THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY
Jonathan Swift, the famous author of Gulliver’s Travels, wrote voluminously. His wit was rather heavy, his satire stinging.
It is unsatisfactory to quote from his longer works, but examples of his lighter vein are offered.
AGAINST ABOLISHING CHRISTIANITY
Another advantage proposed by the abolishing of Christianity is the clear gain of one day in seven, which is now entirely lost, and consequently the kingdom one-seventh less considerable in trade, business, and pleasure; besides the loss to the public of so many stately structures now in the hands of the clergy, which might be converted into play-houses, exchanges, market-houses, common dormitories, and other public edifices.
I hope I shall be forgiven a hard word if I call this a perfect cavil. I readily own there hath been an old custom, time out of mind, for people to assemble in the churches every Sunday, and that shops are still frequently shut, in order, as it is conceived, to preserve the memory of that ancient practice; but how this can prove a hindrance to business or pleasure is hard to imagine. What if the men of pleasure are forced, one day in the week, to game at home instead of the chocolate-house? Are not the taverns and coffee-houses open? Can there be a more convenient season for taking a dose of physic? Is not that the chief day for traders to sum up the accounts of the week, and for lawyers to prepare their briefs? But I would fain know how it can be pretended that the churches are misapplied? Where are more appointments and rendezvouses of gallantry? Where more care to appear in the foremost box, with greater advantage of dress? Where more meetings for business? Where more bargains driven of all sorts? And where so many conveniences or incitements to sleep?...
It may perhaps admit a controversy, whether the banishing all notions of religion whatsoever would be inconvenient for the vulgar. Not that I am in the least of opinion, with those who hold religion to have been the invention of politicians, to keep the lower part of the world in awe by the fear of invisible powers, unless mankind were then very different from what it is now; for I look upon the mass or body of our people here in England to be as Freethinkers—that is to say, as staunch unbelievers—as any of the highest rank. But I conceive some scattered notions about a superior Power to be of singular use for the common people, as furnishing excellent materials to keep children quiet when they grow peevish, and providing topics of amusement in a tedious winter night.
THE FURNITURE OF A WOMAN’S MIND
A set of phrases learned by rote;
A passion for a scarlet coat;
When at a play, to laugh or cry,
Yet cannot tell the reason why;
Never to hold her tongue a minute,
While all she prates has nothing in it;
Whole hours can with a coxcomb sit,
And take his nonsense all for wit.
Her learning mounts to read a song,
But half the words pronouncing wrong;
Has every repartee in store
She spoke ten thousand times before;
Can ready compliments supply
On all occasions, cut and dry;
Such hatred to a parson’s gown,
The sight would put her in a swoon;
For conversation well endued,
She calls it witty to be rude;
And, placing raillery in railing,
Will tell aloud your greatest failing;
Nor make a scruple to expose
Your bandy leg or crooked nose;
Can at her morning tea run o’er
The scandal of the day before;
Improving hourly in her skill,
To cheat and wrangle at quadrille.
In choosing lace, a critic nice,
Knows to a groat the lowest price;
Can in her female clubs dispute
What linen best the silk will suit,
What colours each complexion match,
And where with art to place a patch.
If chance a mouse creeps in her sight,
Can finely counterfeit a fright;
So sweetly screams, if it comes near her,
She ravishes all hearts to hear her.
Can dexterously her husband tease,
By taking fits whene’er she please;
By frequent practice learns the trick
At proper season to be sick;
Thinks nothing gives one airs so pretty,
At once creating love and pity.
If Molly happens to be careless,
And but neglects to warm her hair-lace,
She gets a cold as sure as death,
And vows she scarce can fetch her breath;
Admires how modest woman can
Be so robustious, like a man.
In party, furious to her power,
A bitter Whig, or Tory sour,
Her arguments directly tend
Against the side she would defend;
Will prove herself a Tory plain,
From principles the Whigs maintain,
And, to defend the Whiggish cause,
Her topics from the Tories draws.
SUNT QUI SERVARI NOLUNT
As Thomas was cudgell’d one day by his wife,
He took to the street, and he fled for his life.
Tom’s three dearest friends came by in the squabble
And sav’d him at once from the shrew and the rabble;
Then ventur’d to give him some sober advice—
But Tom is a person of honour so nice,
Too wise to take counsel, too proud to take warning,
That he sent to all three a challenge next morning.
Three duels he fought, thrice ventur’d his life,
Went home—and was cudgell’d again by his wife.
ON HIS OWN DEAFNESS
Deaf, giddy, helpless, left alone,
To all my friends a burden grown;
No more I hear my church’s bell,
Than if it rang out for my knell;
At thunder now no more I start,
Than at the rumbling of a cart;
And what’s incredible, alack!
No more I hear a woman’s clack.
TO MRS. HOUGHTON OF BORMOUNT, UPON PRAISING HER HUSBAND TO DR. SWIFT
You always are making a god of your spouse;
But this neither reason nor conscience allows:
Perhaps you will say, ’tis in gratitude due,
And you adore him, because he adores you.
Your argument’s weak, and so you will find;
For you, by this rule, must adore all mankind.
Alexander Pope, a true poet and humorist, sometimes dropped into sheer nonsense, and often into satirical epigrammatic writing.
For some inexplicable reason, certain commentators have denied any sense of humor to Pope, but the following extracts refute this:
LINES BY A PERSON OF QUALITY
Fluttering spread thy purple pinions,
Gentle Cupid, o’er my heart,
I a slave in thy dominions,
Nature must give way to art.
Mild Arcadians, ever blooming,
Nightly nodding o’er your flocks,
See my weary days consuming,
All beneath yon flowery rocks.
Thus the Cyprian goddess weeping,
Mourned Adonis, darling youth:
Him the boar, in silence creeping,
Gored with unrelenting tooth.
Cynthia, tune harmonious numbers;
Fair Discretion, tune the lyre;
Soothe my ever-waking slumbers;
Bright Apollo, lend thy choir.
Gloomy Pluto, king of terrors,
Armed in adamantine chains,
Lead me to the crystal mirrors,
Watering soft Elysian plains.
Mournful Cypress, verdant willow,
Gilding my Aurelia’s brows,
Morpheus, hovering o’er my pillow,
Hear me pay my dying vows.
Melancholy, smooth Mæaunder,
Swiftly purling in a round,
On thy margin lovers wander
With thy flowery chaplets crowned.
Thus when Philomela, drooping,
Softly seeks her silent mate,
So the bird of Juno stooping;
Melody resigns to fate.
WORMS
To the Ingenious Mr. Moore, inventor of the celebrated worm powder.
How much, egregious Moore? are we,
Deceived by shows and forms?
Whate’er we think, whate’er we see,
All human race are worms.
Man is a very worm by birth,
Proud reptile, vile and vain,
Awhile he crawls upon the earth,
Then shrinks to earth again.
That woman is a worm, we find,
E’er since our grannum’s evil;
She first conversed with her own kind,
That ancient worm, the Devil.
The fops are painted butterflies,
That flutter for a day;
First from a worm they took their rise,
Then in a worm decay.
The flatterer an ear-wig grows,
Some worms suit all conditions;
Misers are muck-worms; silk-worms, beaus,
And death-watches, physicians.
That statesmen have a worm, is seen
By all their winding play;
Their conscience is a worm within,
That gnaws them night and day.
Ah, Moore! thy skill were well employ’d,
And greater gain would rise
If thou couldst make the courtier void
That worm that never dies.
Thou only canst our fate adjourn
Some few short years, no more;
E’en Button’s wits to worms shall turn,
Who maggots were before.
EPIGRAM ON MRS. TOFTS
(A celebrated Opera Singer.)
So bright is thy beauty, so charming thy song,
As had drawn both the beasts and their Orpheus along;
But such is thy avarice, and such is thy pride,
That the beasts must have starved and the poet have died.
Joseph Addison, whose literary work had a decided influence on English letters and manners, contributed much to The Tatler and The Spectator, from which the following extract is taken.
THE WILL OF A VIRTUOSO
I, Nicholas Gimcrack, being in sound health of mind, but in great weakness of body, do, by this my last will and testament, bestow my worldly goods and chattels in manner following:
Imprimis.—To my dear wife,
One box of butterflies,
One drawer of shells,
A female skeleton,
A dried cockatrice.
Item.—To my daughter Elizabeth,
My receipt for preserving dead caterpillars,
As also my preparations of winter Maydew and embryo-pickle.
Item.—To my little daughter Fanny,
Three crocodile’s eggs,
And upon the birth of her first child, if she marries with her mother’s consent,
The nest of a humming-bird.
Item.—To my eldest brother, as an acknowledgment for the lands he has vested in my son Charles, I bequeath
My last year’s collection of grasshoppers.
Item.—To his daughter Susanna, being his only child, I bequeath my
English weeds pasted on royal paper,
With my large folio of Indian cabbage.
Having fully provided for my nephew Isaac, by making over to him some years since,
A horned scarabæus,
The skin of a rattlesnake, and
The mummy of an Egyptian king,
I make no further provision for him in this my will.
My eldest son, John, having spoke disrespectfully of his little sister, whom I keep by me in spirits of wine, and in many other instances behaved himself undutifully toward me, I do disinherit, and wholly cut off from any part of this my personal estate, by giving him a single cockle-shell.
To my second son, Charles, I give and bequeath all my flowers, plants, minerals, mosses, shells, pebbles, fossils, beetles, butterflies, caterpillars, grasshoppers, and vermin, not above specified; as also all my monsters, both wet and dry; making the said Charles whole and sole executor of this my last will and testament: he paying, or causing to be paid, the aforesaid legacies within the space of six months after my decease. And I do hereby revoke all other wills whatsoever by me formerly made.
John Philips, who was a devoted student and admirer of Milton, wrote a poem in which he parodied Milton’s style, and which Addison called the finest burlesque in the English language.
THE SPLENDID SHILLING
“Sing, heavenly Muse.
Things unattempted yet in prose or rhyme”;
A shilling, breeches, and chimeras dire.
Happy the man, who, void of acres and strife,
In silken or in leathern purse retains
A Splendid Shilling: he nor hears with pain
New oysters cried, nor sighs for cheerful ale;
But with his friends, when nightly mists arise,
To Juniper’s Magpie, or Town Hall repairs;
Where, mindful of the nymph, whose wanton eye
Transfixed his soul, and kindled amorous flames,
Chloe or Phyllis, he each circling glass
Wisheth her health and joy and equal love.
Meanwhile he smokes, and laughs at merry tale,
Or pun ambiguous or conundrum quaint.
But I, whom griping penury surrounds,
And hunger, sure attendant upon want,
With scanty offals, and small acid tiff
(Wretched repast!) my meagre corpse sustain:
Then solitary walk, or doze at home
In garret vile, and with a warming puff
Regale chilled fingers; or from tube as black
As winter-chimney or well-polished jet,
Exhale mundungus, ill-perfuming scent.
Not blacker tube, nor of a shorter size,
Smokes Cambro-Briton (versed in pedigree,
Sprung from Cadwallador and Arthur, kings
Full famous in romantic tale) when he
O’er many a craggy hill and barren cliff,
Upon a cargo of famed Cestrian cheese,
High overshadowing rides, with a design
To wend his wares at the Arvonian mart,
Or Maridunum, or the ancient town
Ycleped Brechinia, or where Vaga’s stream
Encircles Ariconium, fruitful soil!
Whence flow nectareous wines, that well may vie
With Massic, Setin, or renowned Falern.
Thus, while my joyless minutes tedious flow,
With looks demure, and silent pace, a Dun,
Horrible monster! hated by gods and men,
To my aerial citadel ascends.
With vocal heel thrice thundering at my gate,
With hideous accent thrice he calls; I know
The voice ill-boding, and the solemn sound,
What should I do? or whither turn? Amazed,
Confounded, to the dark recess I fly
Of wood-hole; straight my bristling hairs erect
Through sudden fear; a chilly sweat bedews
My shuddering limbs, and (wonderful to tell!)
My tongue forgets her faculty of speech;
So horrible he seems! His faded brow
Intrenched with many a frown, and conic beard,
And spreading band, admired by modern saints,
Disastrous acts forebode; in his right hand
Long scrolls of paper solemnly he waves,
With characters and figures dire inscribed,
Grievous to mortal eyes, (ye gods, avert
Such plagues from righteous men!) Behind him stalks
Another monster, not unlike itself,
Sullen of aspect, by the vulgar called
A Catchpole, whose polluted hands the gods
With force incredible, and magic charms,
First have endued: if he his ample palm
Should haply on ill-fated shoulder lay
Of debtor, straight his body to the touch
Obsequious (as whilom knights were wont)
To some enchanted castle is conveyed,
Where gates impregnable, and coercive chains,
In durance strict detain him, till, in form
Of money, Pallas sets the captive free.
Beware, ye debtors! when ye walk, beware,
Be circumspect; oft with insidious ken
The caitiff eyes your steps aloof, and oft
Lies perdue in a nook or gloomy cave,
Prompt to enchant some inadvertent wretch
With his unhallowed touch. So (poets sing)
Grimalkin to domestic vermin sworn
An everlasting foe, with watchful eye
Lies nightly brooding o’er a chinky gap,
Portending her fell claws, to thoughtless mice
Sure ruin. So her disembowelled web
Arachne, in a hall or kitchen, spreads
Obvious to vagrant flies; she secret stands
Within her woven cell; the humming prey,
Regardless of their fate, rush on the toils
Inextricable, nor will aught avail
Their arts, or arms, or shapes of lovely hue.
The wasp insidious, and the buzzing drone,
And butterfly proud of expanded wings
Distinct with gold, entangled in her snares,
Useless resistance make; with eager strides,
She towering flies to her expected spoils:
Then with envenomed jaws the vital blood
Drinks of reluctant foes, and to her cave
Their bulky carcasses triumphant drags.
So pass my days. But when nocturnal shades
This world envelop, and the inclement air
Persuades men to repel benumbing frosts
With pleasant wines and crackling blaze of wood,
Me, lonely sitting, nor the glimmering light
Of make-weight candle, nor the joyous talk
Of loving friend, delights; distressed, forlorn,
Amidst the horrors of the tedious night,
Darkling I sigh, and feed with dismal thoughts
My anxious mind; or sometimes mournful verse
Indite, and sing of groves and myrtle shades,
Or desperate lady near a purling stream,
Or lover pendent on a willow-tree.
Meanwhile I labor with eternal drought,
And restless wish, and rave; my parchèd throat
Finds no relief, nor heavy eyes repose:
But if a slumber haply does invade
My weary limbs, my fancy, still awake,
Thoughtful of drink, and eager, in a dream,
Tipples imaginary pots of ale;
In vain;—awake I find the settled thirst
Still gnawing, and the pleasant phantom curse.
Thus do I live, from pleasure quite debarred,
Nor taste the fruits that the sun’s genial rays
Mature, john-apple, nor the downy peach,
Nor walnut in rough-furrowed coat secure,
Nor medlar fruit delicious in decay;
Afflictions great! yet greater still remain.
My galligaskins, that have long withstood
The winter’s fury and encroaching frosts,
By time subdued, (what will not time subdue!)
An horrid chasm disclose with orifice
Wide, discontinuous; at which the winds
Eurus and Auster and the dreadful force
Of Boreas, that congeals the Cronian waves,
Tumultuous enter with dire chilling blasts,
Portending agues. Thus a well-fraught ship,
Long sails secure, or through the Ægean deep,
Or the Ionian, till cruising near
The Lilybean shore, with hideous crush
On Scylla or Charybdis (dangerous rocks)
She strikes rebounding; whence the shattered oak,
So fierce a shock unable to withstand,
Admits the sea. In at the gaping side
The crowding waves gush with impetuous rage,
Resistless, overwhelming; horrors seize
The mariners; Death in their eyes appears,
They stare, they lave, they pump, they swear, they pray:
(Vain efforts!) still the battering waves rush in,
Implacable, till, deluged by the foam,
The ship sinks foundering in the vast abyss.
John Arbuthnot, celebrated both as a physician and a man of letters, leaves us this bit of nonsense.
John Arbuthnot
A DISSERTATION ON DUMPLINGS
The dumpling is, indeed, an ancient institution and of foreign origin; but, alas! what were those dumplings? Nothing but a few lentils sodden together, moistened and cemented with a little seethed fat, not much unlike our grit or oatmeal pudding; yet were they of such esteem among the ancient Romans, that a statue was erected to Fulvius Agricola, the first inventor of these lentil dumplings. How unlike the gratitude shown by the public to our modern projectors!
The Romans, though our conquerors, found themselves much outdone in dumplings by our forefathers, the Roman dumplings being no more to compare to those made by the Britons than a stone-dumpling is to a marrow-pudding; though, indeed, the British dumpling at that time was little better than what we call a stone-dumpling, nothing else but flour and water. But every generation growing wiser and wiser, the project was improved, and dumpling grew to be pudding. One projector found milk better than water; another introduced butter; some added marrow, others plums; and some found out the use of sugar; so that, to speak truth, we know not where to fix the genealogy or chronology of any of these pudding projectors; to the reproach of our historians, who ate so much pudding, yet have been so ungrateful to the first professors of this most noble science as not to find them a place in history....
The invention of eggs was merely accidental, two or three of which having casually rolled from a shelf into the pudding which a goodwife was making, she found herself under the necessity either of throwing away her pudding or letting the eggs remain. But concluding, from the innocent quality of the eggs, that they would do no hurt, if they did no good, she wisely jumbled them all together, after having carefully picked out the shells. The consequence is easily imagined: the pudding became a pudding of puddings, and the use of eggs from thence took its date. The woman was sent for to Court to make puddings for King John, who then swayed the scepter, and gained such favour that she was the making of the whole family.
I cannot conclude this paragraph without owning I received this important part of the history of pudding from Mr. Lawrence, of Wilson-Green, the greatest antiquary of the present age....
From that time the English became so famous for puddings, that they are called pudding-eaters all over the world to this day.
At her demise, the woman’s son was taken into favour, and made the King’s chief cook; and so great was his fame for puddings, that he was called Jack Pudding all over the kingdom, though, indeed, his real name was John Brand, as by the records of the kitchen you will find. This Jack Pudding became yet a greater favourite than his mother, insomuch that he had the King’s ear as well as his mouth at command, for the King, you must know, was a mighty lover of pudding. It is needless to enumerate the many sorts of pudding he made. He made every pudding except quaking pudding, which was solely invented by our friends of the Bull and Mouth.
Lord Chesterfield, best known for his Letters to his Son, showed clever wit in his ideas and Phraseology.
Men who converse only with women are frivolous, effeminate puppies, and those who never converse with them are bears.
The desire of being pleased is universal. The desire of pleasing should be so too. Misers are not so much blamed for being misers as envied for being rich.
Dissimulation to a certain degree is as necessary in business as clothes are in the common intercourse of life; and a man would be as imprudent who should exhibit his inside naked, as he would be indecent if he produced his outside so.
Hymen comes whenever he is called, but Love only when he pleases.
An abject flatterer has a worse opinion of others, and, if possible, of himself, than he ought to have.
A woman will be implicitly governed by the man whom she is in love with, but will not be directed by the man whom she esteems the most. The former is the result of passion, which is her character; the latter must be the effect of reasoning, which is by no means of the feminine gender.
The best moral virtues are those of which the vulgar are, perhaps, the best judges.
A fool never has thought, a madman has lost it; and an absent man is for the time without it.
Advice is seldom welcome; and those who want it the most always like it the least.
Of the writers who come next, chronologically, Fielding, Sterne, Garrick, Smollett, Foote, and others of lesser degree, we can quote no extracts, owing to the continuous character of their work.
At this time, humor was broad and wit coarse, yet the plays and novels of the period have lasted and retained their reputation.
Which brings us to Samuel Johnson.
Doctor Johnson’s wit was ponderous, but as his is one of the greatest names in Eighteenth Century literature, we give a bit from The Idler which is not entirely inappropriate to the present day.
ON LYING NEWS-WRITERS
No species of literary men has lately been so much multiplied as the writers of news. Not many years ago the nation was content with one gazette; but now we have not only in the metropolis papers for every morning and every evening, but almost every large town has its weekly historian, who regularly circulates his periodical intelligence, and fills the villages of his district with conjectures on the events of war, and with debates on the true interest of Europe.
To write news in its perfection requires such a combination of qualities, that a man completely fitted for the task is not always to be found. In Sir Henry Wotton’s jocular definition, “An ambassador is said to be a man of virtue sent abroad to tell lies for the advantage of his country; a news-writer is a man without virtue, who writes lies at home for his own profit.” To these compositions is required neither genius nor knowledge, neither industry nor sprightliness; but contempt of shame and indifference to truth are absolutely necessary. He who by a long familiarity with infamy has obtained these qualities, may confidently tell to-day what he intends to contradict to-morrow; he may affirm fearlessly what he knows that he shall be obliged to recant, and may write letters from Amsterdam or Dresden to himself.
In a time of war the nation is always of one mind, eager to hear something good of themselves and ill of the enemy. At this time the task of news-writers is easy; they have nothing to do but to tell that a battle is expected, and afterward that a battle has been fought, in which we and our friends, whether conquering or conquered, did all, and our enemies did nothing.
Scarcely anything awakens attention like a tale of cruelty. The writer of news never fails in the intermission of action to tell how the enemies murdered children and ravished virgins; and, if the scene of action be somewhat distant, scalps half the inhabitants of a province.
Among the calamities of war may be justly numbered the diminution of the love of truth, by the falsehoods which interest dictates and credulity encourages. A peace will equally leave the warrior and relater of wars destitute of employment; and I know not whether more is to be dreaded from the streets filled with soldiers accustomed to plunder, or from garrets filled with scribblers accustomed to lie.
Also, lapsing into sheer nonsense verse, Doctor Johnson has left for our delectation these delightful rhymes.
As with my hat upon my head
I walked along the Strand,
I there did meet another man
With his hat in his hand.
The tender infant, meek and mild,
Fell down upon the stone;
The nurse took up the squealing child,
But still the child squealed on.
If a man who turnips cries,
Cry not when his father dies,
’Tis a proof that he would rather
Have a turnip than a father.
Oliver Goldsmith, humorous writer of plays and novels, left many world famous books.
His rhymes are often of the nonsense variety, and, as was common in his day, abounded in puns, or punning ideas.
AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG
Good people all, of every sort,
Give ear unto my song;
And if you find it wondrous short
It cannot hold you long.
In Islington there was a man
Of whom the world might say
That still a godly race he ran
Whene’er he went to pray.
A kind and gentle heart he had,
To comfort friends and foes;
The naked every day he clad,
When he put on his clothes.
And in that town a dog was found,
As many dogs there be,
Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound,
And curs of low degree.
This dog and man at first were friends,
But when a pique began,
The dog, to gain his private ends,
Went mad, and bit the man.
Around from all the neighbouring streets
The wondering neighbours ran,
And swore the dog had lost his wits
To bite so good a man.
The wound it seemed both sore and sad
To every Christian eye;
And while they swore the dog was mad,
They swore the man would die.
But soon a wonder came to light,
That show’d the rogues they lied:
The man recover’d of the bite,
The dog it was that died.
AN ELEGY
ON THE GLORY OF HER SEX, MRS. MARY BLAIZE
Good people all, with one accord,
Lament for Madam Blaize,
Who never wanted a good word—
From those who spoke her praise.
The needy seldom pass’d her door,
And always found her kind:
She freely lent to all the poor—
Who left a pledge behind.
She strove the neighborhood to please
With manners wondrous winning;
And never follow’d wicked ways—
Unless when she was sinning.
At church, in silks and satins new,
With hoop of monstrous size,
She never slumber’d in her pew—
But when she shut her eyes.
Her love was sought, I do aver,
By twenty beaux and more;
The King himself has follow’d her—
When she has walk’d before.
But now, her wealth and finery fled,
Her hangers-on cut short all;
The doctors found, when she was dead—
Her last disorder mortal.
Let us lament, in sorrow sore,
For Kent Street well may say,
That had she lived a twelvemonth more
She had not died to-day.
PARSON GRAY
A quiet home had Parson Gray,
Secluded in a vale;
His daughters all were feminine,
And all his sons were male.
How faithfully did Parson Gray
The bread of life dispense—
Well “posted” in theology,
And post and rail his fence.
’Gainst all the vices of the age
He manfully did battle;
His chickens were a biped breed,
And quadruped his cattle.
No clock more punctually went,
He ne’er delayed a minute—
Nor ever empty was his purse,
When he had money in it.
His piety was ne’er denied;
His truths hit saint and sinner;
At morn he always breakfasted;
He always dined at dinner.
He ne’er by any luck was grieved,
By any care perplexed—
No filcher he, though when he preached,
He always “took” a text.
As faithful characters he drew
As mortal ever saw;
But, ah! poor parson, when he died,
His breath he could not draw.
William Cowper for the most part writes with a gentle, genial spirit, a love of nature and a joy in the domestic relations
His muse, when humorous, is also a bit stilted.
A FAITHFUL PICTURE OF ORDINARY SOCIETY
The circle formed, we sit in silent state,
Like figures drawn upon a dial-plate.
“Yes, ma’am” and “No, ma’am” uttered softly, show
Every five minutes how the minutes go.
Each individual, suffering a constraint—
Poetry may, but colours cannot, paint—
As if in close committee on the sky,
Reports it hot or cold, or wet or dry,
And finds a changing clime a happy source
Of wise reflection and well-timed discourse.
We next inquire, but softly and by stealth,
Like conservators of the public health,
Of epidemic throats, if such there are
Of coughs and rheums, and phthisic and catarrh.
That theme exhausted, a wide chasm ensues,
Filled up at last with interesting news:
Who danced with whom, and who are like to wed;
And who is hanged, and who is brought to bed,
But fear to call a more important cause,
As if ’twere treason against English laws.
The visit paid, with ecstasy we come,
As from a seven years’ transportation, home
And there resume an unembarrassed brow,
Recovering what we lost we know not how,
The faculties that seemed reduced to naught,
Expression, and the privilege of thought.
THE COLUBRIAD
Close by the threshold of a door nailed fast,
Three kittens sat; each kitten looked aghast.
I, passing swift and inattentive by,
At the three kittens cast a careless eye;
Not much concerned to know what they did there;
Not deeming kittens worth a poet’s care.
But presently, a loud and furious hiss
Caused me to stop, and to exclaim, “What’s this
When lo! upon the threshold met my view,
With head erect, and eyes of fiery hue,
A viper long as Count de Grasse’s queue.
Forth from his head his forked tongue he throws,
Darting it full against a kitten’s nose;
Who, having never seen, in field or house,
The like, sat still and silent as a mouse;
Only projecting, with attention due,
Her whiskered face, she asked him, “Who are you?”
On to the hall went I, with pace not slow,
But swift as lightning, for a long Dutch hoe:
With which well armed, I hastened to the spot
To find the viper—but I found him not.
And, turning up the leaves and shrubs around,
Found only that he was not to be found;
But still the kittens, sitting as before,
Sat watching close the bottom of the door.
“I hope,” said I, “the villain I would kill
Has slipped between the door and the door-sill;
And if I make despatch, and follow hard,
No doubt but I shall find him in the yard”:
(For long ere now it should have been rehearsed,
’Twas in the garden that I found him first.)
E’en there I found him: there the full-grown cat
His head, with velvet paw, did gently pat;
As curious as the kittens erst had been
To learn what this phenomenon might mean.
Filled with heroic ardour at the sight,
And fearing every moment he would bite,
And rob our household of our only cat
That was of age to combat with a rat;
With outstretched hoe I slew him at the door
And taught him never to come there no more!
Richard Brinsley Sheridan, brilliant dramatist and gifted political orator, wrote many plays, from which it is not possible to quote at length.
His epigrammatic style, and his humorous trend are shown in the bits here given.
LET THE TOAST PASS
FROM “THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL”
Here’s to the maiden of bashful fifteen;
Here’s to the widow of fifty;
Here’s to the flaunting extravagant quean,
And here’s to the housewife that’s thrifty.
Let the toast pass,
Drink to the lass,
I’ll warrant she’ll prove an excuse for the glass.
Here’s to the charmer whose dimples we prize,
Now to the maid who has none, sir;
Here’s to the girl with a pair of blue eyes,
And here’s to the nymph with but one, sir.
Let the toast pass, etc.
Here’s to the maid with a bosom of snow;
Now to her that’s as brown as a berry;
Here’s to the wife with a face full of woe,
And now to the damsel that’s merry.
Let the toast pass, etc.
For let ’em be clumsy, or let ’em be slim,
Young or ancient, I care not a feather;
So fill a pint bumper quite up to the brim,
So fill up your glasses, nay, fill to the brim,
And let us e’en toast them together.
Let the toast pass, etc.
LORD ERSKINE’S SIMILE
Lord Erskine, at woman presuming to rail,
Called a wife a tin canister tied to one’s tail;
And fair Lady Anne, while this raillery he carries on,
Seems hurt at his lordship’s degrading comparison.
But wherefore degrading, if taken aright?
A canister’s useful and polished and bright,
And if dirt its original purity hide,
’Tis the fault of the puppy to whom it is tied.
SHERIDAN’S CALENDAR
January snowy,
February flowy,
March blowy,
April showry,
May flowry,
June bowery,
July moppy,
August croppy,
September poppy,
October breezy,
November wheezy,
December freezy.
George Colman, the Younger, best known as a comic dramatist, also wrote many poetical travesties, which he published under various titles, including the well known one of Broad Grins. These compositions show a broad humor, not always in the best taste.
George Canning, among other amusements, chose to ridicule the Sapphic rhymes of Southey, and wrote this burlesque upon the humanitarian sentiments of Southey in his younger days, as well as of the Sapphic stanzas in which he sometimes embodied them.
THE FRIEND OF HUMANITY AND THE KNIFE-GRINDER
FRIEND OF HUMANITY
Needy knife-grinder! whither are you going?
Rough is the road; your wheel is out of order.
Bleak blows the blast;—your hat has got a hole in’t;
So have your breeches!
Weary knife-grinder! little think the proud ones,
Who in their coaches roll along the turnpike-
Road, what hard work ’tis crying all day,
“Knives and
Scissors to grind O!”
Tell me, knife-grinder, how came you to grind knives?
Did some rich man tyrannically use you?
Was it the squire? or parson of the parish?
Or the attorney?
Was it the squire for killing of his game? or
Covetous parson for his tithes distraining?
Or roguish lawyer made you lose your little
All in a lawsuit?
(Have you not read the Rights of Man, by Tom Paine?)
Drops of compassion tremble on my eyelids,
Ready to fall as soon as you have told your
Pitiful story.
KNIFE-GRINDER
Story! God bless you! I have none to tell, sir;
Only, last night, a-drinking at the Chequers,
This poor old hat and breeches, as you see, were
Torn in a scuffle.
Constables came up for to take me into
Custody; they took me before the justice;
Justice Oldmixon put me into the parish
Stocks for a vagrant.
I should be glad to drink your honor’s health in
A pot of beer, if you will give me sixpence;
But for my part, I never love to meddle
With politics, sir.
FRIEND TO HUMANITY
I give thee sixpence! I will see thee damned first,—
Wretch! whom no sense of wrongs can rouse to vengeance,—
Sordid, unfeeling, reprobate, degraded,
Spiritless outcast!
(Kicks the knife-grinder, overturns his wheel, and exit in a transport of republican enthusiasm and universal philanthropy.)
Robert Burns, one of the chief names in Scottish literature, has been called the Dictionary of Poetical Quotations.
Byron said, “The rank of Burns is the very first of his art”; and the many-sided Scotchman had both admirers and detractors galore.
It has been noted that the Scotch have a sense of humor, “because it is a gift.” Burns’ sense of humor secures for him a high place among humorists, and though coarse in his expressions, he is not intentionally vulgar.
HOLY WILLIE’S PRAYER
Holy Willie was a small farmer, leading elder to Dr. Auld, austere in speech, scrupulous to all outward appearances, a professing Christian. He experienced, however, “a sore fall”; he was “found out” to be a hypocrite after Burns’ castigation, and was expelled the church for embezzling the money of the poor of the parish. His name was William Fisher.
O Thou, wha in the Heavens dost dwell,
Wha, as it pleases best thysel’,
Sends ane to Heaven and ten to Hell,
A’ for thy glory,
And no for onie guid or ill
They’ve done afore thee.
I bless and praise thy matchless might,
Whan thousands thou hast left in night,
That I am here afore thy sight,
For gifts and grace,
A burning an’ a shining light
To a’ this place.
What was I, or my generation,
That I should get such exaltation?
I, wha deserve such just damnation,
For broken laws,
Five thousand years ’fore my creation,
Thro’ Adam’s cause.
When frae my mither’s womb I fell,
Thou might hae plung’d me into Hell,
To gnash my gums, to weep and wail
In burnin’ lake,
Where damned Devils roar and yell,
Chain’d to a stake.
Yet I am here a chosen sample,
To show thy grace is great and ample;
I’m here a pillar in thy temple,
Strong as a rock.
A guide, a buckler, an example,
To a’ thy flock.
O L—d, thou kens what zeal I bear,
When drinkers drink, and swearers swear,
And singin’ here, and dancing there,
Wi’ great and sma’:
For I am keepit by thy fear,
Free frae them a’.
But yet, O L—d! confess I must,
At times I’m fash’d wi’ fleshly lust,
An’ sometimes, too, wi’ warldly trust—
Vile self gets in;
But thou remembers we are dust,
Defil’d in sin.
O L—d! yestreen, thou kens, wi’ Meg—
Thy pardon I sincerely beg,
O! may it ne’er be a livin’ plague
To my dishonor,
An’ I’ll ne’er lift a lawless leg
Again upon her.
Besides, I farther maun allow,
Wi’ Lizzie’s lass, three times I trow;
But, L—d, that Friday I was fou,
When I came near her,
Or else thou kens thy servant true
Wad ne’er hae steer’d her.
May be thou lets this fleshly thorn
Beset thy servant e’en and morn,
Lest he owre high and proud should turn,
’Cause he’s sae gifted;
If sae, thy hand maun e’en be borne,
Until thou lift it.
L—d, bless thy chosen in this place,
For here thou hast a chosen race;
But G—d confound their stubborn face,
And blast their name,
Wha bring thine elders to disgrace,
An’ public shame.
L—d, mind Gawn Hamilton’s deserts,
He drinks, an swears, an’ plays at cartes,
Yet has sae monie takin’ arts,
Wi’ great and sma’,
Frae God’s ain priests the people’s hearts
He steals awa’.
An’ whan we chasten’d him therefore,
Thou kens how he bred sic a splore,
As set the warld in a roar
O’ laughin’ at us,
Curse thou his basket and his store,
Kail and potatoes.
L—d, hear my earnest cry an’ pray’r,
Against that presbyt’ry o’ Ayr;
Thy strong right hand, L—d, make it bare,
Upo’ their heads;
L—d, weigh it down, and dinna spare,
For their misdeeds.
O L—d, my G—d, that glib-tongued Aiken,
My very heart and saul are quakin’,
To think how we stood sweatin’, shakin’,
An’ swat wi’ dread,
While he wi’ hingin’ lips gaed snakin’,
And hid his head.
L—d, in the day of vengeance try him,
L—d, visit them wha did employ him,
And pass not in thy mercy by ’em,
Nor hear their pray’r;
But, for thy people’s sake, destroy ’em,
And dinna spare.
But, L—d, remember me and mine
Wi’ mercies temp’ral and divine,
That I for gear and grace may shine,
Excelled by nane,
An’ a’ the glory shall be thine,
Amen, Amen.
ADDRESS TO THE TOOTHACHE
My curse upon thy venomed stang,
That shoots my tortured gums alang;
An’ through my lugs gies mony a twang,
Wi’ gnawing vengeance!
Tearing my nerves wi’ bitter pang,
Like racking engines.
When fevers burn, or ague freezes,
Rheumatics gnaw, or cholic squeezes;
Our neighbor’s sympathy may ease us,
Wi’ pitying moan;
But thee,—thou hell o’ a’ diseases,
Aye mocks our groan.
Adown my beard the slavers trickle;
I throw the wee stools o’er the mickle,
As round the fire the giglets keckle
To see me loup;
While, raving mad, I wish a heckle
Were in their doup.
O’ a’ the numerous human dools,
Ill har’sts, daft bargains, cutty-stools,
Or worthy friends raked i’ the mools,
Sad sight to see!
The tricks o’ knaves or fash o’ fools,
Thou bear’st the gree.
Where’er that place be priests ca’ hell,
Whence a’ the tones o’ mis’ry yell,
And rankèd plagues their numbers tell,
In dreadfu’ raw,
Thou, Toothache, surely bear’st the bell,
Among them a’;
O thou grim mischief-making chiel,
That gars the notes of discord squeal,
Till daft mankind aft dance a reel
In gore a shoe-thick!—
Gie a’ the faes o’ Scotland’s weal
A fowmond’s Toothache!