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.