THE WIT OF THE EPIGRAMMATISTS
Jowett
The waggish collegians at Oxford aimed their pleasantries right and left at the dons of Balliol. A well-remembered hit at Dr. Jowett was:
My name it is Benjamin Jowett,
I’m Master of Balliol College;
Whatever is knowledge I know it,
And what I don’t know isn’t knowledge.
Whewell
Another, aimed at Dr. “Whewell, Master of Trinity College, Cambridge, was:
Should a man through all space to far galaxies travel,
And all nebulous films the remotest unravel,
He will find, if he venture to fathom infinity,
The great work of God is the Master of Trinity.
The Four Georges
The well known epigram on the Four Georges, the new Georgic, as Thackeray facetiously called it, commonly commenced with the lines:
“George the First was reckoned vile,
Viler George the Second,” etc.
But, as originally written by Walter Savage Landor, after hearing Thackeray’s lectures on the Georges, the epigram was in the following form:
I sing the Georges Four,
For Providence could stand no more.
Some say that far the worst
Of all the Four was George the First.
But yet by some ’tis reckoned
That worser still was George the Second.
And what mortal ever heard
Any good of George the Third?
When George the Fourth from earth descended,
Thank God the line of Georges ended.
The Ladies
The author of this epigram on Women prudently remains in concealment:
Oh, the gladness of their gladness when they’re glad,
And the sadness of their sadness when they’re sad;
But the gladness of their gladness and the sadness of their sadness,
Are as nothing to their badness when they’re bad.
This has been capped by a later rhymester, as follows:
Oh, the shrewdness of their shrewdness when they’re shrewd,
And the rudeness of their rudeness when they’re rude;
But the shrewdness of their shrewdness and the rudeness of their rudeness,
Are as nothing to their goodness when they’re good.
Sarcastic
Written on a Fellow of Jesus College, Cambridge, named Sheepshanks, who had spelt the Satires of Juvenal as Satyrs:
The Satyrs of old were Satyrs of note,
With the head of a man and the feet of a goat;
But the Satyrs of this day all Satyrs surpass,
With the shanks of a sheep and the head of an ass.
Gay With One Leg
The Marquis of Anglesey, who lost a leg at the battle of Waterloo in 1815, survived with an artificial substitute until 1854. Some amusing lines were written on his loss, which apparently did not affect him very much physically:
He now in England, just as gay
As in the battle brave,
Goes to the ball, review, or play,
With one foot in the grave.
“Never Cut Themselves”
Two lawyers, when a knotty case was o’er
Shook hands, and were as good friends as before.
“Say,” cries the losing client, “how came you
Two be such friends who were such foes just now?”
“Thou fool,” one answers, “lawyers, though so keen,
Like shears, ne’er cut themselves, but what’s between.”
Jenner’s Quacks
Jenner was much given to versification. On one occasion he sent a brace of ducks, with the following lines, to Lady Morgan:
I’ve despatched, my dear madame, this scrap of a letter
To say that Miss Charlotte is very much better
A regular doctor no longer she lacks,
And therefore I’ve sent her a couple of quacks.
Lady Morgan’s reply:
Yes ’twas politic truly, my very good friend,
Thus a couple of quacks your patient to send,
Since there’s nothing so likely as quacks, it is plain,
To make work for a regular doctor again.
Loud Snoring
Sir Archibald Geikie, in his recently published “Scottish Reminiscences,” says that when he came to write down the many good stories and personal anecdotes which he had received by word of mouth he was surprised to find there was hardly a single one of them that had not already appeared in print. For example, the Scottish story about the man who snored so loud in church that “he waukened us a’,” he discovered in an epigram of the Restoration, about a sermon by South:
The doctor stopped, began to call:
“Pray wake the Earl of Lauderdale!
My lord, why, ’tis a monstrous thing,
You snore so loud—you’ll wake the King.”
Bacon and Shakespeare
Shakespeare! whoever thou mayst prove to be,
God save the Bacon that men find in thee!
If that philosopher, though bright and wise,
Those lofty labors did in truth devise
Then it must follow, as the night the day,
That “Hamlet,” “Lear,” “Macbeth” and each great play
That certifies nobility of mind,
Was written by the “meanest of mankind.”
History
Froude in 1869, as Lord Rector of St. Andrew’s University, delivered an address on the demoralizing effect of the Church on history. Soon after Charles Kingsley, his brother-in-law, resigned the professorship of history at Cambridge, saying that no honest man could teach history any more. Thereupon these lines appeared, which are ascribed to Stubs, the Bishop of Oxford:
While Froude assures the Scottish youth
That parsons do not care for truth,
The Reverend Canon Kingsley cries
“All history’s a pack of lies!”
What cause for judgment so malign?
A little thought may solve the mystery;
For Froude thinks Kingsley’s a divine,
And Kingsley goes to Froude for history.
Fitness
Suggested by the oratorical exploits of a lawyer in court who has a fluency of tongue without a counterpoise of brain, and, as a consequence, uttered more than he knew or the court could understand. Some one who listened to his ambitious eloquence in behalf of his client and witnessed the nervous gymnastics with which he scratched his back as he proceeded, wrote as follows:
When Nature formed Simpkins she called for her shears,
“We must shorten this fellow,” she said, “in the ears.”
But added at last: “We will let the ears pass;
What is long for a man is just right for an ass.”
Concerning Welsh Poets
’Tis said, O Cambria, thou hast tried in vain
To form great poets; and the cause is plain.
Ap-Jones, Ap-Jenkins, and Ap-Evans sound
Among thy sons, but no Ap-ollo’s found.
Bulwer Lytton
W. S. Landor’s depreciation of the “Last Days of Pompeii,” written in 1869:
If aught so damping and so dull were
As these “last days”, of Dandy Bulwer,
And had been cast upon the pluvious
Rockets that issued from Vesuvius,
They would no more have reached Pompeii
Than Rome or Tusculum or Veii.
Hic, Hæc, Hoc
When the two Roman brothers were young
And at even’ were wont to recline
At a supper of nightingale tongue,
Washed down by Falernian wine,
Either one would have probably laughed himself sick
At the idea that “Hoc” ever came before “Hic.”
Complimentary
Frederika Bremer’s only attempt at poetry in English was written at Niagara, September 11, 1850. The Swedish novelist was there with James Russell Lowell and his wife. It was presented to Mr. Lowell with a gold pen. Here it is:
A gold pen is a little thing,
But in thy poet hand
It can take life—it can take wing—
Become a magic wand,
More powerful, more wonderful
Than alchemy of old;
It can make minds all beautiful—
Change all things into gold.
A Crier
A famous judge came late to court
One day in busy season;
Whereat his clerk, in great surprise,
Inquired of him the reason,
“A child was born,” his Honor said,
“And I’m the happy sire.”
“An infant judge?” “Oh, no,” said he,
“As yet he’s but a crier.”
A Double Prize
Sydney Smith sent to Mrs. John Murray (wife of the publisher) the following epigram on Professor Airy, of Cambridge, the great astronomer and mathematician, and his beautiful wife:
Airy alone has gained that double prize
Which forced musicians to divide the crown;
His works have raised a mortal to the skies,
His marriage vows have drawn an angel down.
War and Peace
Murder, I hate, by field or flood,
Though glory’s name may screen us;
In wars at home I’ll spend my blood,
Life-giving wars of Venus.
The deities that I adore
Are social peace and plenty;
I’m better pleased to make one more,
Than be the death of twenty. Burns.
Not Conclusive
Dr. Donne’s punning epigram, remarks Leigh Hunt, is false in its conclusion:
“I am unable,” yonder beggar cries,
“To stand or go.” If he says true, he lies.
No, because he may lean, or be held up.
Appropriate Petition
The following verses were written upon the occasion of the conference of knighthood upon Sir Fielding Ould, the second master of the Dublin Lying-in Hospital:
Sir Fielding Ould is made a knight,
He should have been a Lord by right;
For then each lady’s prayers would be—
“O Lord, good Lord, deliver me.”
Expectancy
A clergyman with a cough preached recently to an irritated congregation at St. Patrick’s, Dublin. The next morning’s post brought him the following communication:
’Tis passing strange when we reflect,
And seems to beat creation,
That when “oration” we expect
We get “expect-oration.”
Keenness of Edge
As in smooth oil the razor best is whet,
So wit is by politeness sharpest set;
Their want of edge from their offence is seen,
Both pain the heart when exquisitely keen. Young.
Revenons à Nos Moutons
About three sheep, that late I lost,
I had a lawsuit with my neighbor;
And Glibtongue, of our bar the boast,
Pleaded my case with zeal and labor.
He took two minutes first to state
The question that was in debate;
Then show’d, by learn’d and long quotations,
The Law of Nature and of Nations;
What Tully said, and what Justinian,
And what was Puffendorff’s opinion.
Glibtongue! let those old authors sleep,
And come back to our missing sheep!
The Division of Labor
A parson, of too free a life,
Was yet renown’d for noble preaching,
And many grieved to see such strife
Between his living and his teaching.
His flock at last rebellious grew:
“My friends,” he said, “the simple fact is,
Nor you nor I can both things do;
But I can preach—and you can practise.”
A Contrast
“Tell me,” said Laura, “what may be
The difference ’twixt a Clock and me.”
“Laura,” I cried, “Love prompts my powers
To do the task you’ve set them:
A clock reminds us of the hours;
You cause us to forget them.”
Lis et Victoria Mutua
Upon opposite sides of the Popery question
(The story’s a fact, though it’s hard of digestion),
Two Reynoldses argued, the one with the other,
Till each by his reasons converted his brother,
With a contest like this did you e’er before meet,
Where the vanquish’d were victors, the winners were beat!
The World, the Flesh, and the Devil
My first was a lady whose dominant passion
Was thorough devotion to parties and fashion;
My second, regardless of conjugal duty,
Was only the worse for her wonderful beauty;
My third was a vixen in temper and life,
Without one essential to make a good wife;
Jubilate! at last in my freedom I revel,
For I’m clear of the world, and the flesh and the devil.
Horse-Breaker and Gray Mare
In a discussion upon refractory rhyming in the London Athenæum, it was contended that there is no word that will rhyme with step. This ex cathedra decision evoked the following lines:
Aurelia, prettiest of horse-breakers,
Caught Nobleigh, lord of many acres.
But this time, so it came to pass,
Instead of horse, she tamed an ass.
None of his friends will e’er dispute it;
For he, while struggling to refute it,
Was blindly led on, step by step,
To marry the fair demi-rep.
And seeking but a final Rarey,
He got a wife somewhat gray-mare-y.
Washington
The following lines were written under a picture of Mount Vernon by an English minister, Rev. William Jay, many years ago:
There dwelt the man, the flower of human kind,
Whose visage mild bespeaks his nobler mind.
There dwelt the soldier, who his sword ne’er drew
But in a righteous cause—to freedom true.
There dwelt the Hero, who, devoid of art,
Gave sagest counsels from an upright heart.
And O! Columbia! by thy sons caressed,
There dwells the Father of the realm he blessed.
Who no wish felt to make his mighty praise
Like other chiefs, the means himself to raise;
But there retiring, breathed a pure renown,
And felt a grandeur that disdain’d a crown!
On Mackintosh
Though thou art like Judas, an apostate black,
In the resemblance one thing thou dost lack;
When he had gotten his ill-purchased pelf,
He went away and wisely hanged himself:
This thou may do at last, yet much I doubt
If thou hast any bowels to gush out!
This castigation, by Charles Lamb, of the author of “Vindiciæ Gallicæ,” followed his acceptance of an office which gave great offence to his friends, while his enemies branded him as a traitor to his principles. Mackintosh asked Dr. Parr how Quigley (an Irish priest who had been executed for high treason) could have been worse. Parr replied, “I’ll tell you, Jemmy; Quigley was an Irishman—he might have been a Scotchman; he was a priest—he might have been a lawyer; he was a traitor—he might have been an apostate.”
Ended in Smoke
A maid unto her lover sternly said:
“Forego the Indian weed before we wed,
For smoke take flame; I’ll be that flame’s bright fanner;
To have your Anna, give up your Havana.”
The wretch, when thus she brought him to the scratch,
Lit the cigar and threw away the match.
Dryness
Upon the fly-leaf of an old book of sermons, an irreverent wag penned the following comment:
If there should be another flood,
For refuge hither fly;
Though all the world should be submerged,
This book would still be dry.
Debtor and Creditor
Many years ago a New England trader wrote this note to a dilatory debtor:
To avoid all proceedings unpleasant
I beg you will pay what is due;
If you do you’ll oblige me at present,—
If you don’t, then I’ll oblige you.
Why no Last Will and Testament
B. dying intestate, relations made claim,
While the widow was loud with complaint and with blame.
But why blame him, said one, for ’tis very well known,
Since his marriage, poor man, he’d no will of his own.
From the Dutch of Huijgens
When Peter condescends to write,
His verse deserves to see the light.
If any further you inquire,
I mean—the candle or the fire.
Three Sportive Fishers
Froude once asked Charles Kingsley to come to him in Ireland, where there was better fishing than in Snowdon, North Wales, the region which Kingsley and Hughes had been thinking of visiting for sport. Kingsley sent Froude’s letter to Hughes with a postscript, of which this is a part:
Oh, Mr. Froude, how wise and good,
To point us out this way to glory—
They’re no great shakes, those Snowdon lakes,
And all their pounders’ myth and story.
Blow Snowdon! what’s Lake Gwynant to Killarney,
Or spluttering Welsh to tender blarney, blarney, blarney?
So Thomas Hughes, sir, if you choose,
I’ll tell you where we think of going;
To ‘swate and far o’er cliff and scar,
Hear horns of Elfland faintly blowing;
Blow Snowdon! there’s a hundred lakes to try in,
And fresh-caught salmon daily, frying, frying, frying.
Ghosts
That ghosts now and then on this globe would appear,
Dick denied with his tongue, but confessed by his fear:
And passing a church-yard in darkness, with fright,
He met and thus questioned a guardian of night:
“Did you ever see ghosts in your watchings, please say.
You are here at all hours—do they get in your way?”
“Oh, no,” said the watchman, “and good reason why,
Men never come back to this earth when they die;
If to heaven they go, there is surely no blame
That they do not return to vexations that fret them;
And if to that place it’s uncivil to name,
I fancy, your honor, the devil won’t let them.”
A Gamester’s Marriage
“I’m very much surprised,” said Harry,
“That Jane should such a gambler marry.”
“But why surprised?” her sister says,
“You know he has such winning ways.”
Changed Conditions
When Jack was poor, the lad was frank and free,
Of late he’s grown brimful of pride and pelf;
No wonder that he has forgotten me,
Since, it is plain, he has forgot himself.
Distinction With a Difference
To this night’s masquerade, quoth Dick,
By pleasure I am beckoned,
And think ’twould be a pleasant trick
To go as Charles the Second.
Tom felt for repartee a thirst,
And thus to Richard said,
You’d better go as Charles the First,
For that requires no head.
Better Late Than Never
“Come, wife,” said Will, “I pray you devote
Just half a minute to mend this coat
Which a nail has chanced to rend.”
“’Tis 10 o’clock,” said his drowsy mate.
“I know,” said Will, “it is rather late,
But it’s never too late to mend.”
None Missing
“Oh, husband!” said Mrs. Ophelia McMunn,
As she gazed at her wilful and passionate son,
“Where that boy got his temper I never could see;
I’m certain he never could take it from me.”
“No doubt, my dear wife, your assertion is true—
I never have missed any temper from you.”
Four Kinds
The man who knows not that he knows not aught,
He is a fool; no light shall ever reach him.
Who knows he knows not, and would fain be taught,
He is but simple; take thou him and teach him.
But whoso knowing, knows not that he knows,
He is asleep; go thou to him and wake him.
The truly wise both knows, and knows he knows;
Cleave thou to him, and never more forsake him.
To the Pretty Girl Who Lent Me a Candle
You gave me a candle, I give you my thanks,
And add as a compliment justly your due,
There isn’t a girl in the feminine ranks,
Who could—if she would—hold a candle to you.
Saxe.
On “Quodcunque Infundis Ascescit”
Nota bene—an Essay is printed to show
That Horace as clearly as words can express it
Was for taxing the fundholders ages ago
When he wrote thus, “Quodcunque in fund is—acescit.”
Moore, “Literary Advertisements.”
Two Watering Places
“Saratoga and Newport, you’ve seen them,”
Said Charley one morning to Joe;
“Pray tell me the difference between them,
For bother my wig if I know.”
Quoth Joe, “’Tis the easiest matter
At once to distinguish the two;
At the one you go into the water,
At the other it goes into you.”
Glen Urquhart
In the visitors’ book at Drumnadrochit Inn, Glen Urquhart, John Bright left the following lines:
In Highland glens ’tis far too much observed
That man is chased away, and game preserved:
Glen Urquhart is to me a lovelier glen—
Here deer and grouse have not supplanted men.
A Friend in Need
The baker and his customer
A kindred nature show;
The latter needs the “staff of life,”
The former kneads the dough!
Retaliation
An empty-headed youth having caught a young lady off her guard on the first of April, she retorted in the following lines:
I pardon, sir, the trick you played me
When an April fool you made me,
Since only one day I appear
To be what you are all the year.
Not Distinguishable
At a rubber of whist an Englishman grave
Said he couldn’t distinguish a king from a knave,
His eyes were so dim and benighted;
A Yankee observed that he needn’t complain,
For the thing has been often attempted in vain
By eyes that were very clear-sighted.
A Bar Sinister
As Harry one day was abusing the sex,
As things that in courtship but studied to vex,
And in marriage but sought to enthrall;
“Never mind him,” says Kate, “’tis a family whim;
His father agreed so exactly with him
That he never would marry at all.”
Communism
“What is a communist? One who hath yearnings
For equal division of unequal earnings;
Idler or bungler, or both, he is willing
To fork out his penny, and pocket your shilling.
The Busy Bee
The question old, “How doth the busy bee
Improve each shining hour?” we’ll hear no more;
A naturalist has just announced that she
Works three hours only out of twenty-four.
The Winning Team
Time was, they say, when merit won the bays,
But in these times no man by merit rises;
Alas! we’ve fallen on degenerate days,
For gas and brass now capture all life’s prizes.
Spirits
David Garrick, while performing in Sheffield, and observing that the cellar of a Quaker meeting-house was leased to a wine merchant, wrote the following:
There’s a spirit above, and a spirit below;
A spirit of peace, and a spirit of woe,
The spirit above is the spirit of love,
The spirit below is the spirit of woe;
The spirit above is the spirit divine,
The spirit below is the spirit of wine.