends raked i’ the mools,

Sad sight to see!

The tricks o’ knaves or fash o’ fools,

Thou bear’st the gree.

Where’er that place be priests ca’ hell,

Whence a’ the tones o’ mis’ry yell,

And rankèd plagues their numbers tell,

In dreadfu’ raw,

Thou, Toothache, surely bear’st the bell,

Among them a’;

O thou grim mischief-making chiel,

That gars the notes of discord squeal,

Till daft mankind aft dance a reel

In gore a shoe-thick!--

Gie a’ the faes o’ Scotland’s weal

A fowmond’s Toothache!

THE NINETEENTH CENTURY

Quite lately, a well known humorist of the present day was making

an after dinner speech. A voice from the audience called out,

“Louder!--and funnier!”

Some such voice must have called out to the World’s Humor at the close

of the Eighteenth Century, for the beginning of the Nineteenth finds

the Humorous element in literature decidedly louder and funnier.

The Romantic Revival which at this time affected all literature and art

has been called both the effect and the cause of the French Revolution.

It has also been called the Renascence of Wonder, and as such it let

loose hitherto hidebound fancies and imaginations on boundless and

limitless flights. In these flights Humor showed speed and endurance

quite equal to those of Romance or Poesy.

Both in energy and methods, Humor came to the front with tremendous

strides. In quality and quantity it forged ahead, both as a component

part of more serious writings and also independently.

And while this was a consummation devoutly to be wished, it makes

harder the task of the Outliner.

Many great writers held to the conviction that in Romantic poetry humor

has no place. Others were avowed comic writers of verse or prose. But

others still allowed humor to meet and mingle with their numbers, to a

greater or less degree.

And the difficulty of selection lies in the fact that the incidental

humor is often funnier than the entirely humorous concept.

It is hard to omit such as Jane Austen, Sir Walter Scott, William

Wordsworth, yet quotations from their works, showing their humorous

vein, would occupy space demanded by the humorists themselves.

So, let us start in boldly with Sydney Smith, one of the most popular

wits of all ages.

Aside from this author’s epigrams and witty sayings, he wrote with

great wisdom and insight about the principles of humor itself, from

which we quote his sapient remarks on punning.

“It is imagined that wit is a sort of inexplicable visitation, that

it comes and goes with the rapidity of lightning, and that it is

quite as unattainable as beauty or just proportion. I am so much of a

contrary way of thinking, that I am convinced a man might sit down as

systematically and as successfully, to the study of wit as he might to

the study of mathematics; and I would answer for it that by giving up

only six hours a day to being witty, he should come on prodigiously

before midsummer, so that his friends should hardly know him again.

For what is there to hinder the mind from gradually acquiring a habit

of attending to the lighter relations of ideas in which wit consists?

Punning grows upon everybody, and punning is the wit of words. I do not

mean to say that it is so easy to acquire a habit of discovering new

relations in _ideas_ as in _words_, but the difficulty is

not so much greater as to render it insuperable to habit. One man is

unquestionably much better calculated for it by nature than another;

but association, which gradually makes a bad speaker a good one, might

give a man wit who had it not, if any man chose to be so absurd as to

sit down to acquire it.

“I have mentioned puns. They are, I believe, what I have denominated

them--the wit of words. They are exactly the same to words which wit

is to ideas, and consist in the sudden discovery of relations in

language. A pun, to be perfect in its kind, should contain two distinct

meanings; the one common and obvious, the other more remote; and in

the notice which the mind takes of the relation between these two

sets of words, and in the surprise which that relation excites, the

pleasure of a pun consists. Miss Hamilton, in her book on Education,

mentions the instance of a boy so very neglectful that he could never

be brought to read the word _patriarchs_; but whenever he met with

it he always pronounced it _partridges_. A friend of the writer

observed to her that it could hardly be considered as a mere piece

of negligence, for it appeared to him that the boy, in calling them

partridges, was _making game_ of the patriarchs. Now here are

two distinct meanings contained in the same phrase: for to make game

of the patriarchs is to laugh at them; or to make game of them is by

a very extravagant and laughable sort of ignorance of words, to rank

them among pheasants, partridges, and other such delicacies, which the

law takes under its protection and calls game: and the whole pleasure

derived from this pun consists in the sudden discovery that two such

different meanings are referable to one form of expression. I have very

little to say about puns; they are in very bad repute, and so they

ought to be. The wit of language is so miserably inferior to the wit of

ideas that it is very deservedly driven out of good company. Sometimes,

indeed, a pun makes its appearance which seems for a moment to redeem

its species; but we must not be deceived by them: it is a radically

bad race of wit. By unremitting persecution, it has been at last got

under, and driven into cloisters--from whence it must never again be

suffered to emerge into the light of the world. One invaluable blessing

produced by the banishment of punning is an immediate reduction of the

number of wits. It is a wit of so low an order, and in which some sort

of progress is so easily made, that the number of those endowed with

the gift of wit would be nearly equal to those endowed with the gift of

speech. The condition of putting together ideas in order to be witty

operates much in the same salutary manner as the condition of finding

rhymes in poetry;--it reduces the number of performers to those who

have vigour enough to overcome incipient difficulties, and make a sort

of provision that that which need not be done at all should be done

_well_ whenever it _is_ done.”

* * * * *

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

his style.

_MRS. PARTINGTON_

I do not mean to be disrespectful, but the attempt of the Lords to stop

the progress of reform reminds me very forcibly of the great storm of

Sidmouth, and of the conduct of the excellent Mrs. Partington on that

occasion. In the winter of 1824 there set in a great flood upon that

town--the tide rose to an incredible height--the waves rushed in upon

the houses--and everything was threatened with destruction. In the

midst of this sublime storm, Dame Partington, who lived upon the beach,

was seen at the door of her house with mop and pattens, trundling her

mop, and squeezing out the seawater, and vigorously pushing away the

Atlantic Ocean. The Atlantic was roused; Mrs. Partington’s spirit was

up; but I need not tell you that the contest was unequal. The Atlantic

Ocean beat Mrs. Partington. She was excellent at a slop or a puddle,

but she should not have meddled with a tempest.--(From a Speech at

Taunton in 1831.)

And we add the ever popular Recipe for a Salad.

_SALAD_

To make this condiment, your poet begs

The pounded yellow of two hard-boiled eggs.

Two boiled potatoes, passed through kitchen-sieve,

Smoothness and softness to the salad give.

Let onion atoms lurk within the bowl,

And, half-suspected, animate the whole.

Of mordant mustard add a single spoon,

Distrust the condiment that bites so soon;

But deem it not, thou man of herbs, a fault,

To add a double quantity of salt.

And, lastly, o’er the flavoured compound toss

A magic soup-spoon of anchovy sauce.

Oh, green and glorious! Oh, herbaceous treat!

’Twould tempt the dying anchorite to eat;

Back to the world he’d turn his fleeting soul,

And plunge his fingers in the salad bowl!

Serenely full, the epicure would say,

Fate cannot harm me, I have dined to-day!

Charles Lamb, beloved alike of the humorous and serious minded,

disagrees with Sydney Smith regarding the pun.

His opinion,

“A pun is a noble thing _per se_. It is a sole digest of

reflection; it is entire; it fills the mind; it is as perfect as a

sonnet--better. It limps ashamed in the train and retinue of humour; it

knows it should have an establishment of its own.”

is shown in this instance.

Lamb was reserved among strangers. A friend, about to introduce him to

a circle of new faces, said, “Now will you promise, _Lamb_, not to

be as _sheepish_ as usual?” Charles replied, with a rustic air, “I

_wool_.”

Such masterpieces as Lamb’s _Dissertation Upon Roast Pig_, and his

_Farewell to Tobacco_ are too lengthy to quote. We give some of

his shorter witty allusions.

* * * * *

Coleridge went to Germany, and left word to Lamb that if he wished any

information on any subject, he might apply to him (i.e., by letter), so

Lamb sent him the following abstruse propositions, to which, however,

Coleridge did not deign an answer.

* * * * *

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

* * * * *

Whether the archangel Uriel _could_ knowingly affirm an untruth,

and whether, if he _could_, he _would_?

* * * * *

Whether the higher order of seraphim illuminati ever _sneeze_?

* * * * *

Whether an immortal and amenable soul may not come _to be damned at

last_, and the man never suspect it beforehand?

GOOD ACTIONS.--The greatest pleasure I know is to do a good

action by stealth, and to have it found out by accident.

* * * * *

PAYING FOR THINGS.--One cannot bear to pay for articles he

used to get for nothing. When Adam laid out his first penny upon

nonpareils at some stall in Mesopotamia, I think it went hard with

him, reflecting upon his old goodly orchard, where he had so many for

nothing.

* * * * *

NOTHING TO DO.--Positively the best thing a man can have to do

is nothing, and, _next to that_, perhaps, good works.

* * * * *

Robert Southey, though one time Poet Laureate, is not to be too highly

rated as a writer. His humorous poems are largely of the “jagged

categorical” type, and are whimseys rather than wit.

Notwithstanding the aspersion even then cast upon the pun, he regards

it as a legitimate vehicle.

_THE TEN LOST TRIBES OF ISRAEL_

That the lost ten tribes of Israel may be found in London, is a

discovery which any person may suppose he has made, when he walks for

the first time from the city to Wapping. That the tribes of Judah and

Benjamin nourish there is known to all mankind; and from them have

sprung the Scripites, and the Omniumites, and the Threepercentites.

But it is not so well known that many other tribes noticed in the Old

Testament are to be found in this island of Great Britain.

There are the Hittites, who excel in one branch of gymnastics. And

there are the Amorites, who are to be found in town and country;

and there are the Gadites, who frequent watering-places, and take

picturesque tours.

Among the Gadites I shall have some of my best readers, who being in

good humour with themselves and with everything else, except on a

rainy day, will even then be in good humour with me. There will be the

Amorites in their company; and among the Amorites, too, there will be

some who in the overflowing of their love, will have some liking to

spare for the doctor and his faithful memorialist.

The poets, those especially who deal in erotics, lyrics, sentimentals,

or sonnets, are the Ah-oh-ites.

The gentlemen who speculate in chapels are the Puhites.

The chief seat of the Simeonites is at Cambridge; but they are spread

over the land. So are the Man-ass-ites, of whom the finest specimens

are to be seen in St. James’s Street, at the fashionable time of day

for exhibiting the dress and the person upon the pavement.

The freemasons are of the family of the Jachinites.

The female Haggites are to be seen, in low life wheeling barrows, and

in high life seated at card-tables.

The Shuhamites are the cordwainers.

The Teamanites attend the sales of the East India Company.

Sir James Mackintosh, and Sir James Scarlett, and Sir James Graham

belong to the Jim-nites.

Who are the Gazathites, if the people of London are not, where anything

is to be seen? All of them are the Gettites when they can, all would be

Havites if they could.

The journalists should be Geshurites, if they answered to their

profession; instead of this they generally turn out to be Geshuwrongs.

There are, however, three tribes in England, not named in the Old

Testament, who considerably outnumber all the rest. These are the High

Vulgarites, who are the children of Rahank and Phashan, the Middle

Vulgarites, who are the children of Mammon and Terade, and the Low

Vulgarities, who are the children of Tahag, Rahag, and Bohobtay-il.

--From “_The Doctor_.”

_THE WELL OF ST. KEYNE_

A well there is in the West country,

And a clearer one never was seen;

There is not a wife in the West country

But has heard of the Well of St. Keyne.

An oak and an elm tree stand beside,

And behind does an ash-tree grow,

And a willow from the bank above

Droops to the water below.

A traveller came to the Well of St. Keyne;

Pleasant it was to his eye,

For from cock-crow he had been travelling,

And there was not a cloud in the sky.

He drank of the water so cool and clear,

For thirsty and hot was he,

And he sat down upon the bank,

Under the willow-tree.

There came a man from the neighboring town

At the well to fill his pail,

On the well-side he rested it,

And bade the stranger hail.

“Now art thou a bachelor, stranger?” quoth he,

“For an if thou hast a wife,

The happiest draught thou hast drank this day

That ever thou didst in thy life.

“O has your good woman, if one you have,

In Cornwall ever been?

For an if she have, I’ll venture my life

She has drunk of the Well of St. Keyne.”

“I have left a good woman who never was here,”

The stranger he made reply;

“But that my draught should be better for that,

I pray you answer me why.”

“St. Keyne,” quoth the countryman, “many a time

Drank of this crystal well,

And before the angel summoned her

She laid on the water a spell.

“If the husband of this gifted well

Shall drink before his wife,

A happy man thenceforth is he,

For he shall be master for life.

“But if the wife should drink of it first,

Heaven help the husband then!”

The stranger stooped to the Well of St. Keyne,

And drank of the waters again.

“You drank of the well, I warrant, betimes?”

He to the countryman said.

But the countryman smiled as the stranger spake,

And sheepishly shook his head.

“I hastened, as soon as the wedding was done,

And left my wife in the porch.

But i’ faith, she had been wiser than me,

For she took a bottle to church.”

Theodore Hook, recorded as “a playwright, a punster and a practical

joker,” also gives a dissertation on puns and a bit of helpful advice.

* * * * *

“Personal deformities or constitutional calamities are always to be

laid hold of. If anybody tells you that a dear friend has lost his

sight, observe that it will make him more hospitable than ever, since

now he would be glad _to see anybody_. If a clergyman breaks his

leg, remark that he is no longer a clergyman, but a _lame man_.

If a poet is seized with apoplexy, affect to disbelieve it, though you

know it to be true, in order to say, ‘Poeta nascitur non _fit_’;

and then, to carry the joke one step farther, add that “it is not a

_fit_ subject for a jest.” A man falling into a tan-pit you may

call ‘sinking in the _sublime_’; a climbing boy suffocated in a

chimney meets with a _sootable_ death; and a pretty girl having

caught the small-pox is to be much _pitted_. On the subject of

the ear and its defects, talk first of something in which a _cow

sticks_, and end by telling the story of the man who, having taken

great pains to explain something to his companion, at last got into a

rage at his apparent stupidity, and exclaimed, ‘Why, my dear sir, don’t

you comprehend? The thing is as plain as A B C.’ ‘I dare say it is,’

said the other, ‘but I am D E F.’

“It may be as well to give the beginner something of a notion of

the use he may make of the most ordinary words, for the purposes of

quibbleism.

“The loss of a hat is always _felt_; if you don’t like sugar you may

_lump_ it; a glazier is a _panes_-taking man; candles are burnt because

wick-ed things always come to _light_; a lady who takes you home from a

party is kind in her _carriage_, and you say “nunc est _ridendum_” when

you step into it; if it happens to be a chariot, she is a _charitable_

person; birds’-nests and king-killing are synonymous, because they are

_high trees on_; a Bill for building a bridge should be sanctioned

by the Court of _Arches_, as well as the House of _Piers_; when a

man is dull, he goes to the sea-side to _Brighton_; a Cockney lover,

when sentimental, should live in _Heigh Hoburn_; the greatest fibber

is the man most to _re-lie_ upon; a dean expecting a bishopric looks

_for lawn_; a _sui_cide kills pigs, and not himself; a butcher is a

gross man, but a fig-seller is a _grocer_; Joshua never had a father

or mother, because he was the son of _Nun_; your grandmother and your

great-grandmother were your _aunt’s sisters_; a leg of mutton is better

than heaven, because nothing is better than heaven, and a leg of mutton

is better than nothing; races are matters of _course_; an ass can never

be a horse, although he may be a _mayor_; the Venerable Bede was the

mother of Pearl; a baker makes bread when he _kneads_ it; a doctor

cannot be a doctor all at once, because he comes to it by _degrees_;

a man hanged at Newgate has taken a _drop_ too much; the _bridle_ day

is that on which a man leads a woman to the halter. Never mind the

aspirate; punning’s all fair, as the archbishop said in the dream.

“Puns interrogatory are at times serviceable. You meet a man carrying

a hare; ask him if it is his own _hare_, or a wig--there you stump

him. Why is Parliament Street like a compendium? Because it goes to

a _bridge_. Why is a man murdering his mother in a garret a worthy

person? Because he is _above_ committing a crime. Instances of this

kind are innumerable. If you want to render your question particularly

pointed, you are, after asking it once or twice, to say ‘D’ye give it

up?’ Then favour your friends with the solution.”

* * * * *

Richard Harris Barham, author of the _Ingoldsby Legends_, was an

intimate friend of Hook.

Like many another true humorist he was of the clergy, being a minor

canon of St. Paul’s cathedral.

His delightful tales are too long to quote, and only some shorter

pieces may be given.

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

_A “TRUE AND ORIGINAL” VERSION_

In the autumn of 1824, Captain Medwin having hinted that certain

beautiful lines on the burial of Sir John Moore might have been

the production of Lord Byron’s muse, the late Mr. Sidney Taylor,

somewhat indignantly, claimed them for their rightful owner,

the Rev. Charles Wolfe. During the controversy a third claimant

started up in the person of a _soi-disant_ “Doctor Marshall,”

who turned out to be a Durham blacksmith, and _his_ pretensions

a hoax. It was then that a certain “Dr. Peppercorn” put forth

his pretensions, to what he averred was the only “true and

original” version, viz.--

Not a _sous_ had he got,--not a guinea or note,

And he looked confoundedly flurried,

As he bolted away without paying his shot,

And the landlady after him hurried.

We saw him again at dead of night,

When home from the Club returning;

We twigged the Doctor beneath the light

Of the gas-lamp brilliantly burning.

All bare, and exposed to the midnight dews,

Reclined in the gutter we found him;

And he looked like a gentleman taking a snooze,

With his _Marshall_ cloak around him.

“The Doctor’s as drunk as the devil,” we said,

And we managed a shutter to borrow;

We raised him, and sighed at the thought that his head

Would “consumedly ache” on the morrow.

We bore him home, and we put him to bed,

And we told his wife and his daughter

To give him, next morning a couple of red

Herrings, with soda water.--

Loudly they talked of his money that’s gone,

And his Lady began to upbraid him;

But little he reck’d, so they let him snore on

’Neath the counterpane just as we laid him.

We tuck’d him in, and had hardly done

When, beneath the window calling,

We heard the rough voice of a son of a gun

Of a watchman “One o’clock!” bawling.

Slowly and sadly we all walked down

From his room in the uppermost story;

A rushlight we placed on the cold hearthstone,

And we left him alone in his glory.

_RAISING THE DEVIL_

A LEGEND OF CORNELIUS AGRIPPA

“And hast thou nerve enough?” he said,

That gray Old Man, above whose head

Unnumbered years had rolled,--

“And hast thou nerve to view,” he cried,

“The incarnate Fiend that Heaven defied!

--Art thou indeed so bold?

“Say, canst thou, with unshrinking gaze,

Sustain, rash youth, the withering blaze

Of that unearthly eye,

That blasts where’er it lights,--the breath

That, like the Simoom, scatters death

On all that yet _can_ die!

--“Darest thou confront that fearful form

That rides the whirlwind and the storm,

In wild unholy revel!

The terrors of that blasted brow,

Archangel’s once,--though ruined now--

--Ay,--dar’st thou face THE DEVIL?”

“I dare!” the desperate youth replied,

And placed him by that Old Man’s side,

In fierce and frantic glee,

Unblenched his cheek, and firm his limb:

--“No paltry juggling Fiend, but HIM,

--THE DEVIL! I fain would see!--

“In all his Gorgon terrors clad,

His worst, his fellest shape!” the Lad

Rejoined in reckless tone.--

--“Have then thy wish!” Agrippa said,

And sighed, and shook his hoary head,

With many a bitter groan.

He drew the Mystic circle’s bound,

With skull and cross-bones fenced around;

He traced full many a sigil there;

He muttered many a backward pray’r,

That sounded like a curse--

“He comes!”--he cried with wild grimace,

“The fellest of Apollyon’s race!”--

--Then in his startled pupil’s face

He dashed--an EMPTY PURSE!!

Thomas De Quincey, one of the best of humorists wrote _Confessions of

an Opium Eater_, with alas, all the necessary conditions to speak at

first hand.

His clever essay, _Murder as a Fine Art_, we trust, was not

founded on facts. This delightful bit of foolery, one of his many witty

effusions, can be given only in part.

_MURDER AS ONE OF THE FINE ARTS_

The first murder is familiar to you all. As the inventor of murder, and

the father of the art, Cain must have been a man of first-rate genius.

All the Cains were men of genius. Tubal Cain invented tubes, I think,

or some such thing. But, whatever might be the originality and genius

of the artist, every art was then in its infancy, and the works must be

criticised with the recollection of that fact. Even Tubal’s work would

probably be little approved at this day in Sheffield; and therefore

of Cain (Cain senior, I mean) it is no disparagement to say, that his

performance was but so-so. Milton, however, is supposed to have thought

differently. By his way of relating the case, it should seem to have

been rather a pet murder with him, for he retouches it with an apparent

anxiety for its picturesque effect:

“Whereat he inly raged; and, as they talk’d,

Smote him into the midriff with a stone

That beat out life. He fell; and, deadly pale,

Groan’d out his soul _with gushing blood effused_.”

Upon this, Richardson the painter, who had an eye for effect, remarks

as follows, in his _Notes on Paradise Lost_, p. 497: “It has been

thought,” says he, “that Cain beat--as the common saying is--the breath

out of his brother’s body with a great stone; Milton gives in to this,

with the addition, however, of a large wound.”

* * * * *

But it is time that I should say a few words about the principles

of murder, not with a view to regulate your practice, but your

judgment. As to old women, and the mob of newspaper readers, they are

pleased with anything, provided it is bloody enough; but the mind of

sensibility requires something more. _First_, then, let us speak

of the kind of person who is adapted to the purpose of the murderer;

_secondly_, of the place where; _thirdly_, of the time when,

and other little circumstances.

As to the person, I suppose that it is evident that he ought to be a

good man; because, if he were not, he might himself, by possibility, be

contemplating murder at the very time; and such “diamond-cut-diamond”

tussles, though pleasant enough when nothing better is stirring, are

really not what a critic can allow himself to call murders.

* * * * *

The subject chosen ought to be in good health: for it is absolutely

barbarous to murder a sick person, who is usually quite unable to

bear it. On this principle, no tailor ought to be chosen who is above

twenty-five, for after that age he is sure to be dyspeptic. Or at

least, if a man will hunt in that warren, he will of course think it

his duty, on the old established equation, to murder some multiple of

9--say 18, 27, or 36. And here, in this benign attention to the comfort

of sick people, you will observe the usual effect of a fine art to

soften and refine the feelings. The world in general, gentlemen, are

very bloody-minded; and all they want in a murder is a copious effusion

of blood; gaudy display in this point is enough for _them_. But

the enlightened connoisseur is more refined in his taste; and from our

art, as from all the other liberal arts when thoroughly mastered, the

result is, to humanise the heart.

A philosophic friend, well known for his philanthropy and general

benignity, suggests that the subject chosen ought also to have a

family of young children wholly dependent upon his exertions, by

way of deepening the pathos. And, undoubtedly, this is a judicious

caution. Yet I would not insist too keenly on such a condition. Severe

good taste unquestionably suggests it; but still, where the man was

otherwise unobjectionable in point of morals and health, I would not

look with too curious a jealousy to a restriction which might have the

effect of narrowing the artist’s sphere.

So much for the person. As to the time, the place, and the tools, I

have many things to say, which at present I have no room for. The

good sense of the practitioner has usually directed him to night and

privacy. Yet there have not been wanting cases where this rule was

departed from with excellent effect.

* * * * *

LORD BYRON, whose works are variously adjudged by the critics,

owes much to the fact that he was possessed of a distinct and definite

sense of humor.

It is that which saves many of his long and dull stretches of verse

from utter unreadability.

His facile rhymes, apparently tossed off with little of or no effort,

embody in the best possible manner his graceful fun.

The _ottava rima_ of Don Juan, though often careless, even

slovenly as to technical details, is surely the meter best fitted for

the theme.

Juan embarked--the ship got under way,

The wind was fair, the water passing rough;

A devil of a sea rolls in that bay,

As I, who’ve crossed it oft, know well enough;

And, standing upon deck, the dashing spray

Flies in one’s face, and makes it weather-tough;

And there he stood to take, and take again,

His first--perhaps his last--farewell of Spain.

I can’t but say it is an awkward sight

To see one’s native land receding through

The growing waters; it unmans one quite,

Especially when life is rather new.

I recollect Great Britain’s coast looks white,

But almost every other country’s blue,

When gazing on them, mystified by distance,

We enter on our nautical existence.

So Juan stood, bewildered on the deck:

The wind sung, cordage strained, and sailors swore,

And the ship creaked, the town became a speck,

From which away so fair and fast they bore.

The best of remedies is a beef-steak

Against sea-sickness: try it, sir, before

You sneer, and I assure you this is true,

For I have found it answer--so may you.

“And oh! if e’er I should forget, I swear--

But that’s impossible, and cannot be--

Sooner shall this blue ocean melt to air,

Sooner shall earth resolve itself to sea,

Than I resign thine image, oh, my fair!

Or think of anything excepting thee;

A mind diseased no remedy can physic.”

(Here the ship gave a lurch and he grew sea-sick.)

“Sooner shall heaven kiss earth!” (Here he fell sicker.)

“Oh, Julia! what is every other woe?

(For God’s sake let me have a glass of liquor;

Pedro, Battista, help me down below.)

Julia, my love! (you rascal, Pedro, quicker)

Oh, Julia! (this curst vessel pitches so)

Beloved Julia, hear me still beseeching!”

(Here he grew inarticulate with retching.)

He felt that chilling heaviness of heart,

Or rather stomach, which, alas! attends,

Beyond the best apothecary’s art,

The loss of love, the treachery of friends,

Or death of those we dote on, when a part

Of us dies with them as each fond hope ends.

No doubt he would have been much more pathetic,

But the sea acted as a strong emetic.

_AFTER SWIMMING THE HELLESPONT_

If, in the month of dark December,

Leander, who was nightly wont

(What maid will not the tale remember?)

To cross thy stream, broad Hellespont;

If, when the wint’ry tempest roar’d,

He sped to Hero nothing loath,

And thus of old thy current pour’d,

Fair Venus! how I pity both!

For _me_, degenerate, modern wretch,

Though in the genial month of May,

My dripping limbs I faintly stretch,

And think I’ve done a feat to-day.

But since he crossed the rapid tide,

According to the doubtful story,

To woo--and--Lord knows what beside,

And swam for Love, as I for Glory;

’Twere hard to say who fared the best:

Sad mortals, thus the gods still plague you!

He lost his labour, I my jest;

For he was drowned, and I’ve the ague.

Thomas Hood, versatile alike in humorous or pathetic vein, was a

prolific and successful punster. If the form could be forgiven anybody

it must be condoned in his case. He also was apt at parody and often

blended pathos and tragedy with his humorous work.

_FAITHLESS NELLY GRAY_

A PATHETIC BALLAD

Ben Battle was a soldier bold,

And used to war’s alarms;

But a cannon-ball took off his legs,

So he laid down his arms!

Now, as they bore him off the field,

Said he, “Let others shoot,

For here I leave my second leg,

And the Forty-Second Foot!”

The army-surgeons made him limbs;

Said he, “they’re only pegs:

But there’s as wooden Members quite

As represent my legs!”

Now Ben he loved a pretty maid,

Her name was Nelly Gray;

So he went to pay her his devours,

When he devoured his pay!

But when he called on Nelly Gray,

She made him quite a scoff;

And when she saw his wooden legs,

Began to take them off!

“O, Nelly Gray! O, Nelly Gray!

Is this your love so warm?

The love that loves a scarlet coat

Should be more uniform!”

Said she, “I loved a soldier once,

For he was blithe and brave;

But I will never have a man

With both legs in the grave!

“Before you had those timber toes,

Your love I did allow;

But then, you know, you stand upon

Another footing now!”

“O, Nelly Gray! O, Nelly Gray!

For all your jeering speeches;

At duty’s call I left my legs,

In Badajos’s _breeches_!”

“Why then,” said she, “you’ve lost the feet

Of legs in war’s alarms,

And now you cannot wear your shoes

Upon your feats of arms!”

“O, false and fickle Nelly Gray!

I know why you refuse:--

Though I’ve no feet--some other man

Is standing in my shoes!

“I wish I ne’er had seen your face;

But now, a long farewell!

For you will be my death;--alas!

You will not be my _Nell_!”

Now when he went from Nelly Gray

His heart so heavy got,

And life was such a burden grown,

It made him take a knot!

So round his melancholy neck

A rope he did entwine,

And, for his second time in life,

Enlisted in the Line.

One end he tied around a beam,

And then removed his pegs,

And, as his legs were off--of course

He soon was off his legs!

And there he hung, till he was dead

As any nail in town--

For though distress had cut him up,

It could not cut him down!

A dozen men sat on his corpse,

To find out why he died--

And they buried Ben in four cross-roads,

With a _stake_ in his inside!

_NO!_

No sun--no moon!

No morn--no noon--

No dawn--no dusk--no proper time of day--

No sky--no earthly view--

No distance looking blue--

No road--no street--no “t’other side the way”--

No end to any Row--

No indications where the Crescents go--

No top to any steeple--

No recognitions of familiar people--

No courtesies for showing ’em--

No knowing ’em!

To travelling at all--no locomotion,

No inkling of the way--no notion--

No go--by land or ocean--

No mail--no post--

No news from any foreign coast--

No park--no ring--no afternoon gentility--

No company--no nobility--

No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease,

No comfortable feel in any member--

No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees.

No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds.

November!

The brothers James and Horace Smith, wrote what was in their day

considered lively and amusing humor, but which seems a trifle dry to

us. Their greatest work was the _Rejected Addresses_, a series of

parodies on the poets, such as Wordsworth, Southey, Coleridge, Scott,

Moore and many others.

One of these, an imitation of Wordsworth’s most simple style, succeeds

in parodying his mawkish affectations of childish simplicity and

nursery stammering.

_THE BABY’S DÉBUT_

[_Spoken in the character of Nancy Lake, a girl eight years of

age, who is drawn upon the stage in a child’s chaise by Samuel

Hughes, her uncle’s porter._]

My brother Jack was nine in May,

And I was eight on New-Year’s day;

So in Kate Wilson’s shop

Papa (he’s my papa and Jack’s)

Bought me, last week, a doll of wax,

And brother Jack a top.

Jack’s in the pouts, and this it is,--

He thinks mine came to more than his;

So to my drawer he goes,

Takes out the doll, and, oh, my stars!

He pokes her head between the bars,

And melts off half her nose!

Quite cross, a bit of string I beg,

And tie it to his peg-top’s peg,

And bang, with might and main,

Its head against the parlour-door:

Off flies the head, and hits the floor,

And breaks a window-pane.

This made him cry with rage and spite:

Well, let him cry, it serves him right.

A pretty thing, forsooth!

If he’s to melt, all scalding hot,

Half my doll’s nose, and I am not

To draw his peg-top’s tooth!

Aunt Hannah heard the window break,

And cried, “Oh naughty Nancy Lake,

Thus to distress your aunt:

No Drury-Lane for you to-day!”

And while papa said, “Pooh, she may!”

Mamma said, “No, she sha’n’t!”

Well, after many a sad reproach,

They get into a hackney coach,

And trotted down the street.

I saw them go: one horse was blind,

The tails of both hung down behind,

Their shoes were on their feet.

The chaise in which poor brother Bill

Used to be drawn to Pentonville,

Stood in the lumber-room:

I wiped the dust from off the top,

While Molly mopp’d it with a mop,

And brush’d it with a broom.

My uncle’s porter, Samuel Hughes,

Came in at six to black the shoes

(I always talk to Sam):

So what does he, but takes, and drags

Me in the chaise along the flags,

And leaves me where I am.

My father’s walls are made of brick,

But not so tall, and not so thick

As these; and, goodness me!

My father’s beams are made of wood,

But never, never half so good

As those that now I see.

What a large floor! ’tis like a town!

The carpet, when they lay it down,

Won’t hide it, I’ll be bound;

And there’s a row of lamps!--my eye!

How they do blaze! I wonder why

They keep them on the ground.

At first I caught hold of the wing,

And kept away; but Mr. Thing-

um bob, the prompter man,

Gave with his hand my chaise a shove,

And said, “Go on, my pretty love;

Speak to ’em, little Nan.

“You’ve only got to curtsey, whisp-

er, hold your chin up, laugh, and lisp,

And then you’re sure to take:

I’ve known the day when brats, not quite

Thirteen, got fifty pounds a night;

Then why not Nancy Lake?”

But while I’m speaking, where’s papa?

And where’s my aunt? and where’s mamma?

Where’s Jack? Oh, there they sit!

They smile, they nod; I’ll go my ways,

And order round poor Billy’s chaise,

To join them in the pit.

And now, good gentlefolks, I go

To join mamma, and see the show;

So, bidding you adieu,

I curtsey, like a pretty miss,

And if you’ll blow to me a kiss,

I’ll blow a kiss to you.

[_Blows a kiss, and exit._

_THE MILKMAID AND THE BANKER_

A Milkmaid, with a pretty face,

Who lived at Acton,

Had a black cow, the ugliest in the place,

A crooked-backed one,

A beast as dangerous, too, as she was frightful,

Vicious and spiteful;

And so confirmed a truant that she bounded

Over the hedges daily and got pounded:

’Twas in vain to tie her with a tether,

For then both cow and cord eloped together.

Armed with an oaken bough--(what folly!

It should have been of thorn, or prickly holly),

Patty one day was driving home the beast,

Which had as usual slipped its anchor,

When on the road she met a certain Banker,

Who stopped to give his eyes a feast,

By gazing on her features crimsoned high

By a long cow-chase in July.

“Are you from Acton, pretty lass?” he cried;

“Yes”--with a courtesy she replied.

“Why, then, you know the laundress, Sally Wrench?”

“Yes, she’s my cousin, sir, and next-door neighbor.”

“That’s lucky--I’ve a message for the wench

Which needs despatch, and you may save my labor.

Give her this kiss, my dear, and say I sent it:

But mind, you owe me one--I’ve only lent it.”

“She shall know,” cried the girl, as she brandished her bough,

“Of the loving intentions you bore me;

But since you’re in haste for the kiss, you’ll allow,

That you’d better run forward and give it my cow,

For she, at the rate she is scampering now,

Will reach Acton some minutes before me.”

HORACE SMITH.

_THE JESTER CONDEMNED TO DEATH_

One of the Kings of Scanderoon,

A royal jester,

Had in his train a gross buffoon,

Who used to pester

The Court with tricks inopportune,

Venting on the highest folks his

Scurvy pleasantries and hoaxes.

It needs some sense to play the fool,

Which wholesome rule

Occurred not to our jackanapes,

Who consequently found his freaks

Lead to innumerable scrapes,

And quite as many kicks and tweaks,

Which only seemed to make him faster

Try the patience of his master.

Some sin, at last, beyond all measure,

Incurred the desperate displeasure

Of his serene and raging highness:

Whether he twitched his most revered

And sacred beard,

Or had intruded on the shyness

Of the seraglio, or let fly

An epigram at royalty,

None knows: his sin was an occult one,

But records tell us that the Sultan,

Meaning to terrify the knave,

Exclaimed, “’Tis time to stop that breath:

Thy doom is sealed, presumptuous slave!

Thou stand’st condemned to certain death:

Silence, base rebel! no replying!

But such is my indulgence still,

That, of my own free grace and will,

I leave to thee the mode of dying.”

“Thy royal will be done--’tis just,”

Replied the wretch, and kissed the dust;

“Since, my last moments to assuage,

Your majesty’s humane decree

Has deigned to leave the choice to me,

I’ll die, so please you, of old age!”

HORACE SMITH.

It is to be regretted that the feminine writers of this period showed

practically no evidence of humorous scintillation, but we have

searched in vain through the writings of Ann and Jane Taylor, Mary

Russell Mitford, Felicia Hemans and Letitia Elizabeth Landon,--finding

only some unconscious humor, not at all intentional on the part of the

authoresses, as they were then called.

William Maginn was also adept at parody, but his work was ephemeral.

The rollicking rhyme of the Irishman is among the most interesting of

his poems.

_THE IRISHMAN_

There was a lady lived at Leith,

A lady very stylish, man,

And yet, in spite of all her teeth,

She fell in love with an Irishman,

A nasty, ugly Irishman,

A wild, tremendous Irishman,

A tearing, swearing, thumping, bumping, ranting, roaring Irishman.

His face was no ways beautiful,

For with small-pox ’twas scarred across,

And the shoulders of the ugly dog

Were almost double a yard across.

Oh, the lump of an Irishman,

The whisky-devouring Irishman,

The great he-rogue, with his wonderful brogue, the fighting,

rioting Irishman!

One of his eyes was bottle-green,

And the other eye was out, my dear,

And the calves of his wicked-looking legs

Were more than two feet about, my dear.

Oh, the great big Irishman,

The rattling, battling Irishman,

The stamping, ramping, swaggering, staggering, leathering swash of

an Irishman!

He took so much of Lundy-foot

That he used to snort and snuffle, oh,

And in shape and size the fellow’s neck

Was as bad as the neck of a buffalo.

Oh, the horrible Irishman,

The thundering, blundering Irishman,

The slashing, dashing, smashing, lashing, thrashing, hashing

Irishman!

His name was a terrible name indeed,

Being Timothy Thady Mulligan;

And whenever he emptied his tumbler of punch,

He’d not rest till he’d filled it full again.

The boozing, bruising Irishman,

The ’toxicated Irishman,

The whisky, frisky, rummy, gummy, brandy, no-dandy Irishman.

This was the lad the lady loved,

Like all the girls of quality;

And he broke the skulls of the men of Leith,

Just by the way of jollity.

Oh, the leathering Irishman,

The barbarous, savage Irishman!

The hearts of the maids and the gentlemen’s heads were bothered,

I’m sure, by this Irishman.

Thomas Haynes Bayly, though not especially a humorist, showed the

influence of a witty muse in his songs, which were numerous and popular.

_She Wore a Wreath of Roses_, _Oh, No, We Never Mention Her_

and _Gaily the Troubadour Touched his Guitar_ are among the best

remembered.

He was the author of many bright bits of Society Verse, and wrote some

deep and very real satire.

_WHY DON’T THE MEN PROPOSE?_

Why don’t the men propose, mamma?

Why don’t the men propose?

Each seems just coming to the point,

And then away he goes;

It is no fault of yours, mamma,

_That_ everybody knows;

You _fête_ the finest men in town,

Yet, oh! they won’t propose.

I’m sure I’ve done my best, mamma,

To make a proper match;

For coronets and eldest sons,

I’m ever on the watch;

I’ve hopes when some _distingué_ beau

A glance upon me throws;

But though he’ll dance and smile and flirt,

Alas! he won’t propose.

I’ve tried to win by languishing,

And dressing like a blue;

I’ve bought big books and talked of them

As if I’d read them through!

With hair cropp’d like a man I’ve felt

The heads of all the beaux;

But Spurzheim could not touch their hearts,

And oh! they won’t propose.

I threw aside the books, and thought

That ignorance was bliss;

I felt convinced that men preferred

A simple sort of Miss;

And so I lisped out nought beyond

Plain “yesses” or plain “noes,”

And wore a sweet unmeaning smile;

Yet, oh! they won’t propose.

Last night at Lady Ramble’s rout

I heard Sir Henry Gale

Exclaim, “Now I _propose_ again----”

I started, turning pale;

I really thought my time was come,

I blushed like any rose;

But oh! I found ’twas only at

_Ecarté_ he’d propose.

And what is to be done, mamma?

Oh, what is to be done?

I really have no time to lose,

For I am thirty-one;

At balls I am too often left

Where spinsters sit in rows;

Why don’t the men propose, mamma?

Why _won’t_ the men propose?

Frederick Marryat, oftener spoken of as Captain Marryat was among the

most renowned writers of sea stories, and easily the most humorous of

the authors who chose the sea for their fictional setting.

His books are well known in all households, and after Dickens there is

probably no English novelist who has caused more real chuckles.

_NAUTICAL TERMS_

All the sailors were busy at work, and the first lieutenant cried out

to the gunner, “Now, Mr. Dispart, if you are ready, we’ll breech these

guns.”

“Now, my lads,” said the first lieutenant, “we must slug (the part the

breeches cover) more forward.” As I never had heard of a gun having

breeches, I was very curious to see what was going on, and went up

close to the first lieutenant, who said to me, “Youngster, hand me that

_monkey’s tail_.” I saw nothing like a _monkey’s tail_, but I was so

frightened that I snatched up the first thing that I saw, which was

a short bar of iron, and it so happened that it was the very article

which he wanted. When I gave it to him, the first lieutenant looked at

me, and said, “So you know what a monkey’s tail is already, do you? Now

don’t you ever sham stupid after that.”

Thought I to myself, I’m very lucky, but if that’s a monkey’s tail,

it’s a very stiff one!

I resolved to learn the names of everything as fast as I could, that I

might be prepared, so I listened attentively to what was said; but I

soon became quite confused, and despaired of remembering anything.

“How is this to be finished off, sir?” inquired a sailor of the

boatswain.

“Why, I beg leave to hint to you, sir, in the most delicate manner

in the world,” replied the boatswain, “that it must be with a

_double-wall_--and be damned to you--don’t you know that yet?

Captain of the foretop,” said he, “up on your _horses_, and take

your _stirrups_ up three inches.” “Aye, aye, sir.” I looked and

looked, but I could see no horses.

“Mr. Chucks,” said the first lieutenant to the boatswain, “what blocks

have we below--not on charge?”

“Let me see, sir. I’ve one _sister_, t’other we split in half the other

day, and I think I have a couple of _monkeys_ down in the store-room. I

say, you Smith, pass that brace through the _bull’s eye_, and take the

_sheep-shank_ out before you come down.”

And then he asked the first lieutenant whether something should

not be fitted with a _mouse_ or only a _Turk’s-head_--told him the

_goose-neck_ must be spread out by the armourer as soon as the forge

was up. In short, what with _dead-eyes_ and _shrouds_, _cats_ and

_cat-blocks_, _dolphins_ and _dolphin-strikers, whips_ and _puddings_,

I was so puzzled with what I heard, that I was about to leave the deck

in absolute despair.

“And, Mr. Chucks, recollect this afternoon that you _bleed_ all the

_buoys_.”

Bleed the boys, thought I; what can that be for? At all events, the

surgeon appears to be the proper person to perform that operation.

--_Peter Simple._

Douglas Jerrold was an infant prodigy and later a noted playwright;

beside being the author of the world famous Caudle lectures.

He was a celebrated wit and punster and though many epigrammatic

sayings are wrongly attributed to him, yet he was the originator of as

many more.

_COLD MUTTON, PUDDING, PANCAKES_

“What am I grumbling about, now? It’s very well for you to ask that!

I’m sure I’d better be out of the world than--there now, Mr Caudle;

there you are again! I _shall_ speak, sir. It isn’t often I open my

mouth, Heaven knows! But you like to hear nobody talk but yourself. You

ought to have married a negro slave, and not any respectable woman.

“You’re to go about the house looking like thunder all the day, and

I’m not to say a word. Where do you think pudding’s to come from every

day? You show a nice example to your children, you do; complaining, and

turning your nose up at a sweet piece of cold mutton, because there’s

no pudding! You go a nice way to make ’em extravagant--teach ’em nice

lessons to begin the world with. Do you know what puddings cost; or do

you think they fly in at the window?

“You hate cold mutton. The more shame for you, Mr. Caudle. I’m sure

you’ve the stomach of a lord, you have. No, sir; I didn’t choose to

hash the mutton. It’s very easy for you to say hash it; but _I_

know what a joint loses in hashing: it’s a day’s dinner the less, if

it’s a bit. Yes, I dare say; other people may have puddings with cold

mutton. No doubt of it; and other people become bankrupts. But if ever

you get into the _Gazette_, it sha’n’t be _my_ fault--no;

I’ll do my duty as a wife to you, Mr. Caudle; you shall never have it

to say that it was _my_ housekeeping that brought you to beggary.

No; you may sulk at the cold meat--ha! I hope you’ll never live to want

such a piece of cold mutton as we had to-day! and you may threaten

to go to a tavern to dine; but, with our present means, not a crumb

of pudding do you get from me. You shall have nothing but the cold

joint--nothing, as I’m a Christian sinner.

“Yes; there you are, throwing those fowls in my face again! I know you

once brought home a pair of fowls; I know it; but you were mean enough

to want to stop ’em out of my week’s money! Oh, the selfishness--the

shabbiness of men! They can go out and throw away pounds upon pounds

with a pack of people who laugh at ’em afterward; but if it’s anything

wanted for their own homes, their poor wives may hunt for it. I wonder

you don’t blush to name those fowls again! I wouldn’t be so little for

the world, Mr. Caudle!

“What are you going to do? _Going to get up?_ Don’t make yourself

ridiculous, Mr. Caudle; I can’t say a word to you like any other wife,

but you must threaten to get up. _Do_ be ashamed of yourself.

“Puddings, indeed! Do you think I’m made of puddings? Didn’t you have

some boiled rice three weeks ago? Besides, is this the time of the

year for puddings? It’s all very well if I had money enough allowed

me like any other wife to keep the house with; then, indeed, I might

have preserves like any other woman; now, it’s impossible; and it’s

cruel--yes, Mr. Caudle, cruel--of you to expect it.

“_Apples ar’n’t so dear, are they?_ I know what apples are, Mr.

Caudle, without your telling me. But I suppose you want something more

than apples for dumplings? I suppose sugar costs something, doesn’t it?

And that’s how it is. That’s how one expense brings on another, and

that’s how people go to ruin.

“_Pancakes?_ What’s the use of your lying muttering there about

pancakes? Don’t you always have ’em once a year--every Shrove Tuesday?

And what would any moderate, decent man want more?

“Pancakes, indeed! Pray, Mr. Caudle--no, it’s no use your saying fine

words to me to let you go to sleep; I sha’n’t. Pray, do you know the

price of eggs just now? There’s not an egg you can trust to under seven

and eight a shilling; well, you’ve only just to reckon up how many

eggs--don’t lie swearing there at the eggs in that manner, Mr. Caudle;

unless you expect the bed to let you fall through. You call yourself a

respectable tradesman, I suppose? Ha! I only wish people knew you as

well as I do! Swearing at eggs, indeed! But I’m tired of this usage,

Mr. Caudle; quite tired of it; and I don’t care how soon it’s ended!

“I’m sure I do nothing but work and labour, and think how to make the

most of everything; and this is how I’m rewarded.”

--_Mrs. Caudle’s Curtain Lectures._

“Call that a kind man,” said an actor of an absent acquaintance; “a man

who is away from his family, and never sends them a farthing! Call that

kindness!” “Yes, unremitting kindness,” Jerrold replied.

Some member of “Our Club,” hearing an air mentioned, exclaimed: “That

always carries me away when I hear it.” “Can nobody whistle it?”

exclaimed Jerrold.

A friend said to Jerrold: “Have you heard about poor R---- [a lawyer]?

His business is going to the devil.” Jerrold answered: “That’s all

right: then he is sure to get it back again.”

* * * * *

If an earthquake were to engulf England to-morrow, the English would

meet and dine somewhere just to celebrate the event.

* * * * *

Of a man who had pirated one of his jests, and who was described in his

hearing as an honest fellow, he said, “Oh yes, you can trust him with

untold jokes.”

* * * * *

Jerrold met Alfred Bunn one day in Piccadilly. Bunn stopped Jerrold,

and said, “I suppose you’re strolling about, picking up character.”

“Well, not exactly,” said Jerrold, “but there’s plenty lost hereabouts.”

* * * * *

Jerrold was seriously disappointed with a certain book written by

one of his friends. This friend heard that he had expressed his

disappointment. _Friend_ (to Jerrold): “I heard you said it was

the worst book I ever wrote.” _Jerrold_: “No, I didn’t. I said it

was the worst book anybody ever wrote.”

* * * * *

Some one was talking with him about a gentleman as celebrated for

the intensity as for the shortness of his friendships. “Yes,” said

Jerrold, “his friendships are so warm, that he no sooner takes them up

than he puts them down again.”

* * * * *

Thomas Moore, called the most successful Irishman of letters of the

nineteenth century, early developed a taste for music and a talent for

versification. To this add his native wit, and we have a humorist of no

mean order.

He wrote epistles, odes, satires and songs with equal facility, and to

these he added books of travel and biography and history.

His quick wit is shown in his lighter verse and epigrams.

_NONSENSE_

Good reader, if you e’er have seen,

When Phœbus hastens to his pillow,

The mermaids with their tresses green

Dancing upon the western billow;

If you have seen at twilight dim,

When the lone spirit’s vesper hymn

Floats wild along the winding shore,

The fairy train their ringlets weave

Glancing along the spangled green;--

If you have seen all this, and more,

God bless me! what a deal you’ve seen!

_LYING_

I do confess, in many a sigh,

My lips have breath’d you many a lie,

And who, with such delights in view,

Would lose them for a lie or two?

Nay--look not thus, with brow reproving:

Lies are, my dear, the soul of loving!

If half we tell the girls were true,

If half we swear to think and do,

Were aught but lying’s bright illusion,

The world would be in strange confusion!

If ladies’ eyes were, every one,

As lovers swear, a radiant sun,

Astronomy should leave the skies,

To learn her lore in ladies’ eyes!

Oh no!--believe me, lovely girl,

When nature turns your teeth to pearl,

Your neck to snow, your eyes to fire,

Your yellow locks to golden wire,

Then, only then, can heaven decree,

That you should live for only me,

Or I for you, as night and morn,

We’ve swearing kiss’d, and kissing sworn.

And now, my gentle hints to clear,

For once, I’ll tell you truth, my dear!

Whenever you may chance to meet

A loving youth, whose love is sweet,

Long as you’re false and he believes you,

Long as you trust and he deceives you,

So long the blissful bond endures;

And while he lies, his heart is yours:

But, oh! you’ve wholly lost the youth

The instant that he tells you truth!

_WHAT’S MY THOUGHT LIKE?_

_Quest._--Why is a Pump like Viscount Castlereagh?

_Answ._--Because it is a slender thing of wood,

That up and down its awkward arm doth sway,

And coolly spout, and spout, and spout away,

In one weak, washy, everlasting flood!

_OF ALL THE MEN_

Of all the men one meets about,

There’s none like Jack--he’s everywhere:

At church--park--auction--dinner--rout--

Go when and where you will, he’s there.

Try the West End, he’s at your back--

Meets you, like Eurus, in the East--

You’re call’d upon for “How do, Jack?”

One hundred times a day, at least.

A friend of his one evening said,

As home he took his pensive way,

“Upon my soul, I fear Jack’s dead--

I’ve seen him but three times to-day!”

_ON TAKING A WIFE_

“Come, come,” said Tom’s father, “at your time of life,

There’s no longer excuse for thus playing the rake.--

It is time you should think, boy, of taking a wife.”--

“Why, so it is, father,--whose wife shall I take?”

_UPON BEING OBLIGED TO LEAVE A PLEASANT PARTY_

FROM THE WANT OF A PAIR OF BREECHES TO DRESS FOR DINNER IN

Between Adam and me the great difference is,

Though a paradise each has been forced to resign,

That he never wore breeches till turn’d out of his,

While, for want of my breeches, I’m banish’d from mine.

Samuel Lover and Charles James Lever are two more versatile Irish

authors, the latter being the most eminent of the Irish novelists.

Both wrote delightful light verse and many popular songs.

_RORY O’MORE_

Young Rory O’More courted young Kathleen Bawn.

He was bold as a hawk, and she soft as the dawn.

He wished in his heart pretty Kathleen to please,

And he thought the best way to do that was to tease.

“Now, Rory, be aisy,” sweet Kathleen would cry,

Reproof on her lips, but a smile in her eye;

“With your tricks I don’t know in troth what I’m about!

Faith! you’ve teased till I’ve put on my cloak inside out.”

“Oh, jewel,” says Rory, “that same is the way

You’ve thrated my heart for this many a day;

And ’tis plased that I am, and why not, to be sure,

For ’tis all for good luck,” says bold Rory O’More.

“Indeed, then,” says Kathleen, “don’t think of the like,

For I half gave a promise to soothering Mike;

The ground that I walk on he loves, I’ll be bound.”

“Faith,” says Rory, “I’d rather love you than the ground.”

“Now, Rory, I’ll cry if you don’t let me go,

Sure, I dream every night that I’m hating you so.”

“Oh!” says Rory, “that same I’m delighted to hear,

For dhrames always go by conthrairies, my dear;

Oh! jewel, keep dhraming that same till you die,

And bright morning will give dirty night the black lie.

And ’tis plased that I am, and why not, to be sure,

Since ’tis all for good luck,” says bold Rory O’More.

“Arrah, Kathleen, my darlint, you’ve teased me enough,

And I’ve thrashed for your sake Dinny Grimes and Jim Duff;

And I’ve made myself, drinking your health, quite a baste,

So, I think, after that, I may talk to the praste.”

Then Rory, the rogue, stole his arm round her neck,

So soft and so white, without freckle or speck!

And he looked in her eyes that were beaming with light;

And he kissed her sweet lips. Don’t you think he was right?

“Now, Rory, leave off, sir--you’ll hug me no more--

There’s eight times to-day that you’ve kissed me before.”

“Then here goes another,” says he, “to make sure.

For there’s luck in odd numbers,” says Rory O’More.

SAMUEL LOVER.

_LANTY LEARY_

Lanty was in love, you see,

With lovely, lively Rosie Carey;

But her father can’t agree

To give the girl to Lanty Leary.

Up to fun, “Away we’ll run,”

Says she; “my father’s so conthrairy.

Won’t you follow me? Won’t you follow me?”

“Faith, I will!” says Lanty Leary.

But her father died one day

(I hear ’twas not by dhrinkin’ wather);

House and land and cash, they say,

He left by will to Rose his daughter;

House and land and cash to seize,

Away she cut so light and airy.

“Won’t you follow me? Won’t you follow me?”

“Faith, I will!” says Lanty Leary.

Rose, herself, was taken bad,

The fayver worse each day was growin’;

“Lanty, dear,” says she, “’tis sad,

To th’ other world I’m surely goin’.

You can’t survive my loss, I know,

Nor long remain in Tipperary.

Won’t you follow me? Won’t you follow me?”

“Faith, I won’t!” says Lanty Leary.

SAMUEL LOVER.

_WIDOW MALONE_

Did you hear of the Widow Malone, ohone!

Who lived in the town of Athlone, ohone?

Oh! she melted the hearts of the swains in them parts,

So lovely the Widow Malone, ohone!

So lovely the Widow Malone.

Of lovers she had a full score, or more,

And fortunes they all had galore, in store;

From the minister down to the clerk of the crown,

All were courting the Widow Malone, ohone!

All were courting the Widow Malone.

But so modest was Mistress Malone, ’twas known,

That no one could see her alone, ohone!

Let them ogle and sigh, they could ne’er catch her eye,

So bashful the Widow Malone, ohone!

So bashful the Widow Malone.

Till one Mister O’Brien, from Clare--how quare!

It’s little for blushing they care down there,

Put his arm round her waist--gave ten kisses at laste--

“Oh,” says he, “you’re my Molly Malone, my own!

Oh,” says he, “you’re my Molly Malone.”

And the widow they all thought so shy, my eye!

Ne’er thought of a simper or sigh, for why?

“But, Lucius,” says she, “since you’ve now made so free,

You may marry your Mary Malone, ohone!

You may marry your Mary Malone.”

CHARLES LEVER.

Winthrop Mackworth Praed belongs to the small group of Londoners which

also included Calverley and Locker-Lampson. At least one great critic

considers Praed the greatest of this band, and so far as metric skill

and finished execution are concerned, he may well be called so. Also,

his taste is impeccable, and his society verse ranks among the best.

_A SONG OF IMPOSSIBILITIES_

Lady, I loved you all last year,

How honestly and well--

Alas! would weary you to hear,

And torture me to tell;

I raved beneath the midnight sky,

I sang beneath the limes--

Orlando in my lunacy,

And Petrarch in my rhymes.

But all is over! When the sun

Dries up the boundless main,

When black is white, false-hearted one,

I may be yours again!

When passion’s early hopes and fears

Are not derided things;

When truth is found in falling tears,

Or faith in golden rings;

When the dark Fates that rule our way

Instruct me where they hide

One woman that would ne’er betray,

One friend that never lied;

When summer shines without a cloud,

And bliss without a pain;

When worth is noticed in a crowd,

I may be yours again!

When science pours the light of day

Upon the lords of lands;

When Huskisson is heard to say

That Lethbridge understands;

When wrinkles work their way in youth,

Or Eldon’s in a hurry;

When lawyers represent the truth,

Or Mr. Sumner Surrey;

When aldermen taste eloquence

Or bricklayers champagne;

When common law is common sense,

I may be yours again!

When Pole and Thornton honour cheques,

Or Mr. Const a rogue;

When Jericho’s in Middlesex,

Or minuets in vogue;

When Highgate goes to Devonport,

Or fashion to Guildhall;

When argument is heard at Court,

Or Mr. Wynn at all;

When Sydney Smith forgets to jest,

Or farmers to complain;

When kings that are are not the best,

I may be yours again!

When peers from telling money shrink,

Or monks from telling lies;

When hydrogen begins to sink,

Or Grecian scrip to rise;

When German poets cease to dream,

Americans to guess;

When Freedom sheds her holy beam

On Negroes, and the Press;

When there is any fear of Rome,

Or any hope of Spain;

When Ireland is a happy home,

I may be yours again!

When you can cancel what has been,

Or alter what must be,

Or bring once more that vanished scene,

Those withered joys to me;

When you can tune the broken lute,

Or deck the blighted wreath,

Or rear the garden’s richest fruit,

Upon a blasted heath;

When you can lure the wolf at bay

Back to his shattered chain,

To-day may then be yesterday--

I may be yours again!

William Makepeace Thackeray, combining all the highest mental and moral

qualities in his work, adds thereto a delicate and subtle humor, never

broad, but always forcible and original.

This permeates all his novels, which, of course, may not be quoted

here, even in excerpts.

But Thackeray was equally happy in verse, and his contributions to

London _Punch_ are among the treasures of that journal’s history.

_LITTLE BILLEE_

There were three sailors of Bristol City

Who took a boat and went to sea,

But first with beef and captain’s biscuits,

And pickled pork they loaded she.

There was gorging Jack, and guzzling Jimmy,

And the youngest he was little Billee.

Now when they’d got as far as the Equator

They’d nothing left but one split pea.

Says gorging Jack to guzzling Jimmy,

“I am extremely hungaree.”

To gorging Jack says guzzling Jimmy,

“We’ve nothing left, us must eat we.”

Says gorging Jack to guzzling Jimmy,

“With one another we shouldn’t agree!

There’s little Bill, he’s young and tender,

We’re old and tough, so let’s eat he.”

“O Billy! we’re going to kill and eat you,

So undo the button of your chemie.”

When Bill received this information,

He used his pocket-handkerchie.

“First let me say my catechism,

Which my poor mother taught to me.”

“Make haste! make haste!” says guzzling Jimmy,

While Jack pulled out his snicker-snee.

Then Bill went up to the main-top-gallant-mast,

And down he fell on his bended knee,

He scarce had come to the Twelfth Commandment

When up he jumps--“There’s land I see!”

“Jerusalem and Madagascar,

And North and South Amerikee,

There’s the British flag a-riding at anchor,

With Sir Admiral Napier, K. C. B.”

So when they got aboard of the Admiral’s,

He hanged fat Jack and flogged Jimmee,

But as for little Bill, he made him

The captain of a Seventy-three.

_THE WOLFE NEW BALLAD OF JANE RONEY AND MARY BROWN_

An igstrawnary tail I vill tell you this veek--

I stood in the Court of A’Beckett the Beak,

Vere Mrs. Jane Roney, a vidow, I see,

Who charged Mary Brown with a robbin’ of she.

This Mary was pore and in misery once,

And she came to Mrs. Roney it’s more than twelve monce

She adn’t got no bed, nor no dinner, nor no tea,

And kind Mrs. Roney gave Mary all three.

Mrs. Roney kep Mary for ever so many veeks

(Her conduct disgusted the best of all Beax),

She kept her for nothink, as kind as could be,

Never thinking that this Mary was a traitor to she.

“Mrs. Roney, O Mrs. Roney, I feel very ill;

Will you jest step to the doctor’s for to fetch me a pill?”

“That I will, my pore Mary,” Mrs. Roney says she:

And she goes off to the doctor’s as quickly as may be.

No sooner on this message Mrs. Roney was sped,

Than hup gits vicked Mary, and jumps out a bed;

She hopens all the trunks without never a key--

She bustes all the boxes, and vith them makes free.

Mrs. Roney’s best linning gownds, petticoats, and close,

Her children’s little coats and things, her boots and her hose,

She packed them, and she stole ’em, and avay vith them did flee

Mrs. Roney’s situation--you may think vat it vould be!

Of Mary, ungrateful, who had served her this vay,

Mrs. Roney heard nothink for a long year and a day,

Till last Thursday, in Lambeth, ven whom should she see?

But this Mary, as had acted so ungrateful to she.

She was leaning on the helbo of a worthy young man;

They were going to be married, and were walkin’ hand in hand;

And the church-bells was a ringing for Mary and he,

And the parson was ready, and a waitin’ for his fee.

When up comes Mrs. Roney, and faces Mary Brown,

Who trembles, and castes her eyes upon the ground.

She calls a jolly pleaseman, it happens to be me;

I charge this young woman, Mr. Pleaseman, says she.

Mrs. Roney, o, Mrs. Roney, o, do let me go,

I acted most ungrateful I own, and I know,

But the marriage bell is ringin’ and the ring you may see,

And this young man is a waitin’ says Mary, says she.

I don’t care three fardens for the parson and clark,

And the bell may keep ringing from noon day to dark.

Mary Brown, Mary Brown, you must come along with me.

And I think this young man is lucky to be free.

So, in spite of the tears which bejewed Mary’s cheek,

I took that young gurl to A’Beckett the Beak;

That exlent justice demanded her plea--

But never a sullable said Mary said she.

On account of her conduck so base and so vile,

That wicked young gurl is committed for trile,

And if she’s transpawted beyond the salt sea,

It’s a proper reward for such willians as she.

Now, you young gurls of Southwark for Mary who veep,

From pickin’ and stealin’ your ’ands you must keep,

Or it may be my dooty, as it was Thursday veek

To pull you all hup to A’Beckett the Beak.

_WHEN MOONLIKE ORE THE HAZURE SEAS_

When moonlike ore the hazure seas

In soft effulgence swells,

When silver jews and balmy breaze

Bend down the Lily’s bells;

When calm and deap, the rosy sleap

Has lapt your soal in dreems,

R Hangeline! R lady mine!

Dost thou remember Jeames?

I mark thee in the Marble ’all,

Where England’s loveliest shine--

I say the fairest of them hall

Is Lady Hangeline.

My soul, in desolate eclipse,

With recollection teems--

And then I hask, with weeping lips,

Dost thou remember Jeames?

Away! I may not tell thee hall

This soughring heart endures--

There is a lonely sperrit-call

That Sorrow never cures;

There is a little, little Star,

That still above me beams;

It is the Star of Hope--but ar!

Dost thou remember Jeames?

_SORROWS OF WERTHER_

Werther had a love for Charlotte

Such as words could never utter.

Would you know how first he met her?

She was cutting bread and butter.

Charlotte was a married lady,

And a moral man was Werther,

And, for all the wealth of Indies,

Would do nothing for to hurt her.

So he sighed and pined and ogled,

And his passion boiled and bubbled,

Till he blew his silly brains out,

And no more was by it troubled.

Charlotte, having seen his body

Borne before her on a shutter,

Like a well-conducted person

Went on cutting bread and butter.

Charles Dickens, in some senses the world’s greatest humorist, is too

much of a household word, to need either introduction or quotation.

Nor is it easy to quote from his books, which must be read in their

entirety or in long instalments to get their message.

One short extract is given, from _Martin Chuzzlewit_.

_MRS. GAMP’S APARTMENT_

Mrs. Gamp’s apartment in Kingsgate Street, High Holborn, wore,

metaphorically speaking, a robe of state. It was swept and garnished

for the reception of a visitor. That visitor was Betsy Prig; Mrs.

Prig of Bartlemy’s; or, as some said, Barklemy’s; or, as some said,

Bardlemy’s; for by all these endearing and familiar appellations had

the hospital of St. Bartholomew become a household word among the

sisterhood which Betsy Prig adorned.

Mrs. Gamp’s apartment was not a spacious one, but, to a contented mind,

a closet is a palace; and the first-floor front at Mr. Sweedlepipe’s

may have been, in the imagination of Mrs. Gamp, a stately pile. If it

were not exactly that to restless intellects, it at least comprised as

much accommodation as any person not sanguine to insanity could have

looked for in a room of its dimensions. For only keep the bedstead

always in your mind, and you were safe. That was the grand secret.

Remembering the bedstead, you might even stoop to look under the little

round table for anything you had dropped, without hurting yourself

much against the chest of drawers, or qualifying as a patient of St.

Bartholomew by falling into the fire. Visitors were much assisted in

their cautious efforts to preserve an unflagging recollection of this

piece of furniture by its size, which was great. It was not a turn-up

bedstead, nor yet a French bedstead, nor yet a four-post bedstead,

but what is poetically called a tent; the sacking whereof was low and

bulgy, insomuch that Mr. Gamp’s box would not go under it, but stopped

half way, in a manner which, while it did violence to the reason,

likewise endangered the legs of a stranger. The frame, too, which

would have supported the canopy and hangings, if there had been any,

was ornamented with divers pippins carved in timber, which, on the

slightest provocation, and frequently on none at all, came tumbling

down, harassing the peaceful guest with inexplicable terrors. The bed

itself was decorated with a patchwork quilt of great antiquity; and

at the upper end, upon the side nearest to the door, hung a scanty

curtain of blue check, which prevented the zephyrs that were abroad in

Kingsgate Street from visiting Mrs. Gamp’s head too roughly.

The chairs in Mrs. Gamp’s apartment were extremely large and

broad-backed, which was more than a sufficient reason for their being

but two in number. They were both elbow-chairs of ancient mahogany,

and were chiefly valuable for the slippery nature of their seats,

which had been originally horsehair, but were now covered with a shiny

substance of a bluish tint, from which the visitor began to slide away,

with a dismayed countenance, immediately after sitting down. What Mrs.

Gamp wanted in chairs she made up in band-boxes, of which she had a

great collection, devoted to the reception of various miscellaneous

valuables, which were not, however, as well protected as the good

woman, by a pleasant fiction, seemed to think; for though every

band-box had a carefully-closed lid, not one among them had a bottom,

owing to which cause the property within was merely, as it were,

extinguished. The chest of drawers having been originally made to stand

upon the top of another chest, had a dwarfish, elfin look alone; but,

in regard of security, it had a great advantage over the band-boxes,

for as all the handles had been long ago pulled off, it was very

difficult to get at its contents. This, indeed, was only to be done

by one of two devices; either by tilting the whole structure forward

until all the drawers fell out together, or by opening them singly with

knives, like oysters.

Mrs. Gamp stored all her household matters in a little cupboard by the

fireplace; beginning below the surface (as in nature) with the coals,

and mounting gradually upwards to the spirits, which, from motives

of delicacy, she kept in a teapot. The chimney-piece was ornamented

with an almanac; it was also embellished with three profiles; one,

in colors, of Mrs. Gamp herself in early life; one, in bronze, of a

lady in feathers, supposed to be Mrs. Harris, as she appeared when

dressed for a ball; and one, in black, of Mr. Gamp deceased. The last

was a full-length, in order that the likeness might be rendered more

obvious and forcible, by the introduction of the wooden leg. A pair

of bellows, a pair of pattens, a toasting-fork, a kettle, a spoon for

the administration of medicine to the refractory, and lastly, Mrs.

Gamp’s umbrella, which, as something of great price and rarity, was

displayed with particular ostentation, completed the decorations of the

chimney-piece and adjacent wall.

* * * * *

William Edmonstoune Aytoun and Theodore Martin, two young men of

brilliant brains, produced together the collection of burlesque and

parodies known as _The Bon Gaultier Ballads_.

At this time, the middle of the eighteenth century, parody was greatly

in vogue. The Ballads were whimsical, and as a whole, kindly. They were

extremely popular, as much so as the Rejected Addresses, but today they

seem dull and rather futile.

Another vogue of the day was Bathos, of which the following is a fair

example.

_THE HUSBAND’S PETITION_

Come hither, my heart’s darling,

Come, sit upon my knee,

And listen, while I whisper

A boon I ask of thee.

You need not pull my whiskers

So amorously, my dove;

’T is something quite apart from

The gentle cares of love.

I feel a bitter craving--

A dark and deep desire,

That glows beneath my bosom

Like coals of kindled fire.

The passion of the nightingale,

When singing to the rose,

Is feebler than the agony

That murders my repose!

Nay, dearest! do not doubt me,

Though madly thus I speak--

I feel thy arms about me,

Thy tresses on my cheek:

I know the sweet devotion

That links thy heart with mine,--

I know my soul’s emotion

Is doubly felt by thine:

And deem not that a shadow

Hath fallen across my love:

No, sweet, my love is shadowless,

As yonder heaven above.

These little taper fingers--

Ah, Jane! how white they be!--

Can well supply the cruel want

That almost maddens me.

Thou wilt not sure deny me

My first and fond request;

I pray thee, by the memory

Of all we cherish best--

By all the dear remembrance

Of those delicious days,

When, hand in hand, we wandered

Along the summer braes:

By all we felt, unspoken,

When ’neath the early moon,

We sat beside the rivulet,

In the leafy month of June;

And by the broken whisper

That fell upon my ear,

More sweet than angel-music,

When first I woo’d thee, dear!

By that great vow which bound thee

For ever to my side,

And by the ring that made thee

My darling and my bride!

Thou wilt not fail nor falter,

But bend thee to the task--

A BOILED SHEEP’S-HEAD ON SUNDAY

Is all the boon I ask!

This extract is from a long poem, called:

_THE LAY OF THE LOVELORN_

PARODY ON TENNYSON’S “LOCKSLEY HALL”

Comrades, you may pass the rosy. With permission of the chair,

I shall leave you for a little, for I’d like to take the air

Whether ’t was the sauce at dinner, or that glass of ginger beer,

Or these strong cheroots, I know not, but I feel a little queer.

Let me go. Now, Chuckster, blow me, ’pon my soul, this is too bad!

When you want me, ask the waiter, he knows where I’m to be had!

Whew! This is a great relief now! Let me but undo my stock,

Resting here beneath the porch, my nerves will steady like a rock.

In my ears I hear the singing of a lot of favorite tunes--

Bless my heart, how very odd! Why, surely there’s a brace of moons!

See! the stars! how bright they twinkle, winking with a frosty

glare,

Like my faithless cousin Amy when she drove me to despair.

O, my cousin, spider-hearted! Oh, my Amy! No, confound it!

I must wear the mournful willow,--all around my hat I’ve bound it.

Falser than the Bank of Fancy,--frailer than a shilling glove,

Puppet to a father’s anger,--minion to a nabob’s love!

Is it well to wish thee happy? Having known me, could you ever

Stoop to marry half a heart, and little more than half a liver?

Happy! Damme! Thou shalt lower to his level day by day,

Changing from the best of China to the commonest of clay.

As the husband is, the wife is,--he is stomach-plagued and old;

And his curry soups will make thy cheek the color of his gold.

When his feeble love is sated, he will hold thee surely then

Something lower than his hookah,--something less than his cayenne.

What is this? His eyes are pinky. Was’t the claret? Oh, no, no,--

Bless your soul, it was the salmon,--salmon always makes him so.

Take him to thy dainty chamber--soothe him with thy lightest

fancies,

He will understand thee, won’t he?--pay thee with a lover’s glances?

Louder than the loudest trumpet, harsh as harshest ophicleide,

Nasal respirations answer the endearments of his bride.

Sweet response, delightful music! Gaze upon thy noble charge

Till the spirit fill thy bosom that inspired the meek Laffarge.

Better thou wert dead before me,--better, better that I stood

Looking on thy murdered body, like the injured Daniel Good!

Better, thou and I were lying, cold and limber-stiff and dead,

With a pan of burning charcoal underneath our nuptial bed!

Cursed be the bank of England’s notes, that tempt the soul to sin!

Cursed be the want of acres,--doubly cursed the want of tin!

Cursed be the marriage contract, that enslaved thy soul to greed!

Cursed be the sallow lawyer, that prepared and drew the deed!

Cursed be his foul apprentice, who the loathsome fees did earn!

Cursed be the clerk and parson,--cursed be the whole concern!

Charles Kingsley, a clergyman of attainments, possessed the same type

of whimsical humor as the later and greater Lewis Carroll.

His _Water Babies_ from which a short extract is given, is a

classic in child literature.

_THE PROFESSOR’S MALADY_

They say that no one has ever yet seen a water-baby. For my part, I

believe that the naturalists get dozens of them when they are out

dredging, but they say nothing about them and throw them overboard

again, for fear of spoiling their theories. But you see the professor

was found out, as every one is in due time. A very terrible old fairy

found the professor out. She felt his bumps, and cast his nativity, and

took the lunars of him carefully inside and out; and so she knew what

he would do as well as if she had seen it in a print book, as they say

in the dear old west country. And he did it. And so he was found out

beforehand, as everybody always is; and the old fairy will find out the

naturalists some day, and put them in the _Times_; and then on

whose side will the laugh be?

So all the doctors in the country were called in to make a report on

his case; and of course every one of them flatly contradicted the

other: else what use is there in being men of science? But at last the

majority agreed on a report, in the true medical language, one half

bad Latin, the other half worse Greek, and the rest what might have

been English, if they had only learned to write it. And this is the

beginning thereof:

“The subanhypaposupernal anastomoses of peritomic diacellurite in the

encephalo-digital region of the distinguished individual of whose

symptomatic phenomena we had the melancholy honour (subsequent to a

preliminary diagnostic inspection) of making an inspectorial diagnosis,

presenting the interexclusively quadrilateral and antinomian diathesis

known as Bumpsterhausen’s blue follicles, we proceeded----”

But what they proceeded to do my lady never knew, for she was so

frightened at the long words that she ran for her life, and locked

herself into her bedroom, for fear of being squashed by the words and

strangled by the sentence. A boa-constrictor, she said, was bad company

enough; but what was a boa-constrictor made of paving-stones?

“It was quite shocking! What can they think is the matter with him?”

said she to the old nurse.

“That his wit’s just addled; maybe wi’ unbelief and heathenry,” quoth

she.

“Then why can’t they say so?”

And the heaven, and the sea, and the rocks and vales re-echoed, “Why,

indeed?” But the doctors never heard them.

So she made Sir John write to the _Times_ to command the

chancellor of the exchequer for the time being to put a tax on long

words:

A light tax on words over three syllables, which are necessary evils,

like rats, but, like them, must be kept down judiciously.

A heavy tax on words over four syllables, as heterodoxy, spontaneity,

spiritualism, spuriosity, etc.

And on words over five syllables (of which I hope no one will wish to

see any examples), a totally prohibitory tax.

And a similar prohibitory tax on words derived from three or more

languages at once, words derived from two languages, having become so

common that there was no more hope of rooting out them than of rooting

out peth-winds.

The chancellor of the exchequer, being a scholar and a man of sense,

jumped at the notion, for he saw in it the one and only plan for

abolishing Schedule D. But when he brought in his bill, most of the

Irish members, and (I am sorry to say) some of the Scotch likewise,

opposed it most strongly, on the ground that in a free country no man

was bound either to understand himself or to let others understand him.

So the bill fell through on the first reading, and the chancellor,

being a philosopher, comforted himself with the thought that it was

not the first time that a woman had hit off a grand idea, and the men

turned up their stupid noses thereat.

* * * * *

Alfred, Lord Tennyson, is conceded the gift of humor by some, but his

other attributes so far outshine it that his amusing bits are hard to

find. A moderately funny poem is:

_THE GOOSE_

I knew an old wife lean and poor,

Her rags scarce held together;

There strode a stranger to the door,

And it was windy weather.

He held a goose upon his arm,

He utter’d rhyme and reason,

“Here, take the goose, and keep you warm,

It is a stormy season.”

She caught the white goose by the leg,

A goose--’twas no great matter.

The goose let fall a golden egg

With cackle and with clatter.

She dropt the goose, and caught the pelf,

And ran to tell her neighbours;

And bless’d herself, and cursed herself,

And rested from her labours.

And feeding high and living soft,

Grew plump and able-bodied;

Until the grave churchwarden doff’d,

The parson smirk’d and nodded.

So sitting, served by man and maid,

She felt her heart grow prouder:

But, ah! the more the white goose laid

It clack’d and cackled louder.

It clutter’d here, it chuckled there;

It stirr’d the old wife’s mettle;

She shifted in her elbow-chair,

And hurl’d the pan and kettle.

“A quinsy choke thy cursed note!”

Then wax’d her anger stronger.

“Go, take the goose, and wring her throat,

I will not bear it longer.”

Then yelp’d the cur, and yawl’d the cat;

Ran Gaffer, stumbled Gammer.

The goose flew this way and flew that,

And fill’d the house with clamour.

As head and heels upon the floor

They flounder’d all together,

There strode a stranger to the door,

And it was windy weather:

He took the goose upon his arm,

He utter’d words of scorning;

“So keep you cold, or keep you warm,

It is a stormy morning.”

The wild wind rang from park and plain,

And round the attics rumbled,

Till all the tables danced again,

And half the chimneys tumbled.

The glass blew in, the fire blew out,

The blast was hard and harder.

Her cap blew off, her gown blew up,

And a whirlwind cleared the larder.

And while on all sides breaking loose,

Her household fled the danger,

Quoth she, “The devil take the goose,

And God forget the stranger!”

Robert Browning, though scarcely to be called a humorous poet, had a

fine wit and a quick and agile sense of whimsey.

His _Pied Piper of Hamelin_, written to amuse a sick child of

Macready’s, is a masterpiece of quiet humor. His satiric vein is shown

in:

_THE POPE AND THE NET_

What, he on whom our voices unanimously ran,

Made Pope at our last Conclave? Full low his life began:

His father earned the daily bread as just a fisherman.

So much the more his boy minds book, gives proof of mother-wit,

Becomes first Deacon, and then Priest, then Bishop: see him sit

No less than Cardinal ere long, while no one cries “Unfit!”

But some one smirks, some other smiles, jogs elbow and nods head;

Each wings at each: “I’ faith, a rise! Saint Peter’s net, instead

Of sword and keys, is come in vogue!” You think he blushes red?

Not he, of humble holy heart! “Unworthy me!” he sighs:

“From fisher’s drudge to Church’s prince--it is indeed a rise:

So, here’s my way to keep the fact forever in my eyes!”

And straightway in his palace-hall, where commonly is set

Some coat-of-arms, some portraiture ancestral, lo, we met

His mean estate’s reminder in his fisher-father’s net!

Which step conciliates all and some, stops cavil in a trice:

“The humble holy heart that holds of new-born pride no spice!

He’s just the saint to choose for Pope!” Each adds, “’Tis my

advice.”

So Pope he was: and when we flocked--its sacred slipper on--

To kiss his foot, we lifted eyes, alack, the thing was gone--

That guarantee of lowlihead,--eclipsed that star which shone!

Each eyed his fellow, one and all kept silence. I cried “Pish!

I’ll make me spokesman for the rest, express the common wish.

Why, Father, is the net removed?” “Son, it hath caught the fish.”

Frederick Locker-Lampson, though following in the footsteps of Praed,

was a more famous writer of the rhymes known as Vers de Société.

There is no English equivalent for the French term, and attempts

to coin one are usually failures. Society verse, Familiar Verse,

Occasional verse,--each lacks somewhat of the real implication.

Locker-Lampson, himself a discerning and severe critic, instructs us

that the rhymes should be short, graceful, refined and fanciful, not

seldom distinguished by chastened sentiment, and often playful.

But, really, playfulness and light, bright humor are more a distinctive

quality of Vers de Société than that dictum stipulates.

Wit is the keynote, fun the undercurrent of the best of the material

so often collected under this name; and Locker-Lampson made the

first and perhaps the best collection, under the title of _Lyra

Elegantiarum_.

Typical of all that goes to make up the best form of Vers de Société is

his poem,

_MY MISTRESS’S BOOTS_

They nearly strike me dumb,

And I tremble when they come

Pit-a-pat;

This palpitation means

These boots are Geraldine’s--

Think of that!

Oh, where did hunter win

So delectable a skin

For her feet?

You lucky little kid,

You perished, so you did,

For my sweet!

The faëry stitching gleams

On the sides, and in the seams,

And it shows

The Pixies were the wags

Who tipt those funny tags

And these toes.

What soles to charm an elf!

Had Crusoe, sick of self,

Chanced to view

_One_ printed near the tide,

Oh, how hard he would have tried

For the two!

For Gerry’s debonair

And innocent, and fair

As a rose;

She’s an angel in a frock,

With a fascinating cock

To her nose.

The simpletons who squeeze

Their extremities to please

Mandarins,

Would positively flinch

From venturing to pinch

Geraldine’s.

Cinderella’s _lefts and rights_,

To Geraldine’s were frights;

And I trow,

The damsel, deftly shod,

Has dutifully trod

Until now.

Come, Gerry, since it suits

Such a pretty Puss (in Boots)

These to don;

Set this dainty hand awhile

On my shoulder, dear, and I’ll

Put them on.

_ON A SENSE OF HUMOUR_

He cannot be complete in aught

Who is not humorously prone;

A man without a merry thought

Can hardly have a funny-bone.

_SOME LADIES_

Some ladies now make pretty songs,

And some make pretty nurses;

Some men are great at righting wrongs

And some at writing verses.

_A TERRIBLE INFANT_

I recollect a nurse call’d Ann,

Who carried me about the grass,

And one fine day a fine young man

Came up, and kiss’d the pretty lass.

She did not make the least objection!

Thinks I, “_Aha!

When I can talk I’ll tell Mamma_”

--And that’s my earliest recollection.

Charles Stuart Calverley is called the Prince of Parodists, but his

genius deserves far higher praise than that.

His serious work is of a high order but it is for his humorous verse

that he is most loved and praised.

His parodies while showing the best and finest burlesque qualities, are

also poems in themselves, and are of an exquisite wit and a spontaneous

humor rarely excelled.

One of the best is the ballad in which Rossetti’s manner is parodied in

very spirit.

_BALLAD_

PART I

The auld wife sat at her ivied door,

(_Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese_)

A thing she had frequently done before;

And her spectacles lay on her apron’d knees.

The piper he piped on the hilltop high,

(_Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese_)

Till the cow said “I die,” and the goose asked “Why?”

And the dog said nothing, but search’d for fleas.

The farmer he strode through the square farmyard;

(_Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese_)

His last brew of ale was a trifle hard--

The connection of which the plot one sees.

The farmer’s daughter hath frank blue eyes;

(_Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese_)

She hears the rooks caw in the windy skies.

As she sits at her lattice and shells her peas.

The farmer’s daughter hath ripe red lips;

(_Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese_)

If you try to approach her, away she skips

Over tables and chairs with apparent ease.

The farmer’s daughter hath soft brown hair;

(_Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese_)

And I met with a ballad, I can’t say where,

Which wholly consisted of lines like these.

PART II

She sat with her hands ’neath her dimpled cheeks,

(_Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese_)

And spake not a word. While a lady speaks

There is hope, but she didn’t even sneeze.

She sat, with her hands ’neath her crimson cheeks;

(_Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese_)

She gave up mending her father’s breeks,

And let the cat roll in her new chemise.

She sat with her hands ’neath her burning cheeks,

(_Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese_)

And gazed at the piper for thirteen weeks;

Then she follow’d him o’er the misty leas.

Her sheep follow’d her, as their tails did them,

(_Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese_)

And this song is consider’d a perfect gem,

And as to the meaning, it’s what you please.

Equally marvelous in its assured touch and utter lack of mere burlesque

exaggeration is his parody of Browning.

_THE COCK AND THE BULL_

You see this pebble-stone? It’s a thing I bought

Of a bit of a chit of a boy i’ the mid o’ the day.

I like to dock the smaller parts o’ speech,

As we curtail the already cur-tail’d cur--

(You catch the paronomasia, play ’po’ words?)

Did, rather, i’ the pre-Landseerian days.

Well, to my muttons. I purchased the concern,

And clapt it i’ my poke, having given for same

By way o’ chop, swop, barter or exchange--

“Chop” was my snickering dandiprat’s own term--

One shilling and fourpence, current coin o’ the realm.

O-n-e one, and f-o-u-r four

Pence, one and fourpence--you are with me, sir?--

What hour it skills not: ten or eleven o’ the clock,

One day (and what a roaring day it was

Go shop or sight-see--bar a spit o’ rain!)

In February, eighteen, sixty-nine,

Alexandria Victoria, Fidei--

Hm--hm--how runs the jargon? being on the throne.

Such, sir, are all the facts, succinctly put,

The basis or substratum--what you will--

Of the impending eighty thousand lines.

“Not much in ’em either,” quoth perhaps simple Hodge.

But there’s a superstructure. Wait a bit.

Mark first the rationale of the thing:

Hear logic rivel and levigate the deed.

That shilling--and for matter o’ that, the pence--

I had o’ course upo’ me--wi’ me say--

(_Mecum’s_ the Latin, make a note o’ that)

When I popp’d pen i’ stand, scratch’d ear, wiped snout,

(Let everybody wipe his own himself)

Sniff’d--tch!--at snuff-box; tumbled up, teheed,

Haw-haw’d (not hee-haw’d, that’s another guess thing),

Then fumbled at and stumbled out of, door.

I shoved the timber ope wi’ my omoplat;

And _in vestibulo_, i’ the lobby to wit

(Iacobi Facciolati’s rendering, sir),

Donn’d galligaskins, antigropeloes,

And so forth; and, complete with hat and gloves,

One on and one a-dangle i’ my hand,

And ombrifuge (Lord love you!), case o’ rain,

I flopp’d forth, ’sbuddikins! on my own ten toes

(I do assure you there be ten of them),

And went clump-clumping up hill and down dale

To find myself o’ the sudden i’ front o’ the boy.

But case I hadn’t ’em on me, could I ha’ bought

This sort-o’-kind-o’-what-you-might-call toy,

This pebble thing, o’ the boy-thing? Q. E. D.

That’s proven without aid from mumping Pope,

Sleek proporate or bloated Cardinal.

(Isn’t it, old Fatchaps? You’re in Euclid now.)

So, having the shilling--having i’ fact a lot--

And pence and halfpence, ever so many o’ them,

I purchased, as I think I said before,

The pebble (_lapis, lapidis,-di,-dem,-de--_

What nouns ’crease short i’ the genitive, Fatchaps, eh?)

O’ the boy, a bare-legg’d beggarly son of a gun,

For one and fourpence. Here we are again.

Now Law steps in, bigwigg’d, voluminous-jaw’d;

Investigates and re-investigates.

Was the transaction illegal? Law shakes head

Perpend, sir, all the bearings of the case.

At first the coin was mine, the chattel his.

But now (by virtue of the said exchange

And barter) _vice versa_ all the coin,

_Per juris operationem_, vests

I’ the boy and his assigns till ding o’ doom;

(_In sæcula sæculo-o-o-rum_;

I think I hear the Abate mouth out that.)

To have and hold the same to him and them.

_Confer_ some idiot on Conveyancing.

Whereas the pebble and every part thereof,

And all that appertaineth thereunto,

_Quodcunque pertinet ad eam rem_

(I fancy, sir, my Latin’s rather pat),

Or shall, will, may, might, can, could, would or should

(_Subaudi cætera_--clap we to the close--

For what’s the good of Law in a case o’ the kind),

Is mine to all intents and purposes.

This settled, I resume the thread o’ the tale.

Now for a touch o’ the vendor’s quality.

He says a gen’lman bought a pebble of him

(This pebble i’ sooth, sir, which I hold i’ my hand),

And paid for’t, _like_ a gen’lman, on the nail.

“Did I o’ercharge him a ha’penny? Devil a bit.

Fiddlepin’s end! Get out, you blazing ass!

Gabble o’ the goose. Don’t bugaboo-baby _me_!

Go double or quits? Yah! tittup! what’s the odds?”

There’s the transaction view’d i’ the vendor’s light.

Next ask that dumpled hag, stood snuffling by,

With her three frowsy blowsy brats o’ babes,

The scum o’ the kennel, cream o’ the filth-heap--Faugh!

Aie, aie, aie, aie! οτοτοτοτοτοι

(’Stead which we blurt out Hoighty toighty now),

And the baker and candlestickmaker, and Jack and Jill,

Blear’d Goody this and queasy Gaffer that.

Ask the schoolmaster. Take schoolmaster first.

He saw a gentleman purchase of a lad

A stone, and pay for it _rite_, on the square,

And carry it off _per saltum_, jauntily,

_Propria quae maribus_, gentleman’s property now

(Agreeably to the law explain’d above),

_In proprium usum_, for his private ends,

The boy he chuck’d a brown i’ the air, and bit

I’ the face the shilling; heaved a thumping stone

At a lean hen that ran cluck clucking by

(And hit her, dead as nail i’ post o’ door),

Then _abiit_--what’s the Ciceronian phrase?--

_Excessit_, _evasit_, _erupit_--off slogs boy;

Off like bird, _avi similis_--you observed

The dative? Pretty i’ the Mantuan!)--_Anglice_

Off in three flea skips. _Hactenus_, so far,

So good, _tam bene_. _Bene_, _satis_, _male_,--

Where was I with my trope ’bout one in a quag?

I did once hitch the syntax into verse:

_Verbum personale_, a verb personal,

_Concordat_--ay, “agrees,” old Fatchaps--_cum_

_Nominativo_, with its nominative,

_Genere_, i’ point o’ gender, _numero_,

O’ number, _et persona_, and person. _Ut_,

Instance: _Sol ruit_, down flops sun, _et_, and,

_Montes umbrantur_, out flounce mountains. Pah!

Excuse me, sir, I think I’m going mad.

You see the trick on ’t though, and can yourself

Continue the discourse _ad libitum_.

It takes up about eighty thousand lines,

A thing imagination boggles at;

And might, odds-bobs, sir! in judicious hands,

Extend from here to Mesopotamy.

While the style of Jean Ingelow is thus genially made fun of.

_LOVERS, AND A REFLECTION_

In moss-prankt dells which the sunbeams flatter

(And heaven it knoweth what that may mean;

Meaning, however, is no great matter)

Where woods are a-tremble, with rifts atween;

Through God’s own heather we wonned together,

I and my Willie (O love my love):

I need hardly remark it was glorious weather,

And flitterbats wavered alow, above:

Boats were curtseying, rising, bowing

(Boats in that climate are so polite),

And sands were a ribbon of green endowing,

And O the sun-dazzle on bark and bight!

Through the rare red heather we danced together,

(O love my Willie!) and smelt for flowers:

I must mention again it was glorious weather,

Rhymes are so scarce in this world of ours:--

By rises that flushed with their purple favors,

Through becks that brattled o’er grasses sheen,

We walked or waded, we two young shavers,

Thanking our stars we were both so green.

We journeyed in parallels, I and Willie,

In “fortunate parallels!” Butterflies,

Hid in weltering shadows of daffodilly

Or marjoram, kept making peacock’s eyes:

Song-birds darted about, some inky

As coal, some snowy (I ween) as curds;

Or rosy as pinks, or as roses pinky--

They reck of no eerie To-come, those birds!

But they skim over bents which the mill-stream washes,

Or hang in the lift ’neath a white cloud’s hem;

They need no parasols, no galoshes;

And good Mrs. Trimmer she feedeth them.

Then we thrid God’s cowslips (as erst his heather)

That endowed the wan grass with their golden blooms;

And snapt--(it was perfectly charming weather)--

Our fingers at Fate and her goddess-glooms:

And Willie ’gan sing--(O, his notes were fluty;

Wafts fluttered them out to the white-winged sea)--

Something made up of rhymes that have done much duty,

Rhymes (better to put it) of “ancientry”:

Bowers of flowers encountered showers

In William’s carol (O love my Willie!)

When he bade sorrow borrow from blithe To-morrow

I quite forget what--say a daffodilly:

A nest in a hollow, “with buds to follow,”

I think occurred next in his nimble strain;

And clay that was “kneaden” of course in Eden--

A rhyme most novel, I do maintain:

Mists, bones, the singer himself, love-stories,

And all least furlable things got “furled”;

Not with any design to conceal their glories,

But simply and solely to rhyme with “world.”

* * * * *

O, if billows and pillows and hours and flowers,

And all the brave rhymes of an elder day,

Could be furled together this genial weather,

And carted, or carried on wafts away,

Nor ever again trotted out--ah me!

How much fewer volumes of verse there’d be!

_ODE TO TOBACCO_

Thou who, when fears attack,

Bid’st them avaunt, and Black

Care, at the horseman’s back

Perching, unseatest;

Sweet when the morn is gray;

Sweet, when they’ve cleared away

Lunch; and at close of day

Possibly sweetest:

I have a liking old

For thee, though manifold

Stories, I know, are told,

Not to thy credit;

How one (or two at most)

Drops make a cat a ghost--

Useless, except to roast--

Doctors have said it:

How they who use fusees

All grow by slow degrees

Brainless as chimpanzees,

Meagre as lizards;

Go mad, and beat their wives;

Plunge (after shocking lives)

Razors and carving-knives

Into their gizzards.

Confound such knavish tricks!

Yet know I five or six

Smokers who freely mix

Still with their neighbors;

Jones--(who, I’m glad to say,

Asked leave of Mrs. J.)--

Daily absorbs a clay

After his labors.

Cats may have had their goose

Cooked by tobacco-juice;

Still why deny its use

Thoughtfully taken?

We’re not as tabbies are:

Smith, take a fresh cigar!

Jones, the tobacco-jar!

Here’s to thee, Bacon!

Charles Lutwidge Dodgson is better known as Lewis Carroll, though

during his lifetime, the author of _Alice_ was extremely careful

to preserve a decided distinction between the College Don and the

writer of nonsense.

Lewis Carroll was the first to produce coherent humor in the form of

sheer nonsense, and his work, often imitated, has never been equaled.

Beside the _Alice_ books he wrote several volumes only a degree

less wise and witty in the nonsense vein.

But few selections can be given.

_JABBERWOCKY_

(From _Through the Looking-Glass_)

’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves

Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;

All mimsy were the borogoves,

And the mome raths outgrabe.

“Beware the Jabberwock, my son!

The jaws that bite, the claws that catch

Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun

The frumious Bandersnatch!”

He took his vorpal sword in hand:

Long time the manxome foe he sought--

So rested he by the Tumtum tree,

And stood awhile in thought.

And, as in uffish thought he stood,

The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,

Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,

And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! And through and through

The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!

He left it dead, and with its head

He went galumphing back.

“And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?

Come to my arms, my beamish boy!

O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!”

He chortled in his joy.