His humor, like that of all his countrymen, is heavy and rather labored.

_PEGASUS IN THE YOKE_

Into a public fair--a cattle-fair, in short,

Where other things are bought and sold--ah, sad to tell!

A hungry poet one day brought

The Muse’s Pegasus to sell.

Shrill neighed the hippogriff and clear,

And pranced, and reared, displaying his proud frame,

Till all exclaimed in wonder, who stood near,

“The noble, royal beast! But what a shame

His slender form by such a hateful pair

Of wings is spoiled! He’d set off a fine post-team well.”

“The race,” say others, “would be rare;

But who’s go posting through the air?”

And lose his money no one will.

A farmer mustered courage, though, at length,

“The wings, indeed,” he says, “will be no profit;

But them one might tie down, or crop them off; it

Then were a good horse for drawing--it has strength.

I’ll give you twenty pounds, sir, win or lose.”

The seller, too delighted to refuse,

Cried out, “Agreed!” and eagerly the offer seized.

Hans with his bargain trudged off home, well pleased.

The noble beast was harnessed in,

But felt th’ unwonted burden to be light,

And off he set with appetite for flight,

And soon his wild careering would begin,

And hurled the cart in proudest rage

Over a precipice’s edge.

“Well done!” thought Hans. “We wisdom from experience borrow;

I’ll trust the mad beast with no loads again.

I’ve passengers to take to-morrow;

He shall be put in leader of the train.

By using him, two horses I shall spare;

He’ll learn in time the collar, too, to bear.”

They went on well awhile. The horse was fleet,

And quickened up the rest; and arrow-swift the carriage flies.

But now, what next? With look turned to the skies,

And unaccustomed with firm hoof the ground to beat,

He leaves the sure track of the wheels,

True to the stronger nature which he feels,

And runs through marsh and moor, o’er planted field and plain;

And the same fury seizes all the train.

No call will help, no bridle hold them in,

Till, to the mortal fright of all within,

The coach, well shaken and well smashed, brings up

In sad plight on a steep hill’s top.

“This is not quite the thing! No, no!”

Says Hans, considering, with a frown.

“In this way I shall never make it go.

Let’s see if ’twill not tame the wild-fire down,

To work him hard, and keep him low.”

The trial’s made. The beast, so fair and trim,

Before three days are gone looks gaunt and grim,

And to a shadow shrunk. “I have it! I have found it now!”

Cries Hans. “Come on, now. Yoke me him

Beside my strongest ox before the plow.”

So said, so done. In droll procession now,

See ox and wingèd horse before the plow.

Unwilling steps the griffin, strains what little might

Of longing’s left in him, to take his fond old flight.

In vain: deliberately steps his neighbor,

And Phœbus’ high-souled steed must bend to his slow labor,

Till now, by long resistance spent his force,

His trembling limbs he can no longer trust,

And, bowed with shame, the noble, godlike horse

Falls to the ground, and rolls him in the dust.

“You cursèd beast!” Hans breaks out furious now,

And scolds and blusters, while he lays the blows on;

“You are too poor, then, even for the plow!

You rascal, so my ignorance to impose on!”

And while in this way angrily he goes on,

And swings the lash, behold! upon the way

A pleasant youth steps up so smart and gay.

A harp shakes ringing in his hand,

And through his glossy, parted hair

Winds glittering a golden band.

“Where now, friend, with that wondrous pair?”

From far off to the boor he spoke.

“The bird and ox together in that style?

I pray you, man, why, what a yoke!

But come, to try a little while,

Will you entrust your horse to me?

Look well: a wonder you shall see.”

The hippogriff’s unyoked, and with a smile

The youth springs lightsomely upon his back.

Scarce feels the beast the master’s certain hand,

But gnashes at his wings’ confining band,

And mounts, with lightning-look, the airy track.

No more the being that he was, but royally,

A spirit now, a god, up mounteth he;

Unfurls at once, as for their far storm-flight,

His splendid wings, and shoots to heaven with fierce, wild neigh;

And ere the eye can follow him, away

He melts into the clear blue height.

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, the greatest name in German literature, is

hardly to be classed among the humorists.

But a short extract from his Reynard the Fox is quoted.

“But I am rather bad in my inside.

By what I’ve eaten I am quite upset,

And nowise fitted for a journey yet.”

“What was it?” asked Sir Bruin, quite prepared,

For Reynard had not thrown him off his guard.

“Ah,” quoth the Fox, “what boots it to explain?

E’en your kind pity could not ease my pain.

Since flesh I have abjured, for my soul’s weal,

I’m often sadly put to’t for a meal.

I bear my wretched life as best I can;

A hermit fares not like an alderman.

But yesterday, as other viands failed,

I ate some honey--see how I am swelled!

Of that there’s always to be had enough.

Would I had never touched the cursed stuff!

I ate it out of sheer necessity;

Physic is not so nauseous near to me.”

“Honey!” exclaimed the Bear; “did you say honey!

Would I could any get for love or money!

How can you speak so ill of what’s so good?

Honey has ever been my fav’rite food;

It is so wholesome, and so sweet and luscious,

I can’t conceive how you can call it nauseous.

Do get me some o’t, and you may depend

You’ll make me evermore your steadfast friend.”

“You’re surely joking, uncle!” Reynard cried.

“No, on my sacred word!” the Bear replied;

“I’d not, though jokes as blackberries were rife,

Joke upon such a subject for my life.”

“Well, you surprise me!” said the knavish beast.

“There’s no accounting, certainly, for taste;

And one man’s meat is oft another’s poison.

I’ll wager that you never set your eyes on

Such store of honey as you soon shall spy

At Gaffer Joiner’s, who lives here hard by.”

In fancy o’er the treat did Bruin gloat,

While his mouth fairly watered at the thought.

“Oh, take me, take me there, dear coz,” quoth he,

“And I will ne’er forget your courtesy!

Oh, let me have a taste, if not my fill;

Do, cousin.” Reynard grinned, and said, “I will.

Honey you shall not long time be without.

’Tis true just now I’m rather sore of foot;

But what of that? The love I bear to you

Shall make the road seem short, and easy too

Not one of all my kith or kin is there

Whom I so honor as th’ illustrious Bear.

Come, then, and in return I know you’ll say

A good word for me on the council day.

You shall have honey to your heart’s content,

And wax, too, if your fancy’s that way bent.”

Whacks of a different sort the sly rogue meant.

Off starts the wily Fox, in merry trim,

And Bruin blindly follows after him.

“If you have luck,” thought Reynard, with a titter,

“I guess you’ll find our honey rather bitter.”

When they at length reached Goodman Joiner’s yard,

The joy that Bruin felt he might have spared.

But hope, it seems, by some eternal rule,

Beguiles the wisest as the merest fool.

’Twas ev’ning now, and Reynard knew, he said,

The goodman would be safe and sound in bed.

A good and skilful carpenter was he;

Within his yard there lay an old oak-tree,

Whose gnarled and knotted trunk he had to split.

A stout wedge had he driven into it;

The cleft gaped open a good three foot wide;

Toward this spot the crafty Reynard hied.

“Uncle,” quoth he, “your steps this way direct;

You’ll find more honey here than you suspect.

In at this fissure boldly thrust your pate;

But I beseech you to be moderate.

Remember, sweetest things the soonest cloy,

And temperance enhances every joy.”

“What!” said the Bear, a shock’d look as he put on

Of self-restraint; “d’ye take me for a glutton?

With thanks I use the gifts of Providence,

But to abuse them count a grave offense.”

And so Sir Bruin let himself be fooled--

As strength will be whene’er by craft ’tis ruled.

Into the cleft he thrust his greedy maw

Up to the ears, and either foremost paw.

Reynard drew near, and tugging might and main

Pulled forth the wedge, and the trunk closed again.

By head and foot was Bruin firmly caught,

Nor threats nor flatt’ry could avail him aught.

He howled, he raved, he struggled, and he tore,

Till the whole place re-echoed with his roar,

And Goodman Joiner, wakened by the rout,

Jumped up, much wond’ring what ’twas all about.

He seized his ax, that he might be prepared,

And danger, if it came, might find him on his guard.

Still howled the Bear, and struggled to get free

From the accursed grip of that cleft tree.

He strove and strained, but strained and strove in vain;

His mightiest efforts but increased his pain;

He thought he never should get loose again.

And Reynard thought the same, for his own part,

And wished it, too, devoutly from his heart

And as the joiner coming he espied,

Armed with his ax, the jesting ruffian cried:

“Uncle, what cheer? Is th’ honey to your taste?

Don’t eat too quick; there’s no such need of haste.

The joiner’s coming, and I make no question,

He brings you your dessert, to help digestion.”

Then, deeming ’twas not longer safe to stay,

To Malepartus back he took his way.

Carl Arnold Kortum, a German poet, wrote a long rigmarole of burlesque,

called _The Jobsiad_. This was exceedingly popular and became a

German classic. It is dull for the most part, but shows flashes of real

drollery.

_Contains the copy of a letter, which, among many others, the student

Hieronimus did write to his parents:_

Dear and Honored Parents,

I lately

Have suffered for want of money greatly;

Have the goodness, then, to send without fail,

A trifle or two by return of mail.

I want about twenty or thirty ducats;

For I have not at present a cent in my pockets;

Things are so tight with us this way,

Send me the money at once, I pray.

And everything is growing higher,

Lodging and washing, and lights and fire,

And incidental expenses every day--

Send me the ducats without delay.

You can hardly perceive the enormous expenses

The college imposes on all pretenses,

For text-books and lectures so much to pay--

I wish the ducats were on their way!

I devote to my studies unremitting attention--

One thing I must not forget to mention:

The thirty ducats, pray send them straight

For my purse is in a beggarly state.

Boots and shoes, and stockings and breeches,

Tailoring, washing, and extra stitches,

Pen, ink and paper, are all so dear,

I wish the thirty ducats were here!

The money--(I trust you will speedily send it!)

I promise faithfully to spend it;

Yes, dear parents, you never need fear,

I live very strictly and frugally here.

When other students revel and riot,

I steal away into perfect quiet,

And shut myself up with my books and light

In my study-chamber, till late at night.

Beyond the needful supply of my table,

I spare, dear parents, all I am able;

Take tea but rarely, and nothing more,

For spending money afflicts me sore.

Other students, who’d fain be called _mellow_,

Set me down for a niggardly fellow,

And say: there goes the _dig_, just look!

How like a parson he eyes his book!

With jibes and jokes they daily beset me,

But none of these things do I suffer to fret me;

I smile at all they can do or say--

Don’t forget the ducats, I pray!

Ten hours each day I spend at the college,

Drinking at the fount of knowledge,

And when the lectures come to an end,

The rest in private study I spend.

The Professors express great gratification

Only they hope I will use moderation,

And not wear out in my studiis

Philosophicis et theologicis.

It would savor, dear parents, of self-laudation,

To enter on an enumeration

Of all my studies--in brief, there is none

More exemplary than your dear son.

My head seems ready to burst asunder,

Sometimes, with its learned load, and I wonder

Where so much knowledge is packed away:

(Apropos! don’t forget the ducats, I pray!)

Yes, dearest parents, my devotion to study

Consumes the best strength of mind and body,

And generally even the night is spent

In meditation deep and intent.

In the pulpit soon I shall take my station

And try my hand at the preacher’s vocation

Likewise I dispute in the college-hall

On learned subjects with one and all.

But don’t forget to send me the ducats,

For I long so much to replenish my pockets;

The money one day shall be returned

In the shape of a son right wise and learn’d.

Then my _Privatissimum_ (I’ve been thinking on it

For a long time--and in fact begun it)

Will cost me twenty Rix-dollars more,

Please send with the ducats I mentioned before.

I also, dear parents, inform you sadly,

I have torn my coat of late very badly,

So please enclose with the rest in your note

Twelve dollars to purchase a new coat.

New boots are also necessary,

Likewise my night-gown is ragged, very;

My hat and pantaloons, too, alas!

And the rest of my clothes are going to grass.

Now, as all these things are needed greatly,

Please enclose me four Louis d’ors separately,

Which, joined to the rest, perhaps will be

Enough for the present emergency.

My recent sickness you may not have heard of;

In fact, for some time, my life was despaired of,

But I haste to assure you, on my word,

That now my health is nearly restored.

The Medicus, for services rendered,

A bill of eighteen guilders has tendered,

And then the apothecary’s will be,

In round numbers, about twenty-three.

Now that physician and apothecary

May get their dues, it is necessary

These forty-one guilders be added to the rest,

But, as to my health, don’t be distressed.

The nurse would also have some compensation,

Who attended me in my critical situation,

I, therefore, think it would be best

To enclose seven guilders for her with the rest.

For citrons, jellies and things of that nature,

To sustain and strengthen the feeble creature,

The confectioner, too, has a small account,

Eight guilders is about the amount.

These various items of which I’ve made mention,

Demand immediate attention;

For order, to me, is very dear,

And I carefully from debts keep clear.

I also rely on your kind attention,

To forward the ducats of which I made mention

So soon as it can possibly be--

One more small item occurs to me:--

Two weeks ago I unluckily stumbled,

And down the length of the stairway tumbled,

As in at the college door I went,

Whereby my right arm almost double was bent.

The Chirurgus who attended on the occasion,

For his balsams, plasters and preparation

Of spirits, and other things needless to name,

Charges twelve dollars; please forward the same.

But, that your minds may be acquiescent,

I am, thank God, now convalescent;

Both shoulder and shin are in a very good way,

And I go to lecture every day.

My stomach is still in a feeble condition,

A circumstance owing, so thinks the physician,

To sitting so much, when I read and write,

And studying so long and so late at night.

He, therefore, earnestly advises

Burgundy wine, with nutmeg and spices,

And every morning, instead of tea,

For the stomach’s sake, to drink sangaree.

Please send, agreeably to these advices,

Two pistoles for the wine and spices,

And be sure, dear parents, I only take

Such things as these for the stomach’s sake.

Finally, a few small debts, amounting

To thirty or forty guilders (loose counting),

Be pleased, in your letter, without fail,

Dear parents, to enclose this bagatelle.

And could you, for sundries, send me twenty

Or a dozen Louis d’or (that would be plenty),

’Twould be a kindness seasonably done,

And very acceptable to your son.

This letter, dear parents, comes hoping to find you

In usual health--I beg to remind you

How much I am for money perplexed,

Please, therefore, to remit in your next.

Herewith I close my letter, repeating

To you and all my friendly greeting,

And subscribe myself, without further fuss,

Your obedient son,

HIERONIMUS.

I add in a postscript what I neglected

To say, beloved and highly respected

Parents, I beg most filially,

That you’ll forward the money as soon as may be.

For I had, dear father (I say it weeping),

Fourteen French Crowns laid by in safe keeping

(As I thought) for a day of need--but the whole

An anonymous person yesterday stole:

I know you’ll make good, unasked, each shilling,

Your innocent son has lost by this villain;

For a man so considerate must be aware

That I such a loss can nowise bear.

Meanwhile, I’ll take care that, to-day or to-morrow,

Mr. Anonymous shall, to his sorrow

And your satisfaction, receive the reward

Of his graceless trick with the hempen cord.

Adelbert von Chamisso, German author and poet, came of an old French

family. His principal work is in prose, _The Wonderful History of

Peter Schlemihl_, the man who sold his shadow.

An amusing poem is in nonsense vein.

_THE PIGTAIL_

There lived a sage in days of yore,

And he a handsome pigtail wore;

But wondered much, and sorrowed more,

Because it hung behind him.

He mused upon this curious case,

And swore he’d change the pigtail’s place,

And have it hanging at his face,

Not dangling there behind him.

Says he, “The mystery I’ve found;

I’ll turn me round.” He turned him round,

But still it hung behind him.

Then round, and round, and out, and in,

All day the puzzled sage did spin;

In vain--it mattered not a pin--

The pigtail hung behind him.

And right, and left, and round about,

And up, and down, and in, and out

He turned. But still the pigtail stout

Hung steadily behind him.

And though his efforts never slack,

And though he twist, and whirl, and tack,

Alas! still faithful to his back

The pigtail hangs behind him!

Wilhelm Müller, a lyric poet of promise, died young. Many of his songs

were set to music by Schubert. His humorous verse was rollicking and

popular.

_THE DRUNKARD’S FANCY_

Straight from the tavern door

I am come here;

Old road, how odd to me

Thou dost appear!

Right and left changing sides,

Rising and sunk;

Oh, I can plainly see,

Road, thou art drunk!

Oh, what a twisted face

Thou hast, oh, moon!

One eye shut, t’other eye

Wide as a spoon.

Who could have dreamed of this?

Shame on thee, shame!

Thou hast been fuddling,

Jolly old dame!

Look at the lamps again:

See how they reel!

Nodding and flickering

Round as they wheel.

Not one among them all

Steady can go;

Look at the drunken lamps

All in a row.

All in an uproar seem

Great things and small;

I am the only one

Sober at all.

But there’s no safety here

For sober men;

So I’ll turn back to

The tavern again.

The brothers, Jakob and Wilhelm Grimm, wrote much in collaboration

beside their well-known _Märchen_ or _Fairy Tales_.

Their humor is of the heavier sort, but their versatile erudition found

opportunities for witty conceits.

_EXCERPT FROM CLEVER GRETHEL_

One day her master said to her, “Grethel, I have invited some friends

to dinner to-day; cook me some of your best chickens.”

“That I will, master,” she replied.

So she went out, and killed two of the best fowls and prepared them for

roasting.

In the afternoon she placed them on the spit before the fire, and they

were all ready, and beautifully hot and brown by the proper time, but

the visitors had not arrived. So she went to her master, and said, “The

fowls will be quite spoiled if I keep them at the fire any longer. It

will be a pity and a shame if they are not eaten soon!”

Then said her master, “I will go and fetch the visitors myself,” and

away he went.

As soon as his back was turned Grethel put the spit with the birds on

one side, and thought, “I have been standing by the fire so long that

it has made me quite thirsty. Who knows when they will come? While I

am waiting I may as well run into the cellar and have a little drop.”

So she seized a jug, and said, “All right, Grethel, you shall have a

good draft. Wine is so tempting!” she continued, “and it does not do

to spoil your draft.” And she drank without stopping till the jug was

empty.

After this she went into the kitchen, and placed the fowls again before

the fire, basted them with butter, and rattled the spit round so

furiously that they browned and frizzled with the heat. “They would

never miss a little piece if they searched for it ever so carefully,”

she said to herself. Then she dipped her finger in the dripping-pan

to taste, and cried, “Oh, how nice these fowls are! It is a sin and a

shame that there is no one here to eat them!”

She ran to the window to see if her master and the guests were coming;

but she could see no one. So she went and stood again by the fowls, and

thought, “The wing of that fowl is a little burned. I had better eat it

out of the way.” She cut it off as she thought this, and ate it up, and

it tasted so nice that when she had finished it she thought, “I must

have the other. Master will never notice that anything is missing.”

After the two wings were eaten, Grethel again went to look for her

master, but there were no signs of his appearance.

“Who knows?” she said to herself; “perhaps the visitors are not coming

at all, and they have kept my master to dinner, so he won’t be back.

Hi, Grethel! there are lots of good things left for you; and that piece

of fowl has made me thirsty. I must have another drink before I come

back and eat up all these good things.”

So she went into the cellar, took a large draft of wine, and returning

to the kitchen, sat down and ate the remainder of the fowl with great

relish.

There was now only one fowl left, and as her master did not return,

Grethel began to look at the other with longing eyes. At last she said,

“Where one is, there the other must be; for the fowls belong to each

other, and what is right for one is also fair and right for the other.

I believe, too, I want some more to drink. It won’t hurt me.”

The last draft gave her courage. She came back to the kitchen and let

the second fowl go after the first.

As she was enjoying the last morsel, home came her master.

“Make haste, Grethel!” he cried. “The guests will be here in a few

minutes.”

“Yes, master,” she replied. “It will soon be all ready.”

Meanwhile the master saw that the cloth was laid and everything in

order. So he took up the carving-knife with which he intended to carve

the fowl, and went out to sharpen it on the stones in the passage.

While he was doing so, the guests arrived and knocked gently and

courteously at the house door. Grethel ran out to see who it was, and

when she caught sight of the visitors she placed her finger on her

lips, and whispered, “Hush! Hush! Go back again as quickly as you came!

If my master should catch you it would be unfortunate. He did invite

you to dinner this evening, but with no other intention than to cut off

both the ears of each of you. Listen; you can hear him sharpening his

knife.”

The guests heard the sound, and hastened as fast as they could down the

steps, and were soon out of sight.

Grethel was not idle. She ran screaming to her master, and cried, “You

have invited fine visitors, certainly!”

“Hi! Why, Grethel, what do you mean?”

“Oh!” she exclaimed, “they came here just now, and have taken my two

beautiful fowls from the dish that I was going to bring up for dinner,

and have run away with them.”

“What strange conduct!” said her master, who was so sorry to lose his

nice dinner that he rushed out to follow the thieves. “If they had only

left me one, or at least enough for my own dinner!” he cried, running

after them. But the more he cried to them to stop the faster they

ran; and when they saw him with the knife in his hand, and heard him

say, “Only one! only one!”--he meant, if they had left him “only one

fowl,” but they thought he spoke of “only one ear,” which he intended

to cut off--they ran as if fire were burning around them, and were

not satisfied till they found themselves safe at home with both ears

untouched.

* * * * *

Friedrich Rückert was a prolific writer and left many volumes of his

collected poems.

A scathing bit of satire is here quoted.

_ARTIST AND PUBLIC_

The dumb man asked the blind man:

“Canst do a favor, pray?

Could I the harper find, man?

Hast seen him pass to-day?

I take, myself, small pleasure

In harp-tones--almost none--

Yet much I’d like a measure

Played for my deaf young son.”

The blind man quick made answer:

“I saw him pass my gate;

I’ll send my lame young man, sir,

To overtake him straight.”

At one look from his master,

Away the cripple ran,

And faster, ever faster,

He chased the harper-man.

The harper came, elated,

And straight to work he went;

His arms were amputated;

His toes to work he bent.

All hearts his playing captured;

The deaf man was all ear;

The blind man gazed, enraptured;

The dumb man shouted, “Hear!”

The lame boy fell to dancing,

And leaped with all his might;

The scene was so entrancing,

They stayed till late at night.

And when the concert ended,

The public, justly proud,

The artist’s powers commended,

Who, deeply grateful, bowed.

Heinrich Heine, the celebrated lyric poet, rarely showed any humor in

his poetry. But some of his prose works are broadly ludicrous, and his

observations witty and cynical.

_THE TOWN OF GÖTTINGEN_

The town of Göttingen, famous by reason of its university and its

sausages, belongs to the kingdom of Hanover, and contains 999

fire-stations, divers churches, a lying-in hospital, an observatory,

an academic prison, a library, and an underground tavern--where the

beer is excellent. The brook that flows past the town is called the

Leine, and serves for bathing in summer; the water is very cold, and

at some places the brook is so wide that one cannot jump across it

without some exertion. The town is very handsome, and pleases me best

when my back is turned to it. It must be very old, for I remember that

when I matriculated (and was soon afterward rusticated), five years

ago, it had the same gray, ancient appearance, and was as thoroughly

provided, as it is now, with poodle dogs, dissertations, laundresses,

anthologies, roast pigeon, Guelph decorations, pipe-bowls, court

councilors, privy councilors and silly counts....

In general, the inhabitants of Göttingen may be divided into students,

professors, Philistines, and cattle. The cattle class is numerically

the strongest. To place on record here the names of all professors

and students would take me too far afield, nor can I even, at this

moment, remember the name of every student; while among the professors

there are many who have as yet made none. The number of Philistines in

Göttingen must be like that of the sands--or rather the mud--of the

sea. Truly, when they appear in the morning with their dirty faces and

their white bills at the gates of the academic court, one wonders how

God could have had the heart to create such a pack of scoundrels!

More thorough information concerning Göttingen is easily obtainable by

reference to the “Topography” of the town, by K. F. H. Marx. Although

I am under the deepest obligations to the author, who was my physician

and did me many kindnesses, I cannot praise his work without reserve. I

must blame him for not having opposed in terms sufficiently strong the

heresy that the ladies of Göttingen have feet of spacious dimensions.

I have been engaged for a long time upon a work which is to destroy

this erroneous idea once and forever. For this purpose I have studied

comparative anatomy, have made excerpts from the rarest books in the

library, and have for hours and hours observed the feet of the passing

ladies in Weender Street. In my learned treatise I intend to deal with

the subject as follows:

1. Of Feet in General.

2. Of the Feet of the Ancients.

3. Of the Feet of Elephants.

4. Of the Feet of the Fair Inhabitants of Göttingen.

5. Summing up of Opinions delivered upon Feet in Göttingen Taverns.

6. Connection and Comparison of Feet with Calves, Knees, etc.

7. Facsimile Charts (if sheets of paper sufficiently large are

obtainable) of Specimen Feet of Göttingen Ladies.

* * * * *

I am the most peaceable of mortals. My wishes are: A modest dwelling, a

thatched roof, but a good bed, good fare, milk and butter (the latter

very fresh), flowers at the window, and a few fine trees before my

gate. And if the Lord would fill the cup of my happiness, He would let

me live to see the day when six or seven of my enemies are hung on the

trees. With softened heart I would then forgive them all the evil they

have done me. Yes, one must forgive one’s enemies, but not before they

are hung.

* * * * *

A. If I were of the race of Christ, I should boast of it, and not be

ashamed.

B. So would I, if Christ were the only member of the race. But so many

miserable scamps belong to it that one hesitates to acknowledge the

relationship.

* * * * *

Gervinus, the literary historian, set himself the following problem: To

repeat in a long and witless book what Heinrich Heine said in a short

and witty one. He solved the problem.

* * * * *

_De mortuis nil nisi bene_. One should speak only evil of the

living.

Heinrich Hoffman, a Frankfort doctor, wrote the popular tales for

children about Struwelpeter, which are nursery classics in many

languages. These stories have an added interest from the clever

illustrations by their author.

Wilhelm Busch, also a comic artist, born near Hanover, is the creator

of the Max and Maurice stories and pictures.

He was a well-known contributor to the _Fliegende Blätter_, the

popular comic paper of Germany.

A distinct type of German humor is found in their Student Songs. These,

oftener than not, are in praise of merrymaking and good cheer.

_POPE AND SULTAN_

The Pope he leads a happy life;

He fears not married care nor strife;

He drinks the best of Rhenish wine--

I would the Pope’s gay lot were mine.

CHORUS

He drinks the best of Rhenish wine--

I would the Pope’s gay lot were mine.

But then, all happy’s not his life;

He has not maid nor blooming wife,

Nor child has he to raise his hope--

I would not wish to be the Pope.

The Sultan better pleases me;

His is a life of jollity;

His wives are many as his will--

I would the Sultan’s throne then fill.

But even he’s a wretched man;

He must obey his Alcoran;

And dares not drink one drop of wine--

I would not change his lot for mine.

So, then, I’ll hold my lowly stand,

And live in German fatherland;

I’ll kiss my maiden fair and fine,

And drink the best of Rhenish wine.

Whene’er my maiden kisses me,

I’ll think that I the Sultan be;

And when my cheery glass I tope,

I’ll fancy then I am the Pope.

_CREDO_

For the sole edification

Of this decent congregation,

Goodly people, by your grant

I will sing a holy chant,

I will sing a holy chant.

If the ditty sound but oddly,

’Twas a father, wise and godly,

Sang it so long ago.

Then sing as Martin Luther sang:

“Who loves not woman, wine, and song,

Remains a fool his whole life long!”

He, by custom patriarchal,

Loved to see the beaker sparkle;

And he thought the wine improved,

Tasted by the lips he loved,

By the kindly lips he loved.

Friends, I wish this custom pious

Duly were observed by us,

To combine love, song, wine,

And sing as Martin Luther sang,

As Doctor Martin Luther sang:

“Who loves not woman, wine and song,

Remains a fool his whole life long!”

Who refuses this our _Credo_,

And who will not sing as we do,

Were he holy as John Knox,

I’d pronounce him heterodox,

I’d pronounce him heterodox,

And from out this congregation,

With a solemn commination,

Banish quick the heretic,

Who’ll not sing as Luther sang,

As Doctor Martin Luther sang:

“Who loves not woman, wine and song,

Remains a fool his whole life long!”

ITALIAN HUMOR

The humorists of Italy in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries are

few and far between. Carlo Goldoni and Count Carlo Gozzi were both

dramatists, the latter also a novelist, whose works show humor, but are

not available for quotation.

Count Giacomo Leopardi, though himself a gloomy sort of person, left

some satirical writings tinged with wit.

_THE ACADEMY OF SYLLOGRAPHS_

The Academy of Syllographs, hold that it would be in the highest

degree expedient that men should retire as far as possible from the

conduct of the business of the world, and should gradually give

place to mechanical agency for the direction of human affairs.

Accordingly, resolved to contribute as far as lies in its power to this

consummation, it has determined to offer three prizes, to be awarded to

the persons who shall invent the best examples of the three machines

now to be described.

The scope and object of the first of these automata shall be to

represent the person and discharge the functions of a friend who shall

not calumniate or jeer at his absent associate; who shall not fail to

take his part when he hears him censured or ridiculed; who shall not

prefer a reputation for wit, and the applause of men, to his duty to

friendship; who shall never, from love of gossip or mere ostentation

of superior knowledge, divulge a secret committed to his keeping; who

shall not abuse the intimacy or confidence of his fellow in order to

supplant or surpass him; who shall harbor no envy against his friend;

who shall guard his interests and help to repair his losses, and

shall be prompt to answer his call, and minister to his needs more

substantially than by empty professions.

In the construction of this piece of mechanism it will be well to

study, among other things, the treatise on friendship by Cicero, as

well as that of Madame de Lambert. The Academy is of opinion that the

manufacture of such a machine ought not to prove impracticable or even

particularly difficult, for, besides the automata of Regiomontanus

and Vaucanson, there was at one time exhibited in London a mechanical

figure which drew portraits, and wrote to dictation; while there have

been more than one example of such machines capable of playing at

chess. Now, in the opinion of many philosophers human life is but a

game; nay, some hold that it is more shallow and more frivolous than

many other games, and that the principles of chess, for example, are

more in accordance with reason, and that its various moves are more

governed by wisdom, than are the actions of mankind; while we have it

on the authority of Pindar that human action is no more substantial

than the shadow of a dream; and this being so, the intelligence of an

automaton ought to prove quite equal to the discharge of the functions

which have just been described.

As to the power of speech, it seems unreasonable to doubt that men

should have the power of communicating it to machines constructed by

themselves, seeing that this may be said to have been established by

sundry precedents, such, for example, as in the case of the statue

of Memnon, and of the human head manufactured by Albertus Magnus,

which actually became so loquacious that Saint Thomas Aquinas, losing

all patience with it, smashed it to pieces. Then, too, there was the

instance of the parrot Ver-Vert, though it was a living creature; but

if it could be taught to converse reasonably how much more may it be

supposed that a machine devised by the mind of man, and constructed

by his hands, should do as much; while it would have this advantage

that it might be made less garrulous than this parrot, or the head of

Albertus, and therefore it need not irritate its acquaintances and

provoke them to smash it.

The inventor of the best example of such a machine shall be decorated

with a gold medallion of four hundred sequins in weight, bearing on its

face the images of Pylades and Orestes, and on the reverse the name of

the successful competitor, surrounded by the legend, FIRST REALIZER

OF THE FABLES OF ANTIQUITY.

The second machine called for by the Academy is to be an artificial

steam man, so constructed and regulated as to perform virtuous and

magnanimous actions. The Academy is of opinion that in the absence of

all other adequate motive power to that end, the properties of steam

might prove effective to inspire an automaton, and direct it to the

attainment of virtue and true glory. The inventor who shall undertake

the construction of such a machine should study the poets and the

writers of romance, who will best guide him as to the qualities and

functions most essential to such a piece of mechanism. The prize shall

be a gold medal weighing four hundred and fifty sequins, bearing on its

obverse a figure symbolical of the golden age, and on its reverse the

name of the inventor.

The third automaton should be so constituted as to perform the duties

of woman such as she was conceived by the Count Baldassar Castiglione,

and described by him in his treatise entitled _The Courtier_, as

well as by other writers in other works on the subject, which will be

readily found, and which, as well as that of the count, will have to

be carefully consulted and followed. The construction of a machine

of this nature, too, ought not to appear impossible to the inventors

of our time, when they reflect on the fact that in the most ancient

times, and times destitute of science, Pygmalion was able to fabricate

for himself, with his own hands, a wife of such rare gifts that she

has never since been equaled down to the present day. The successful

inventor of this machine shall be rewarded with a gold medal weighing

five hundred sequins, bearing on one face the figure of the Arabian

Phenix of Metastasio, couched on a tree of a European species, while

its other side will bear the name of the inventor, with the title,

INVENTOR OF FAITHFUL WOMEN AND OF CONJUGAL HAPPINESS.

Finally, the Academy has resolved that the funds necessary to defray

the expenses incidental to this competition shall be supplemented by

all that was found in the purse of Diogenes, its first secretary,

together with one of the three golden asses which were the property

of three of its former members--namely, Apuleius, Firenzuola, and

Machiavelli, but which came into the possession of the Academy by the

last wills and testaments of the aforementioned, as duly recorded in

its minutes.

* * * * *

Antonio Ghislanzoni, an Italian journalist was possessed of a sort of

humor that would be a credit to any nation. It is not far removed from

the style of the early American jocularists.

Ghislanzoni was an opera singer, but, losing his voice, he quitted the

stage, and founded a comic paper, _L’Uomo di Pietra._

His paper on Musical Instruments is so entertaining we quote it all.

_ON MUSICAL INSTRUMENTS_

_The Clarinet_

This instrument consists of a severe cold in the head, contained in a

tube of yellow wood.

The clarinet was not invented by the Conservatory, but by Fate.

A chiropodist may be produced by study and hard work; but the

clarinet-player is born, not made.

The citizen predestined to the clarinet has an intelligence which is

almost obtuse up to the age of eighteen--a period of incubation, when

he begins to feel in his nose the first thrills of his fatal vocation.

After that his intellect--limited even then--ceases its development

altogether; but his nasal organ, in revenge, assumes colossal

dimensions.

At twenty he buys his first clarinet for fourteen francs; and three

months later his landlord gives him notice. At twenty-five he is

admitted into the band of the National Guard.

He dies of a broken heart on finding that not one of his three sons

shows the slightest inclination for the instrument through which he has

blown all his wits.

_The Trombone_

The man who plays on this instrument is always one who seeks oblivion

in its society--oblivion of domestic troubles, or consolation for love

betrayed.

The man who has held a metal tube in his mouth for six months finds

himself proof against every illusion.

At the age of fifty he finds that, of all human passions and feelings,

nothing is left him but an insatiable thirst.

Later on, if he wants to obtain the position of porter in a gentleman’s

house, or aspires to the hand of a woman with a delicate ear, he tries

to lay aside his instrument, but the taste for loud notes and strong

liquors only leaves him with life.

_The Harmoniflute_

This instrument, on account of the nature of its monotonous sounds and

its tremendous plaintiveness, acts on the nerves of those who hear it,

and predisposes to melancholy those who play it.

The harmoniflautist is usually tender and lymphatic of constitution,

with blue eyes, and eats only white meats and farinaceous food.

If a man, he is called Oscar; those of the other sex are named Adelaide.

At home, he or she is in the habit of bringing out the instrument at

dessert, and dinner being over, and the spirits of the family therefore

more or less cheerfully disposed, will entertain the company with the

“Miserere” in _Il Trovatore_, or some similar melody.

The harmoniflautist weeps easily. After practising on the instrument

for fifteen years or so, he or she dissolves altogether, and is

converted into a brook.

_The Organ_

This complicated and majestic instrument is of a clerical character,

and destined, by its great volume of sound, to drown the flat singing

of clergy and congregation in church.

The organist is usually a person sent into the world for the purpose

of making a great noise without undue expenditure of strength, one who

wants to blow harder than others without wearing out his own bellows.

At forty he becomes the intimate friend of the parish priest, and the

most influential person connected with the church. By dint of repeating

the same refrains every day at matins and vespers, he acquires a

knowledge of Latin, and gets all the anthems, hymns, and masses by

heart. At fifty he marries a devout spinster recommended by the priest.

He makes a kind and good-tempered husband, his only defect in that

capacity being his habit of dreaming out loud on the eve of every

church festival. On Easter Eve, for instance, he nearly always

awakens his wife by intoning, with the full force of his lungs,

_Resurrexit_. The good woman, thus abruptly aroused, never fails

to answer him with the orthodox _Alleluia_.

At the age of sixty he becomes deaf, and then begins to think his own

playing perfection. At seventy he usually dies of a broken heart,

because the new priest, who knows not Joseph, instead of asking him

to dine at the principal table with the clergy and other church

authorities, has relegated him to an inferior place, and the society of

the sacristan and the grave-digger.

_The Flute_

The unhappy man who succumbs to the fascinations of this instrument is

never one who has attained the full development of his intellectual

faculties. He always has a pointed nose, marries a short-sighted woman,

and dies run over by an omnibus.

The flute is the most deadly of all instruments. It requires a

peculiar conformation and special culture of the thumb-nail, with a

view to those holes which have to be only half closed.

The man who plays the flute frequently adds to his other infirmities a

mania for keeping tame weasels, turtle-doves, or guinea-pigs.

_The Violoncello_

To play the ’cello, you require to have long, thin fingers; but it is

still more indispensable to have very long hair falling over a greasy

coat-collar.

In case of fire, the ’cellist who sees his wife and his ’cello in

danger will save the latter first.

His greatest satisfaction, as a general thing, is that of “making

the strings weep.” Sometimes, indeed, he succeeds in making his wife

and family do the same thing in consequence of a diet of excessive

frugality. Sometimes, too, he contrives to make people laugh or yawn,

but this, according to him, is the result of atmospheric influences.

He can express, through his loftily attuned strings, all possible

griefs and sorrows, except those of his audience and his creditors.

_The Drum_

An immense apparatus of wood and sheepskin, full of air and of sinister

presages. In melodrama the roll of the drum serves to announce the

arrival of a fatal personage, an agent of Destiny, in most cases an

ill-used husband. Sometimes this funereal rumbling serves to describe

silence--sometimes to indicate the depths of the operatic heroine’s

despair.

The drummer is a serious man, possessed with the sense of his high

dramatic mission. He is able, however, to conceal his conscious pride,

and sleep on his instrument when the rest of the orchestra is making

all the noise it can. In such cases he commissions the nearest of his

colleagues to awaken him at the proper moment.

On awaking, he seizes the two drumsticks and begins to beat; but,

should his neighbor forget to rouse him, he prolongs his slumbers

till the fall of the curtain. Then he shakes himself, perceives that

the opera is over, and rubs his eyes. If it happens that the conductor

reprimands him for his remissness at the _attack_, he shrugs his

shoulders and replies, “Never mind, the tenor died, all the same. A

roll of the drum, more or less, what difference would it have made?”

* * * * *

Edmondo de Amicis, soldier and writer of books of travel, often gives

amusing descriptions of scenes or incidents.

_TOOTH FOR TOOTH_

An English merchant of Mogador was returning to the city on the evening

of a market-day, at the moment when the gate by which he was entering

was barred by a crowd of country people driving camels and asses.

Although the Englishman called out as loud as he could, “Make way!”

an old woman was struck by his horse and knocked down, falling with

her face upon a stone. Ill fortune would have it that in the fall she

broke her last two front teeth. She was stunned for an instant, and

then rose convulsed with rage, and broke out into insults and ferocious

maledictions, following the Englishman to his door. She then went

before the governor, and demanded that in virtue of the law of talion

he should order the English merchant’s two front teeth to be broken.

The governor tried to pacify her, and advised her to pardon the injury;

but she would listen to nothing, and he sent her away with a promise

that she should have justice, hoping that when her anger should be

exhausted she would herself desist from her pursuit. But, three days

having passed, the old woman came back more furious than ever, demanded

justice, and insisted that a formal sentence should be pronounced

against the Christian.

“Remember,” said she to the governor, “thou didst promise me!”

“What!” responded the governor; “dost thou take me for a Christian,

that I should be the slave of my word?”

Every day for a month the old woman, athirst for vengeance, presented

herself at the door of the citadel, and yelled and cursed and made such

a noise, that the governor, to be rid of her, was obliged to yield.

He sent for the merchant, explained the case, the right which the law

gave the woman, the duty imposed upon himself, and begged him to put an

end to the matter by allowing two of his teeth to be removed--any two,

although in strict justice they should be two incisors. The Englishman

refused absolutely to part with incisors, or eye-teeth, or molars; and

the governor was obliged to send the old woman packing, ordering the

guard not to let her put her foot in the palace again.

“Very well,” said she, “since there are none but degenerate Mussulmans

here, since justice is refused to a Mussulman woman against an infidel

dog, I will go to the sultan, and we shall see whether the prince of

the faithful will deny the law of the Prophet.”

True to her determination, she started on her journey alone, with an

amulet in her bosom, a stick in her hand, and a bag round her neck, and

made on foot the hundred miles which separate Mogador from the sacred

city of the empire. Arrived at Fez, she sought and obtained audience of

the sultan, laid her case before him, and demanded the right accorded

by the Koran, the application of the law of retaliation. The sultan

exhorted her to forgive. She insisted. All the serious difficulties

which opposed themselves to the satisfaction of her petition were laid

before her. She remained inexorable. A sum of money was offered her,

with which she could live in comfort for the rest of her days. She

refused it.

“What do I want with your money?” said she; “I am old, and accustomed

to live in poverty. What I want is the two teeth of the Christian. I

want them; I demand them in the name of the Koran. The sultan, prince

of the faithful, head of our religion, father of his subjects, cannot

refuse justice to a true believer.”

Her obstinacy put the sultan in a most embarrassing position. The

law was formal, and her right incontestable; and the ferment of the

populace, stirred up by the woman’s fanatical declamations, rendered

refusal perilous. The sultan, who was Abd-er-Rahman, wrote to the

English consul, asking as a favor that he would induce his countryman

to allow two of his teeth to be broken. The merchant answered the

consul that he would never consent. Then the sultan wrote again, saying

that if he would consent he would grant him, in compensation, any

commercial privilege that he chose to ask. This time, touched in his

purse, the merchant yielded. The old woman left Fez, blessing the name

of the pious Abd-er-Rahman, and went back to Mogador, where, in the

presence of many people, the two teeth of the Nazarene were broken.

When she saw them fall to the ground she gave a yell of triumph,

and picked them up with a fierce joy. The merchant, thanks to the

privileges accorded him, made in the two following years so handsome a

fortune that he went back to England toothless, but happy.

SPANISH HUMOR

The only illustrious name of a writer of humor in Spain in the

eighteenth century is that of the justly celebrated Thomas Yriarte.

He is best known to English readers through his Literary Fables, which

have been frequently translated.

_THE ASS AND THE FLUTE_

You must know that this ditty,

This little romance,

Be it dull, be it witty,

Arose from mere chance.

Near a certain inclosure,

Not far from my manse,

An ass, with composure,

Was passing by chance.

As he went along prying,

With sober advance,

A shepherd’s lute lying,

He found there by chance.

Our amateur started,

And eyed it askance,

Drew nearer, and snorted

Upon it by chance.

The breath of the brute, sir,

Drew music for once;

It entered the flute, sir,

And blew it by chance.

“Ah!” cried he, in wonder,

How comes this to pass?

Who will now dare to slander

The skill of an ass?

And asses in plenty

I see at a glance,

Who, one time in twenty,

Succeed by mere chance.

_THE EGGS_

Beyond the sunny Philippines

An island lies, whose name I do not know;

But that’s of little consequence, if so

You understand that there they had no hens;

Till, by a happy chance, a traveler,

After a while, carried some poultry there.

Fast they increased as any one could wish;

Until fresh eggs became the common dish.

But all the natives ate them boiled--they say--

Because the stranger taught no other way.

At last the experiment by one was tried--

Sagacious man!--of having his eggs fried.

And, O! what boundless honors for his pains,

His fruitful and inventive fancy gains!

Another, now, to have them baked devised--

Most happy thought!--and still another, spiced.

Who ever thought eggs were so delicate!

Next, some one gave his friends an omelette:

“Ah!” all exclaimed, “what an ingenious feat!”

But scarce a year went by, an artiste shouts,

“I have it now--ye’re all a pack of louts!--

With nice tomatoes all my eggs are stewed.”

And the whole island thought the mode so good,

That they would so have cooked them to this day,

But that a stranger wandered out that way,

Another dish the gaping natives taught,

And showed them eggs cooked _à la Huguenot_.

Successive cooks thus proved their skill diverse;

But how shall I be able to rehearse

All of the new, delicious condiments

That luxury, from time to time, invents?

Soft, hard, and dropped, and now with sugar sweet,

And now boiled up with milk, the eggs they eat;

In sherbet, in preserves; at last they tickle

Their palates fanciful with eggs in pickle.

All had their day--the last was still the best.

But a grave senior thus, one day, addressed

The epicures: “Boast, ninnies, if you will,

These countless prodigies of gastric skill--

But blessings on the man who brought the hens!”

Beyond the sunny Philippines

Our crowd of modern authors need not go

New-fangled modes of cooking eggs to show.

_THE COUNTRY SQUIRE_

A country squire, of greater wealth than wit

(For fools are often bless’d with fortune’s smile),

Had built a splendid house, and furnish’d it

In splendid style.

“One thing is wanted,” said a friend; “for, though

The rooms are fine, the furniture profuse,

You lack a library, dear sir, for show,

If not for use.”

“’Tis true; but, zounds!” replied the squire with glee,

“The lumber-room in yonder northern wing

(I wonder I ne’er thought of it) will be

The very thing.

“I’ll have it fitted up without delay

With shelves and presses of the newest mode

And rarest wood, befitting every way

A squire’s abode.

“And when the whole is ready, I’ll despatch

My coachman--a most knowing fellow--down,

To buy me, by admeasurement, a batch

Of books in town.”

But ere the library was half supplied

With all its pomp of cabinet and shelf,

The booby Squire repented him, and cried,

Unto himself:--

“This room is much more roomy than I thought;

Ten thousand volumes hardly would suffice

To fill it, and would cost, however bought,

A plaguy price.

“Now, as I only want them for their looks,

It might, on second thoughts, be just as good,

And cost me next to nothing, if the books

Were made of wood.

“It shall be so. I’ll give the shaven deal

A coat of paint--a colourable dress,

To look like calf or vellum and conceal

Its nakedness.

“And gilt and letter’d with the author’s name,

Whatever is most excellent and rare

Shall be, or seem to be (’tis all the same)

Assembled there.”

The work was done; the simulated hoards

Of wit and wisdom round the chamber stood,

In bindings some; and some, of course, in _boards_,

Where all were wood.

From bulky folios down to slender twelves,

The choicest tomes in many an even row,

Display’d their letter’d backs upon the shelves,

A goodly show.

With such a stock, which seemingly surpass’d

The best collection ever form’d in Spain,

What wonder if the owner grew at last

Supremely vain?

What wonder, as he paced from shelf to shelf,

And conn’d their titles, that the Squire began,

Despite his ignorance, to think himself

A learned man?

Let every amateur, who merely looks

To backs and bindings, take the hint and sell

His costly library; for painted books

Would serve as well.

There were other Spaniards, doubtless, who possessed humor or wit, but

the only available translations of their plays or stories are too long

for quotation.

RUSSIAN HUMOR

A glance at Russia in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries shows

the great popularity of the Fable as a means of expressing the wit and

wisdom of the philosophers.

The two greatest Fabulists were Ivan Chemnitzer or Khemnitzer and Ivan

Kryloff.

Alexander Griboyedoff was a writer of comedies.

IVAN CHEMNITZER

_THE PHILOSOPHER_

A certain rich man, who had heard it was an advantage to have been at

school abroad, sent his son to study in foreign parts. The son, who

was an utter fool, came back more stupid than ever, having been taught

all sorts of elaborate explanations of the simplest things by a lot of

academical windbags. He expressed himself only in scientific terms, so

that no one understood him, and everyone became very tired of him.

One day, while walking along a road, and gazing at the sky in

speculating upon some problem of the universe to which the answer had

never been found (because there was none), the young man stepped over

the edge of a deep ditch. His father, who chanced to be near by, ran

to get a rope. The son, however, sitting at the bottom of the ditch,

began to meditate on the cause of his fall. He concluded that _an

earthquake had superinduced a momentary displacement of his corporeal

axis, thus destroying his equilibrium, and, in obedience to the law of

gravity as established by Newton, precipitating him downward until he

encountered an immovable obstacle_--namely, the bottom of the ditch.

When his father arrived with the rope, the following dialogue took

place between them:

“I have brought a rope to pull you out with. There, now, hold on tight

to that end, and don’t let go while I pull.”

“A rope? Please inform me what a rope is before you pull.”

“A rope is a thing to get people out of ditches with, when they have

fallen in and can’t get out by themselves.”

“But how is it that no mechanical device has been constructed for that

purpose?”

“That would take time; but you will not have to wait until then. Now,

then----”

“Time? Please explain first what you mean by time.”

“Time is something that I am not going to waste on a fool like you. So

you may stay where you are until I come back.”

Upon which the man went off, and left his foolish son to himself.

Now, would it not be a good thing if all eloquent windbags were

gathered together and thrown into the ditch, to keep him company? Yes,

surely. Only it would take a much larger ditch than that to hold them.

--_The Fables._

_THE LION’S COUNCIL OF STATE_

A Lion held a court for state affairs.

Why? That is not your business, sir--’twas theirs.

He called the elephants for councilors. Still

The council-board was incomplete,

And the king deemed it fit

With asses all the vacancies to fill.

Heaven help the state, for lo! the bench of asses

The bench of elephants by far surpasses.

“He was a fool, th’ aforesaid king,” you’ll say;

“Better have kept those places vacant, surely,

Than to have filled ’em up so very poorly.”

Oh, no, that’s not the royal way;

Things have been done for ages thus, and we

Have a deep reverence for antiquity.

Naught worse, sir, than to be, or to appear,

Wiser and better than our fathers were!

The list must be complete, e’en though you make it

Complete with asses--for the lion saw

Such had through all the ages been the law.

He was no radical to break it;

“Besides,” said he, “my elephants’ good sense

Will soon my asses’ ignorance diminish,

For wisdom has a mighty influence.”

They made a pretty finish!

The asses’ folly soon obtained the sway:

The elephants became as dull as they!

IVAN KRYLOV

_THE SWAN, THE PIKE, AND THE CRAB_

Whene’er companions don’t agree,

They work without accord;

And naught but trouble doth result,

Although they all work hard.

One day a swan, a pike, a crab,

Resolved a load to haul;

All three were harnessed to the cart,

And pulled together all.

But though they pulled with all their might,

The cart-load on the bank stuck tight.

The swan pulled upward to the skies;

The crab did backward crawl;

The pike made for the water straight--

It proved no use at all!

Now, which of them was most to blame,

’Tis not for me to say;

But this I know: the load is there

Unto this very day.

_THE MUSICIANS_

The tricksy monkey, the goat, the ass, and bandy-legged Mishka, the

bear, determined to play a quartet. They provided themselves with the

necessary instruments--two fiddles, an alto, and a bass. Then they all

settled down under a large tree, with the object of dazzling the world

by their artistic performance. They fiddled away lustily for some time,

but only succeeded in making a noise, and no music.

“Stop, my friends!” said the monkey, “this will not do; our music does

not sound as it ought. It is plain that we are in the wrong positions.

You, Mishka, take your bass and face the alto; I will go opposite the

second fiddle. Then we shall play altogether differently, so that the

very hills and forests will dance.”

So they changed places, and began over again. But they produced only

discords, as before.

“Wait a moment!” exclaimed the ass; “I know what the matter is. We must

get in a row, and then we shall play in tune.”

This advice was acted upon. The four animals placed themselves in a

straight line, and struck up once more.

The quartet was as unmusical as ever. Then they stopped again, and

began squabbling and wrangling about the proper positions to be taken.

It happened that a nightingale came flying by that way, attracted by

their din. They begged the nightingale to solve their difficulty for

them.

“Pray be so kind,” they said, “as to stay a moment, so that we may get

our quartet in order. We have music and we have instruments; only tell

us how to place ourselves.”

To which the nightingale replied:

“To be a musician, one must have a better ear and more intelligence

than any of you. Place yourselves any way you like; it will make no

difference. You will never become musicians.”

* * * * *

Fedor Dostoevsky was a celebrated Russian novelist and journalist.

We quote a small extract, which, it may be, depends in part for its fun

on its excellent English rendition of the German patter.

_FROM KARLCHEN, THE CROCODILE_

At this moment an appalling, I may even say supernatural, shriek

suddenly shook the room. Not knowing what to think, I stood for a

moment rooted to the spot; then, hearing Elyona Ivanovna shrieking,

too, I turned hastily round; and what did I see! I saw--oh, heavens!--I

saw the unhappy Ivan Matvyeich in the fearful jaws of the crocodile,

seized across the middle, lifted horizontally in the air, and kicking

despairingly. Then--a moment--and he was gone!

I cannot even attempt to describe the agitation of Elyona Ivanovna.

After her first cry she stood for some time as petrified, and stared

at the scene before her, as if indifferently, though her eyes were

starting out of her head; then she suddenly burst into a piercing

shriek. I caught her by the hands. At this moment the keeper, who

until now had also stood petrified with horror, clasped his hands, and

raising his eyes to heaven cried aloud:

“Oh, my crocodile! Oh, mein allerliebstes Karlchen! Mutter! Mutter!

Mutter!”

At this cry the back door opened, and “Mutter,” a red-cheeked, untidy,

elderly woman in a cap, rushed with a yell toward her son.

Then began an awful tumult. Elyona Ivanovna, beside herself, reiterated

one single phrase, “Cut it! Cut it!” and rushed from the keeper to the

“Mutter,” and back to the keeper, imploring them (evidently in a fit

of frenzy) to “cut” something or some one for some reason. Neither the

keeper nor “Mutter” took any notice of either of us; they were hanging

over the tank, and shrieking like stuck pigs.

“He is gone dead; he vill sogleich burst, because he von ganz official

of der government eat up haf!” cried the keeper.

“Unser Karlchen, unser allerliebstes Karlchen wird sterben!” wailed the

mother.

“Ve are orphans, vitout bread!” moaned the keeper.

“Cut it! Cut it! Cut it open!” screamed Elyona Ivanovna, hanging on to

the German’s coat.

“He did teaze ze crocodile! Vy your man teaze ze crocodile?” yelled the

German, wriggling away. “You vill pay me if Karlchen wird bersten! Das

war mein Sohn, das war mein einziger Sohn!”

“Cut it!” shrieked Elyona Ivanovna.

“How! You vill dat my crocodile shall be die? No, your man shall be

die first, and denn my crocodile. Mein Vater show von crocodile, mein

Grossvater show von crocodile, mein Sohn shall show von crocodile, and

I shall show von crocodile. All ve shall show crocodile. I am ganz

Europa famous, and you are not ganz Europa famous, and you do be me von

fine pay shall!”

“Ja, ja!” agreed the woman savagely; “ve you not let out; fine ven

Karlchen vill bersten.”

“For that matter,” I put in calmly, in the hope of getting Elyona

Ivanovna home without further ado, “there’s no use in cutting it open,

for in all probability our dear Ivan Matvyeich is now soaring in the

empyrean.”

“My dear,” remarked at this moment the voice of Ivan Matvyeich, with

startling suddenness, “my advice, my dear, is to act through the bureau

of police, for the German will not comprehend the truth without the

assistance of the police.”

These words, uttered with firmness and gravity, and expressing

astonishing presence of mind, at first so much amazed us that we could

not believe our ears. Of course, however, we instantly ran to the

crocodile’s tank and listened to the speech of the unfortunate captive

with a mixture of reverence and distrust. His voice sounded muffled,

thin, and even squeaky, as though coming from a long distance.

“Ivan Matvyeich, my dearest, are you alive?” lisped Elyona Ivanovna.

“Alive and well,” answered Ivan Matvyeich; “and, thanks to the

Almighty, swallowed whole without injury. I am only disturbed by

doubt as to how the superior authorities will regard this episode;

for, after having taken a ticket to go abroad, to go into a crocodile

instead is hardly sensible.”

“Oh, my dear, don’t worry about sense now; first of all we must somehow

or other dig you out,” interrupted Elyona Ivanovna.

“Tig!” cried the German. “I not vill let you to tig ze crocodile! Now

shall bery mush Publikum be come, and I shall fifety copeck take, and

Karlchen shall leave off to burst.”

“Gott sei Dank!” added the mother.

“They are right,” calmly remarked Ivan Matvyeich; “the economic

principle before everything.”

* * * * *

Nikolai Nekrasov wrote light verse of a whimsical trend.

_A MORAL MAN_

A strictly moral man have I been ever,

And never injured anybody--never.

I lent my friend a sum he could not pay;

I jogged his memory in a friendly way,

Then took the law of him th’ affair to end;

The law to prison sent my worthy friend.

He died there--not a farthing for poor me!

I am not angry, though I’ve cause to be;

His debt that very moment I forgave,

And shed sad tears of sorrow o’er his grave.

A strictly moral man have I been ever,

And never injured anybody--never.

I sent a serf of mine to learn the dressing

Of meat. He learned it--a good cook’s a blessing--

But strangely did neglect his occupation,

And gained a taste not suited to his station:

He liked to read, to reason, to discuss.

I, tired of scolding, without further fuss

Had the rogue flogged--all for the love of him.

He went and drowned himself--what a strange whim!

A strictly moral man have I been ever,

And never injured anybody--never.

My silly daughter fell in love, one day,

And with a tutor wished to run away.

I threatened curses, and pronounced my ban;

She yielded, and espoused a rich old man.

Their house was splendid, brimming o’er with wealth,

But suddenly the poor child lost her health,

And in a year consumption wrought her doom;

She left us mourning o’er her early tomb.

A strictly moral man have I been ever,

And never injured anybody--never.

* * * * *

Ivan Turgenieff, the celebrated novelist, wrote also delightfully witty

_Poems in Prose_.

_BENEFICENCE AND GRATITUDE_

One day the Supreme Being took it into His head to give a great banquet

in His azure palace.

All the virtues were invited. Men He did not ask--only ladies.

There was a large number of them, great and small. The lesser virtues

were more agreeable and genial than the great ones; but they all

appeared to be in good-humor, and chatted amiably together, as was only

becoming for near relations and friends.

But the Supreme Being noticed two charming ladies who seemed to be

totally unacquainted.

The Host gave one of the ladies His arm, and led her up to the other.

“Beneficence!” He said, indicating the first.

“Gratitude!” He added, indicating the second.

Both the virtues were amazed beyond expression. Ever since the world

had stood--and it had been standing a long time--this was the first

time they had met.

_PRAYER_

Whatever a man prays for, he prays for a miracle. Every prayer reduces

itself to this: “Great God, grant that twice two be not four.”

Anton Chekov, writer of humorous stories, is also happy in epigrammatic

wit.

_PROVERBIAL WISDOM_

The worst brandy is better than water.

The path to the law court is wide; the path away from it is narrow.

Even when drowning, a man wants company.

Cherish your wife as you would your salvation, and beat her as you

would your coat.

A bad peace is superior to a good quarrel.

Spare the peasant your lash, but not his rubles.

Poverty is not a sin, but it’s a great deal worse.

In a storm, pray to the Lord and keep on rowing as hard as you can.

A sparrow is small; still, it’s a bird.

If your wife were a guitar, you could hang her up after playing.

* * * * *

Casting about for other foreign countries that might offer bits of

humor written in the eighteenth or nineteenth century, we come across

this from a Polish author named Kajetan Wengierski.

_THE DREAM-WIFE_

Strangely ’wildered must I seem;

I was married--in a dream.

Oh, the ecstasy of bliss!

Brother, what a joy is this!

Think about it, and confess

’Tis a storm of happiness,

And the memory is to me

Sunbeams. But fifteen was she:

Cheeks of roses red and white;

Mouth like Davia’s; eyes of light,

Fiery, round, of raven hue,

Swimming, but coquettish too;

Ivory teeth; lips fresh as dew;

Bosom beauteous; hand of down;

Fairy foot. She stood alone

In her graces. She was mine,

And I drank her charms divine.

* * * * *

Yet, in early years our schemes

Are, alas! but shadowy dreams.

For a season they deceive,

Then our souls in darkness leave.

Oft the bowl the water bears,

But ’tis useless soon with years;

First it cracks, and then it leaks,

And at last--at last it breaks.

All things with beginning tend

To their melancholy end:

So her beauty fled.

* * * * *

Then did anger, care, and malice

Mingle up their bitter chalice.

Riches like the whirlwind flew,

Honors, gifts, and friendships too;

And my lovely wife, so mild,

Fortune’s frail and flattered child,

Spent our wealth, as if the day

Ne’er would dim or pass away;

And--oh, monstrous thought!--the fair

Scratched my eyes and tore my hair.

Naught but misery was our guest.

Then I sought the parish priest:

“Father, grant me a divorce.

Nay, you’ll grant it me, of course;

Reasons many can be given--

Reasons both of earth and heaven.”

“I know all you wish to say.

Have you wherewithal to pay?

Money is a thing, of course--

Money may obtain divorce.”

“Reverend father, hear me, please ye--

’Tis not an affair so easy.”

“Silence, child! Where money’s needed,

Eloquence is superseded.”

Then I talked of morals, but

The good father’s ears were shut.

With a fierce and frowning look

Off he drove me--And I woke.

And lacking adequate translation for any more of the humorous

literature of far away lands, we conclude this portion of our Outline

with some Epigrams of the people of Hayti.

You can’t catch a flea with one finger.

* * * * *

The snake that wants to live does not keep to the highroad.

* * * * *

You should never blame the owner of a goat for claiming it.

* * * * *

The ears do not weigh more than the head.

* * * * *

Wait till you are across the river before you call the alligator names.

* * * * *

If the tortoise that comes up from the bottom of the water tells you an

alligator is blind, you may believe him.

* * * * *

A frog in want of a shirt will ask for a pair of drawers.

* * * * *

The ox never says “Thank you” to the pasture.

* * * * *

Joke with a monkey as much as you please, but don’t play with its tail.

What business have eggs dancing with stones?

* * * * *

If you insist on punishing an enemy, do not make him fetch water in a

basket.

* * * * *

The wild hog knows what tree he is rubbing against.

* * * * *

Hang your knapsack where you can reach it.

* * * * *

The pumpkin vine does not yield calabashes.

* * * * *

Every jack-knife found on the highway will be lost on the highway.

* * * * *

All wood is wood, but deal is not cedar.

* * * * *

It is the frog’s own tongue that betrays him.

* * * * *

The spoon goes to the tray’s house, but the tray never goes to the

spoon’s house.

* * * * *

If you want your eggs hatched, sit on them yourself.

AMERICAN HUMOR

There may have been previous mute, inglorious Miltons, but doubtless

the first American to be recognized as a true humorist was Benjamin

Franklin.

In fact, one of the foremost essayists of the present day opines that

the reason Franklin was not called upon to write the Declaration of

Independence was because he was too fond of his joke.

“They were acute,” our essayist remarks, “those leaders of the

Continental Congress, and they knew that every man has the defect

of his qualities, and that a humorist is likely to be lacking in

reverence, and that the writer of the Declaration of Independence had a

theme which demanded most reverential treatment.”

It is generally conceded that the Americans are a humorous nation, is

even said that we have a way of living humorously, and are conscious of

the fact.

Aside from the annual work known as _Poor Richard’s Almanack_, Franklin

wrote much prose and verse of a witty character.

A letter of his gave rise to the well known saying, “He paid too much

for his whistle.”

Part of the letter is here given.

“When I was a child of seven years old, my friends on a holiday filled

my pocket with coppers. I went directly to a shop where they sold toys

for children; and, being charmed with the sound of a _whistle_ that I

met by the way in the hands of another boy, I voluntarily offered and

gave all my money for one. I then came home, and went whistling all

over the house, much pleased with my _whistle_, but disturbing all

the family. My brothers and sisters and cousins, understanding the

bargain I had made, told me I had given four times as much for it as

it was worth; put me in mind what good things I might have bought with

the rest of the money, and laughed at me so much for my folly, that I

cried with vexation; and the reflection gave me more chagrin than the

_whistle_ gave me pleasure.

“This, however, was afterward of use to me, the impression continuing

on my mind, so that often, when I was tempted to buy some unnecessary

thing, I said to myself, _Don’t give too much for the whistle_; and I

saved my money.

“As I grew up, came into the world, and observed the actions of men, I

thought I met with many, very many, who _gave too much for the whistle_.

“When I saw one too ambitious to court favor, sacrificing his time in

attendance on levees, his repose, his liberty, his virtue, and perhaps

his friends, to attain it, I have said to myself, _This man gives too

much for his whistle_.

“When I saw another fond of popularity, constantly employing himself in

political bustles, neglecting his own affairs and ruining them by that

neglect, _He pays, indeed_, said I, _too much for his whistle_.

“If I knew a miser, who gave up any kind of a comfortable living,

all the pleasure of doing good to others, all the esteem of his

fellow-citizens, and the joys of benevolent friendship, for the sake

of accumulating wealth, _Poor man_, said I, _you pay too much for your

whistle_.

“When I met with a man of pleasure, sacrificing every laudable

improvement of the mind, or of his fortune, to mere corporal

sensations, and ruining his health in their pursuit, _Mistaken man_,

said I, _you are providing pain for yourself instead of pleasure! you

give too much for your whistle_.

“If I see one fond of appearance, or fine clothes, fine houses,

fine furniture, fine equipages, all above his fortune, for which he

contracts debts, and ends his career in a prison, _Alas!_ say I, _he

has paid dear, very dear, for his whistle_.

“When I see a beautiful, sweet-tempered girl married to an ill-natured

brute of a husband, _What a pity_, say I, _that she should pay so much

for a whistle_!

“In short, I conceive that great part of the miseries of mankind are

brought upon them by the false estimates they have made of the value of

things, and by their _giving too much for their whistles_.

“Yet I ought to have charity for these unhappy people, when I consider,

that with all this wisdom of which I am boasting, there are certain

things in the world so tempting, for example, the apples of King John,

which happily are not to be bought; for if they were put up to sale by

auction, I might very easily be led to ruin myself in the purchase, and

find that I had once more given too much for the _whistle_.

“Adieu, my dear friend, and believe me ever yours, very sincerely and

with unalterable affection.”

B. FRANKLIN.

_PAPER_

Some wit of old--such wits of old there were--

Whose hints show’d meaning, whose allusions care,

By one brave stroke to mark all human kind,

Call’d clear blank paper every infant mind;

Where still, as opening sense her dictates wrote,

Fair virtue put a seal, or vice a blot.

The thought was happy, pertinent, and true;

Methinks a genius might the plan pursue.

I (can you pardon my presumption?) I--

No wit, no genius, yet for once will try.

Various the papers various wants produce,

The wants of fashion, elegance, and use.

Men are as various; and if right I scan,

Each sort of _paper_ represents some man.

Pray note the fop--half powder and half lace--

Nice as a band-box were his dwelling-place:

He’s the _gilt paper_, which apart you store,

And lock from vulgar hands in the ’scrutoire.

Mechanics, servants, farmers, and so forth,

Are _copy-paper_, of inferior worth;

Less prized, more useful, for your desk decreed,

Free to all pens, and prompt at every need.

The wretch, whom avarice bids to pinch and spare,

Starve, cheat, and pilfer, to enrich an heir,

Is coarse _brown paper!_ such as pedlars choose

To wrap up wares, which better men will use.

Take next the miser’s contrast, who destroys

Health, fame, and fortune, in a round of joys.

Will any paper match him? Yes, throughout,

He’s true _sinking-paper_, past all doubt.

The retail politician’s anxious thought

Deems _this_ side always right, and _that_ stark naught;

He foams with censure; with applause he raves--

A dupe to rumors, and a tool of knaves;

He’ll want no type his weakness to proclaim,

While such a thing as _foolscap_ has a name.

The hasty gentleman, whose blood runs high,

Who picks a quarrel, if you step awry,

Who can’t a jest, or hint, or look endure:

What is he? What? _Touch-paper_ to be sure.

What are our poets, take them as they fall,

Good, bad, rich, poor, much read, not read at all?

Them and their works in the same class you’ll find;

They are the mere _waste-paper_ of mankind.

Observe the maiden, innocently sweet,

She’s fair _white-paper_, an unsullied sheet;

On which the happy man, whom fate ordains,

May write his _name_, and take her for his pains.

One instance more, and only one I’ll bring;

’Tis the _great man_ who scorns a little thing,

Whose thoughts, whose deeds, whose maxims are his own,

Form’d on the feelings of his heart alone:

True genuine _royal-paper_ is his breast:

Of all the kinds most precious, purest, best.

Francis Hopkinson, a writer of miscellaneous essays, wrote “The Battle

of the Keys,” which was founded upon a real historic incident.

_THE BATTLE OF THE KEYS_

Gallants attend and hear a friend

Trill forth harmonious ditty,

Strange things I’ll tell which late befell

In Philadelphia city.

’Twas early day, as poets say,

Just when the sun was rising,

A soldier stood on a log of wood,

And saw a thing surprising.

As in amaze he stood and gazed,

The truth can’t be denied, sir,

He spied a score of kegs or more

Come floating down the tide, sir.

A sailor, too, in jerkin blue,

This strange appearance viewing,

First damned his eyes, in great surprise,

Then said, “Some mischief’s brewing.

“These kegs, I’m told, the rebles hold,

Packed up like pickled herring;

And they’re come down to attack the town,

In this new way of ferrying.”

The soldier flew, the sailor too,

And scared almost to death, sir,

Wore out their shoes, to spread the news,

And ran till out of breath, sir.

Now up and down throughout the town,

Most frantic scenes were acted;

And some ran here, and others there,

Like men almost distracted.

Some “fire” cried, which some denied,

But said the earth had quaked;

And girls and boys, with hideous noise,

Ran through the streets half-naked.

Sir William he, snug as a flea,

Lay all this time a-snoring,

Nor dreamed of harm as he lay warm,

In bed with Mrs. Loring.

Now in a fright he starts upright,

Awaked by such a clatter;

He rubs both eyes, and boldly cries,

“For God’s sake, what’s the matter?”

At his bedside he then espied,

Sir Erskine at command, sir,

Upon one foot he had one boot,

And th’ other in his hand, sir.

“Arise, arise!” Sir Erskine cries,

“The rebels--more’s the pity,

Without a boat are all afloat,

And ranged before the city.

“The motley crew, in vessels new,

With Satan for their guide, sir,

Packed up in bags, or wooden kegs,

Come driving down the tide, sir.

“Therefore prepare for bloody war,

The kegs must all be routed,

Or surely we despised shall be,

And British courage doubted.”

The royal band now ready stand,

All ranged in dead array, sir,

With stomach stout to see it out,

And make a bloody day, sir.

The cannons roar from shore to shore,

The small arms make a rattle;

Since wars began I’m sure no man

E’er saw so strange a battle.

The rebel dales, the rebel vales,

With rebel trees surrounded,

The distant woods, the hills and floods,

With rebel echoes sounded.

The fish below swam to and fro,

Attacked from every quarter;

Why sure, thought they, the devil’s to pay

’Mongst folks above the water.

The kegs, ’tis said, though strongly made

Of rebel staves and hoops, sir,

Could not oppose their powerful foes,

And conquering British troops, sir.

From morn to night these men of might

Displayed amazing courage;

And when the sun was fairly down,

Retired to sup their porridge.

A hundred men with each a pen,

Or more, upon my word, sir,

It is most true would be too few,

Their valor to record, sir.

Such feats did they perform that day,

Against these wicked kegs, sir,

That, years to come, if they get home,

They’ll make their boasts and brags, sir.

--_Miscellaneous Essays and Occasional Writings._

Elizabeth Graeme Ferguson, one of the earliest women writers of our

country, like many of her contemporaries, kept the style and effect of

English poetry. Her lines on the Country Parson, show a fine vein of

satire.

_THE COUNTRY PARSON_

How happy is the country parson’s lot!

Forgetting bishops, as by them forgot;

Tranquil of spirit, with an easy mind,

To all his vestry’s votes he sits resigned:

Of manners gentle, and of temper even,

He jogs his flocks, with easy pace, to heaven.

In Greek and Latin, pious books he keeps;

And, while his clerk sings psalms, he--soundly sleeps.

His garden fronts the sun’s sweet orient beams,

And fat church-wardens prompt his golden dreams.

The earliest fruit, in his fair orchard, blooms;

And cleanly pipes pour out tobacco’s fumes.

From rustic bridegroom oft he takes the ring;

And hears the milkmaid plaintive ballads sing.

Back-gammon cheats whole winter nights away,

And Pilgrim’s Progress helps a rainy day.

President John Quincy Adams so far relaxed from his political

dignity as to write light verse.

_TO SALLY_

The man in righteousness arrayed,

A pure and blameless liver,

Needs not the keen Toledo blade,

Nor venom-freighted quiver.

What though he winds his toilsome way

O’er regions wild and weary--

Through Zara’s burning desert stray,

Or Asia’s jungles dreary:

What though he plough the billowy deep

By lunar light, or solar,

Meet the resistless Simoon’s sweep,

Or iceberg circumpolar!

In bog or quagmire deep and dank

His foot shall never settle;

He mounts the summit of Mont Blanc,

Or Popocatapetl.

On Chimborazo’s breathless height

He treads o’er burning lava;

Or snuffs the Bohan Upas blight,

The deathful plant of Java.

Through every peril he shall pass,

By Virtue’s shield protected;

And still by Truth’s unerring glass

His path shall be directed.

Else wherefore was it, Thursday last,

While strolling down the valley,

Defenceless, musing as I passed

A canzonet to Sally,

A wolf, with mouth-protruding snout,

Forth from the thicket bounded--

I clapped my hands and raised a shout--

He heard--and fled--confounded.

Tangier nor Tunis never bred

An animal more crabbed;

Nor Fez, dry-nurse of lions, fed

A monster half so rabid;

Nor Ararat so fierce a beast

Has seen since days of Noah;

Nor stronger, eager for a feast,

The fell constrictor boa.

Oh! place me where the solar beam

Has scorched all verdure vernal;

Or on the polar verge extreme,

Blocked up with ice eternal--

Still shall my voice’s tender lays

Of love remain unbroken;

And still my charming Sally praise,

Sweet smiling and sweet spoken.

About this time, Clement C. Moore wrote the Christmas story which has

since become a national classic.

_A VISIT FROM ST. NICHOLAS_

’Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house

Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;

The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,

In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there;

The children were nestled all snug in their beds,

While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads;

And mamma in her ’kerchief, and I in my cap

Had just settled our brains for a long winter’s nap,

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,

I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.

Away to the window I flew like a flash,

Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow

Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below,

When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,

But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer,

With a little old driver, so lively and quick,

I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick.

More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,

And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name;

“Now, _Dasher!_ now, _Dancer!_ now, _Prancer_ and _Vixen!_

On, _Comet!_ on, _Cupid!_ on, _Dunder_ and _Blitzen!_

To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!

Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!”

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,

When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky;

So up to the house-top the coursers they flew,

With the sleigh full of Toys, and St. Nicholas too.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof

The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.

As I drew in my head, and was turning around,

Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound.

He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,

And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot;

A bundle of Toys he had flung on his back,

And he looked like a pedler just opening his pack.

His eyes--how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!

His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!

His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,

And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow;

The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,

And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath;

He had a broad face and a little round belly,

That shook when he laughed, like a bowlful of jelly.

He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,

And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself;

A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,

Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread;

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,

And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk,

And laying his finger aside of his nose,

And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose;

He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,

And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.

But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight,

_“Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night_.”

Washington Irving, though his work is besprinkled with humor cannot be

quoted at length.

A bit of his gay verse is given.

_A CERTAIN YOUNG LADY_

There’s a certain young lady,

Who’s just in her heyday,

And full of all mischief, I ween;

So teasing! so pleasing!

Capricious! delicious!

And you know very well whom I mean.

With an eye dark as night,

Yet than noonday more bright,

Was ever a black eye so keen?

It can thrill with a glance,

With a beam can entrance,

And you know very well whom I mean.

With a stately step--such as

You’d expect in a duchess--

And a brow might distinguish a queen,

With a mighty proud air,

That says “touch me who dare,”

And you know very well whom I mean.

With a toss of the head

That strikes one quite dead,

But a smile to revive one again;

That toss so appalling!

That smile so enthralling!

And you know very well whom I mean.

Confound her! devil take her!--

A cruel heart-breaker--

But hold! see that smile so serene.

God love her! God bless her!

May nothing distress her!

You know very well whom I mean.

Heaven help the adorer

Who happens to bore her,

The lover who wakens her spleen;

But too blest for a sinner

Is he who shall win her,

And you know very well whom I mean.

William Cullen Bryant, like most of the New England poets, was not

often humorous in his work. Perhaps the nearest he came to it was in

his _Lines to a Mosquito_.

_TO A MOSQUITO_

Fair insect! that with threadlike legs spread out,

And blood-extracting bill and filmy wing,

Dost murmur, as thou slowly sail’st about,

In pitiless ears, full many a plaintive thing,

And tell how little our large veins should bleed,

Would we but yield them to thy bitter need?

Unwillingly, I own, and, what is worse,

Full angrily men harken to thy plaint;

Thou gettest many a brush and many a curse,

For saying thou art gaunt and starved and faint.

Even the old beggar, while he asks for food,

Would kill thee, hapless stranger, if he could.

I call thee stranger, for the town, I ween,

Has not the honor of so proud a birth--

Thou com’st from Jersey meadows, fresh and green,

The offspring of the gods, though born on earth;

For Titan was thy sire, and fair was she,

The ocean nymph that nursed thy infancy.

Beneath the rushes was thy cradle swung,

And when at length thy gauzy wings grew strong,

Abroad to gentle airs their folds were flung,

Rose in the sky, and bore thee soft along;

The south wind breathed to waft thee on thy way,

And danced and shone beneath the billowy bay.

Calm rose afar the city spires, and thence

Came the deep murmur of its throng of men,

And as its grateful odors met thy sense,

They seemed the perfumes of thy native fen.

Fair lay its crowded streets, and at the sight

Thy tiny song grew shriller with delight.

At length thy pinion fluttered in Broadway--

Ah, there were fairy steps, and white necks kissed

By wanton airs, and eyes whose killing ray

Shone through the snowy veils like stars through mist;

And fresh as morn, on many a cheek and chin,

Bloomed the bright blood through the transparent skin.

Sure these were sights to tempt an anchorite!

What! do I hear thy slender voice complain?

Thou wailest when I talk of beauty’s light,

As if it brought the memory of pain.

Thou art a wayward being--well--come near,

And pour thy tale of sorrow in mine ear.

What say’st thou, slanderer! rouge makes thee sick?

And China Bloom at best is sorry food?

And Rowland’s Kalydor, if laid on thick,

Poisons the thirsty wretch that bores for blood.

Go! ’Twas a just reward that met thy crime--

But shun the sacrilege another time.

That bloom was made to look at--not to touch;

To worship--not approach--that radiant white;

And well might sudden vengeance light on such

As dared, like thee, most impiously to bite.

Thou shouldst have gazed at distance and admired--

Murmur’d thy admiration and retired.

Thou’rt welcome to the town--but why come here

To bleed a brother poet, gaunt like thee?

Alas! the little blood I have is dear,

And thin will be the banquet drawn from me.

Look round--the pale-eyed sisters in my cell,

Thy old acquaintance, Song and Famine, dwell.

Try some plump alderman, and suck the blood

Enrich’d by gen’rous wine and costly meat;

On well-filled skins, sleek as thy native mud,

Fix thy light pump, and press thy freckled feet.

Go to the men for whom, in ocean’s halls,

The oyster breeds and the green turtle sprawls.

There corks are drawn, and the red vintage flows,

To fill the swelling veins for thee, and now

The ruddy cheek, and now the ruddier nose

Shall tempt thee, as thou flittest round the brow;

And when the hour of sleep its quiet brings,

No angry hand shall rise to brush thy wings.

Fitz-Greene Halleck wrote much in collaboration with Joseph Rodman

Drake, and it is often difficult to separate their work.

_ODE TO FORTUNE_

Fair lady with the bandaged eye!

I’ll pardon all thy scurvy tricks,

So thou wilt cut me, and deny

Alike thy kisses and thy kicks:

I’m quite contented as I am,

Have cash to keep my duns at bay,

Can choose between beefsteaks and ham,

And drink Madeira every day.

My station is the middle rank,

My fortune--just a competence--

Ten thousand in the Franklin Bank,

And twenty in the six per cents;

No amorous chains my heart enthrall,

I neither borrow, lend, nor sell;

Fearless I roam the City Hall,

And bite my thumb at Sheriff Bell.

The horse that twice a week I ride

At Mother Dawson’s eats his fill;

My books at Goodrich’s abide,

My country-seat is Weehawk hill;

My morning lounge is Eastburn’s shop,

At Poppleton’s I take my lunch,

Niblo prepares my mutton-chop,

And Jennings makes my whiskey-punch.

When merry, I the hours amuse

By squibbing Bucktails, Guards, and Balls,

And when I’m troubled with the blues

Damn Clinton and abuse cards:

Then, Fortune, since I ask no prize,

At least preserve me from thy frown!

The man who don’t attempt to rise

’Twere cruelty to tumble down.

Albert Gorton Greene also wrote in the manner of his English forebears,

indeed, his _Old Grimes_ is quite in line with Tom Hood or

Goldsmith.

_OLD CHIMES_

Old Grimes is dead; that good old man

We never shall see more:

He used to wear a long, black coat,

All buttoned down before.

His heart was open as the day,

His feelings all were true;

His hair was some inclined to gray--

He wore it in a queue.

Whene’er he heard the voice of pain,

His breast with pity burn’d;

The large, round head upon his cane

From ivory was turn’d.

Kind words he ever had for all;

He knew no base design:

His eyes were dark and rather small,

His nose was aquiline.

He lived at peace with all mankind.

In friendship he was true:

His coat had pocket-holes behind,

His pantaloons were blue.

Unharm’d, the sin which earth pollutes

He pass’d securely o’er,

And never wore a pair of boots

For thirty years or more.

But good old Grimes is now at rest,

Nor fears misfortune’s frown:

He wore a double-breasted vest--

The stripes ran up and down.

He modest merit sought to find,

And pay it its desert:

He had no malice in his mind,

No ruffles on his shirt.

His neighbors he did not abuse--

Was sociable and gay:

He wore large buckles on his shoes

And changed them every day.

His knowledge, hid from public gaze,

He did not bring to view,

Nor made a noise, town-meeting days,

As many people do.

His worldly goods he never threw

In trust to fortune’s chances,

But lived (as all his brothers do)

In easy circumstances.

Thus undisturb’d by anxious cares,

His peaceful moments ran;

And everybody said he was

A fine old gentleman.

Ralph Waldo Emerson is seldom humorous or even in lighter vein. His

Fable about the squirrel shows a graceful wit.

_FABLE_

The mountain and the squirrel

Had a quarrel,

And the former called the latter “Little Prig”;

Bun replied,

“You are doubtless very big;

But all sorts of things and weather

Must be taken in together,

To make up a year

And a sphere,

And I think it no disgrace

To occupy my place.

If I’m not so large as you,

You are not so small as I,

And not half so spry.

I’ll not deny you make

A very pretty squirrel track;

Talents differ; all is well and wisely put;

If I cannot carry forests on my back,

Neither can you crack a nut.”

Nathaniel Parker Willis was a popular writer of society satire in both

prose and verse.

_LOVE IN A COTTAGE_

They may talk of love in a cottage,

And bowers of trellised vine--

Of nature bewitchingly simple,

And milkmaids half-divine;

They may talk of the pleasure of sleeping

In the shade of a spreading tree,

And a walk in the fields at morning,

By the side of a footstep free!

But give me a sly flirtation

By the light of a chandelier--

With music to play in the pauses,

And nobody very near;

Or a seat on a silken sofa,

With a glass of pure old wine,

And mama too blind to discover

The small white hand in mine.

Your love in a cottage is hungry,

Your vine is a nest for flies--

Your milkmaid shocks the Graces,

And simplicity talks of pies!

You lie down to your shady slumber

And wake with a bug in your ear,

And your damsel that walks in the morning

Is shod like a mountaineer.

True love is at home on a carpet,

And mightily likes his ease--

And true love has an eye for a dinner,

And starves beneath shady trees.

His wing is the fan of a lady.

His foot’s an invisible thing,

And his arrow is tipp’d with a jewel

And shot from a silver string.

Seba Smith, among the first to break away from English traditions,

wrote over the pen name of Major Jack Downing. He was a pioneer in the

matter of dialect writing and the first to poke fun at New England

speech and manners.

Follows a part of his skit called

_MY FIRST VISIT TO PORTLAND_

After I had walked about three or four hours, I come along towards the

upper end of the town, where I found there were stores and shops of all

sorts and sizes. And I met a feller, and says I,--

“What place is this?”

“Why, this,” says he, “is Huckler’s Row.”

“What!” says I, “are these the stores where the traders in Huckler’s

Row keep?”

And says he, “Yes.”

“Well, then,” says I to myself, “I have a pesky good mind to go in

and have a try with one of these chaps, and see if they can twist my

eye-teeth out. If they can get the best end of a bargain out of me,

they can do what there ain’t a man in our place can do; and I should

just like to know what sort of stuff these ’ere Portland chaps are made

of.” So in I goes into the best-looking store among ’em. And I see some

biscuit lying on the shelf, and says I,--

“Mister, how much do you ax apiece for them ’ere biscuits?”

“A cent apiece,” says he.

“Well,” says I, “I shan’t give you that, but, if you’ve a mind to, I’ll

give you two cents for three of them, for I begin to feel a little as

though I would like to take a bite.”

“Well,” says he, “I wouldn’t sell ’em to anybody else so, but, seeing

it’s you, I don’t care if you take ’em.”

I knew he lied, for he never seen me before in his life. Well, he

handed down the biscuits, and I took ’em, and walked round the store

awhile, to see what else he had to sell. At last says I,--

“Mister, have you got any good cider?”

Says he, “Yes, as good as ever ye see.”

“Well,” says I, “what do you ax a glass for it?”

“Two cents,” says he.

“Well,” says I, “seems to me I feel more dry than I do hungry now.

Ain’t you a mind to take these ’ere biscuits again and give me a glass

of cider?” and says he:

“I don’t care if I do.”

So he took and laid ’em on the shelf again and poured out a glass of

cider. I took the glass of cider and drinkt it down and, to tell you

the truth about it, it was capital good cider Then says I:

“I guess it’s about time for me to be a-going,” and so I stept along

toward the door; but he ups and says, says he:

“Stop, mister, I believe you haven’t paid me for the cider.’

“Not paid you for the cider!” says I; “what do you mean by that? Didn’t

the biscuits that I give you just come to the cider?”

“Oh, ah, right!” says he.

So I started to go again, but before I had reached the door he says,

says he:

“But stop, mister, you didn’t pay me for the biscuit.”

“What!” says I, “do you mean to impose upon me? Do you think I am going

to pay you for the biscuits, and let you keep them, too? Ain’t they

there now on your shelf? What more do you want? I guess, sir, you don’t

whittle me in that way.”

So I turned about and marched off and left the feller staring and

scratching his head as tho’ he was struck with a dunderment.

Howsomeever, I didn’t want to cheat him, only jest to show ’em it

wa’n’t so easy a matter to pull my eye-teeth out; so I called in next

day and paid him two cents.

* * * * *

And now humor began to creep into the newspapers, and it came about

that American humorists, almost without exception, have been newspaper

men.

Following Seba Smith’s plan each author created a character, usually

of homely type, and through him as a mouthpiece gave to the world his

own wit and wisdom.

Mrs. Frances Miriam Whitcher wrote the Widow Bedott papers, and

Frederick Swartout Cozzens the Sparrowgrass Papers, but best known

today is the Mrs. Partington, the American Mrs. Malaprop, created by

Benjamin Penhallow Shillaber.

_AFTER A WEDDING_

“I like to tend weddings,” said Mrs. Partington, as she came back

from a neighboring church where one had been celebrated, and hung

up her shawl, and replaced the black bonnet in her long-preserved

band-box. “I like to see young people come together with the promise

to love, cherish, and nourish each other. But it is a solemn thing,

is matrimony--a very solemn thing--where the pasture comes into the

chancery, with his surplus on, and goes through with the cerement of

making ’em man and wife. It ought to be husband and wife; for it ain’t

every husband that turns out a man. I declare I shall never forget how

I felt when I had the nuptial ring put on to my finger, when Paul said,

‘With my goods I thee endow.’ He used to keep a dry-goods store then,

and I thought he was going to give me all there was in it. I was young

and simple, and didn’t know till arterwards that it only meant one

calico gound in a year. It is a lovely sight to see the young people

plighting their trough, and coming up to consume their vows.”

She bustled about and got tea ready, but abstractedly she put on the

broken teapot, that had lain away unused since Paul was alive, and

the teacups, mended with putty, and dark with age, as if the idea had

conjured the ghost of past enjoyment to dwell for the moment in the

home of present widowhood.

A young lady, who expected to be married on Thanksgiving night,

wept copiously at her remarks, but kept on hemming the veil that

was to adorn her brideship, and Ike sat pulling bristles out of the

hearth-brush in expressive silence.

Yet not all the wits of the day were newspaper men, for Oliver Wendell

Holmes left his essays and novels now and then to give his native humor

full play.

The “Deacon’s Masterpiece,” often called “The One Hoss Shay” is a

classic, and many short poems are among our best witty verses, while

Holmes’ genial humor pervades his Breakfast Table books.

_THE HEIGHT OF THE RIDICULOUS_

I wrote some lines once on a time,

In wondrous merry mood,

And thought, as usual, men would say

They were exceeding good.

They were so queer, so very queer,

I laughed as I would die;

Albeit, in the general way,

A sober man am I.

I called my servant, and he came;

How kind it was of him,

To mind a slender man like me,

He of the mighty limb!

“These to the printer,” I exclaimed,

And, in my humorous way,

I added (as a trifling jest),

“There’ll be the devil to pay.”

He took the paper, and I watched,

And saw him peep within;

At the first line he read, his face

Was all upon the grin.

He read the next: the grin grew broad,

And shot from ear to ear;

He read the third: a chuckling noise

I now began to hear.

The fourth: he broke into a roar;

The fifth: his waistband split;

The sixth: he burst five buttons off,

And tumbled in a fit.

Ten days and nights, with sleepless eye,

I watched that wretched man,

And since, I never dare to write

As funny as I can.

_ÆSTIVATION_

In candent ire the solar splendor flames;

The foles, languescent, pend from arid rames;

His humid front the cive, anheling, wipes,

And dreams of erring on ventiferous ripes.

How dulce to vive occult to mortal eyes,

Dorm on the herb with none to supervise,

Carp the suave berries from the crescent vine,

And bibe the flow from longicaudate kine.

To me also, no verdurous visions come

Save you exiguous pool’s confervascum,--

No concave vast repeats the tender hue

That laves my milk-jug with celestial blue.

Me wretched! Let me curr to quercine shades!

Effund your albid hausts, lactiferous maids!

Oh, might I vole to some umbrageous chump,--

Depart,--be off,--excede,--evade,--erump!

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow is charged with the perpetration of certain

nonsense verses. His authorship of these has been stoutly denied as

well as positively asseverated.

The two poems in question are appended, and if Longfellow did write

them they are in no wise to his discredit.

_THERE WAS A LITTLE GIRL_

There was a little girl,

And she had a little curl

Right in the middle of her forehead.

When she was good

She was very, very good,

And when she was bad she was horrid.

One day she went upstairs,

When her parents, unawares,

In the kitchen were occupied with meals

And she stood upon her head

In her little trundle-bed,

And then began hooraying with her heels.

Her mother heard the noise,

And she thought it was the boys

A-playing at a combat in the attic;

But when she climbed the stair,

And found Jemima there,

She took and she did spank her most emphatic.

_MR. FINNEY’S TURNIP_

Mr. Finney had a turnip

And it grew and it grew;

And it grew behind the barn,

And that turnip did no harm.

There it grew and it grew

Till it could grow no taller;

Then his daughter Lizzie picked it

And put it in the cellar.

There it lay and it lay

Till it began to rot;

And his daughter Susie took it

And put it in the pot.

And they boiled it and boiled it

As long as they were able,

And then his daughters took it

And put it on the table.

Mr. Finney and his wife

They sat down to sup;

And they ate and they ate

And they ate that turnip up.

James Thomas Fields, an acknowledged humorist, wrote mostly homely

narrative wit.

_THE ALARMED SKIPPER_

Many a long, long year ago,

Nantucket skippers had a plan

Of finding out, though “lying low,”

How near New York their schooners ran.

They greased the lead before it fell,

And then, by sounding through the night,

Knowing the soil that stuck, so well,

They always guessed their reckoning right.

A skipper gray, whose eyes were dim,

Could tell, by _tasting_, just the spot;

And so below he’d “dowse the glim,”--

After, of course, his “something hot.”

Snug in his berth at eight o’clock

This ancient skipper might be found;

No matter how his craft would rock,

He slept,--for skippers’ naps are sound!

The watch on deck would now and then

Run down and wake him, with the lead;

He’d up, and taste, and tell the men

How many miles they went ahead.

One night ’twas Jotham Marden’s watch,

A curious wag,--the peddler’s son,--

And so he mused (the wanton wretch),

“To-night I’ll have a grain of fun.

“We’re all a set of stupid fools

To think the skipper knows by _tasting_

What ground he’s on: Nantucket schools

Don’t teach such stuff, with all their basting!”

And so he took the well-greased lead

And rubbed it o’er a box of earth

That stood on deck,--a parsnip-bed,--

And then he sought the skipper’s berth.

“Where are we now, sir? Please to taste.”

The skipper yawned, put out his tongue,

Then oped his eyes in wondrous haste,

And then upon the floor he sprung!

The skipper stormed, and tore his hair,

Thrust on his boots, and roared to Marden,

“_Nantucket’s sunk, and here we are

Right over old Marm Hackett’s garden!_”

John Godfrey Saxe has been called the American Tom Hood. His verses are

among our very best humorous poems.

_MY FAMILIAR_

Again I hear that creaking step!--

He’s rapping at the door!--

Too well I know the boding sound

That ushers in a bore.

I do not tremble when I meet

The stoutest of my foes,

But heaven defend me from the friend

Who comes,--but never goes!

He drops into my easy-chair

And asks about the news;

He peers into my manuscript,

And gives his candid views;

He tells me where he likes the line,

And where he’s forced to grieve;

He takes the strangest liberties,--

But never takes his leave!

He reads my daily paper through

Before I’ve seen a word;

He scans the lyric (that I wrote)

And thinks it quite absurd;

He calmly smokes my last cigar,

And coolly asks for more;

He opens everything he sees--

Except the entry door!

He talks about his fragile health,

And tells me of his pains;

He suffers from a score of ills

Of which he ne’er complains;

And how he struggled once with death

To keep the fiend at bay;

On themes like those away he goes--

But never goes away!

He tells me of the carping words

Some shallow critic wrote;

And every precious paragraph

Familiarly can quote;

He thinks the writer did me wrong;

He’d like to run him through!

He says a thousand pleasant things--

But never says “Adieu!”

Whene’er he comes--that dreadful man--

Disguise it as I may,

I know that, like an autumn rain,

He’ll last throughout the day.

In vain I speak of urgent tasks;

In vain I scowl and pout;

A frown is no extinguisher--

It does not put him out!

I mean to take the knocker off,

Put crape upon the door,

Or hint to John that I am gone

To stay a month or more.

I do not tremble when I meet

The stoutest of my foes,

But Heaven defend me from the friend

Who never, never goes!

Henry Wheeler Shaw, creator of the character of Josh Billings, was a

philosopher and essayist as well as a funny man.

Doubtless his work has lived largely because of its amusing

misspelling, but there is much wisdom to be found in his wit.

The following essays are given only in part.

_TIGHT BOOTS_

I would jist like to kno who the man waz who fust invented _tite

boots_.

He must hav bin a narrow and kontrakted kuss.

If he still lives, i hope he haz repented ov hiz sin, or iz enjoying

grate agony ov sum kind.

I hay bin in a grate menny tite spots in mi life, but generally could

manage to make them average; but thare iz no sich thing az making a

pair of tite boots average.

Enny man who kan wear a pair ov tite boots, and be humble, and

penitent, and not indulge profane literature, will make a good husband.

Oh! for the pen ov departed Wm. Shakspear, to write an anethema aginst

tite boots, that would make anshunt Rome wake up, and howl agin az she

did once before on a previous ockashun.

Oh! for the strength ov Herkules, to tare into shu strings all the tite

boots ov creashun, and skatter them tew the 8 winds ov heaven.

Oh! for the buty ov Venus, tew make a bigg foot look hansum without a

tite boot on it.

Oh! for the payshunce ov Job, the Apostle, to nuss a tite boot and bles

it, and even pra for one a size smaller and more pinchfull.

Oh! for a pair of boots bigg enuff for the foot ov a mountain.

I have been led into the above assortment ov _Oh’s!_ from having

in my posseshun, at this moment, a pair ov number nine boots, with a

pair ov number eleven feet in them.

Mi feet are az uneasy az a dog’s noze the fust time he wears a muzzle.

I think mi feet will eventually choke the boots to deth.

I liv in hopes they will.

I suppozed i had lived long enuff not to be phooled agin in this way,

but i hav found out that an ounce ov vanity weighs more than a pound ov

reazon, espeshily when a man mistakes a bigg foot for a small one.

Avoid tite boots, mi friend, az you would the grip of the devil; for

menny a man haz cought for life a fust rate habit for swareing bi

encouraging hiz feet to hurt hiz boots.

I hav promised mi two feet, at least a dozen ov times during mi

checkured life, that they never should be strangled agin, but i find

them to-day az phull ov pain az the stummuk ake from a suddin attak ov

tite boots.

But this iz solemly the last pair ov tite boots i will ever wear; i

will hereafter wear boots az bigg az mi feet, if i have to go barefoot

to do it.

I am too old and too respektable to be a phool enny more.