WIDOW WADMAN’S EYE.
“I am half distracted, Captain Shandy,” said Mrs. Wadman, holding up her cambric handkerchief to her left eye, as she approached the door of my uncle Toby’s sentry-box; “a mote—or sand—or something—I know not what, has got into this eye of mine;—do look into it—it is not in the white.”
“‘DO LOOK INTO IT,’ SAID SHE.”
In saying which Mrs. Wadman edged herself close in beside my uncle Toby, and squeezing herself down upon the corner of his bench, she gave him an opportunity of doing it without rising up. “Do look into it,” said she.
Honest soul! thou didst look into it with as much innocency of heart as ever child looked into a raree show-box; and ’twere as much a sin to have hurt thee.
If a man will be peeping of his own accord into things of that nature, I’ve nothing to say to it.
My uncle Toby never did; and I will answer for him that he would have sat quietly upon a sofa from June to January (which, you know, takes in both the hot and cold months) with an eye as fine as the Thracian Rhodope’s beside him, without being able to tell whether it was a black or a blue one.
The difficulty was to get my uncle Toby to look at one at all.
’Tis surmounted. And—
I see him yonder, with his pipe pendulous in his hand, and the ashes falling out of it—looking-and looking—then rubbing his eyes—and looking again, with twice the good nature that ever Galileo looked for a spot in the sun.
In vain! for, by all the powers which animate the organ—Widow Wadman’s left eye shines this moment as lucid as her right;—there is neither mote, nor sand, nor dust, nor chaff, nor speck, nor particle of opaque matter floating in it. There is nothing, my dear paternal uncle! but one lambent delicious fire, furtively shooting out from every part of it, in all directions into thine.
If thou lookest, uncle Toby, in search of this mote one moment longer, thou art undone.
An eye is, for all the world, exactly like a cannon, in this respect, that it is not so much the eye or the cannon in themselves, as it is the carriage of the eye—and the carriage of the cannon; by which both the one and the other are enabled to do so much execution. I don’t think the comparison a bad one; however, as ’tis made and placed at the head of the chapter, as much for use as ornament, all I desire in return is that whenever I speak of Mrs. Wadman’s eyes (except once in the next period) that you keep it in your fancy.
“I protest, Madam,” said my uncle Toby, “I can see nothing whatever in your eye.”
“It is not in the white,” said Mrs. Wadman. My uncle Toby looked with might and main into the pupil.
Now, of all the eyes which ever were created, from your own, Madam, up to those of Venus herself, which certainly were as venereal a pair of eyes as ever stood in a head, there never was an eye of them all so fitted to rob my uncle Toby of his repose as the very eye at which he was looking;—it was not, Madam, a rolling eye—a romping, or a wanton one,—nor was it an eye sparkling, petulant, or imperious—of high claims and terrifying exactions, which would have curdled at once that milk of human nature of which my uncle Toby was made up; but ’twas an eye full of gentle salutations—and soft responses—speaking—not like the trumpet-stop of some ill-made organ, in which many an eye I talk to holds coarse converse, but whispering soft—like the last low accents of an expiring saint-“How can you live comfortless, Captain Shandy, and alone, without a bosom to lean your head on—or trust your cares to?”
It was an eye——
But I shall be in love with it myself if I say another word about it.
It did my uncle Toby’s business.
Laurence Sterne (1713–1768).
BUMPERS, SQUIRE JONES.
Ye good fellows all,
Who love to be told where good claret’s in store,
Attend to the call
Of one who’s ne’er frighted,
But greatly delighted
With six bottles more.
Be sure you don’t pass
The good house, Moneyglass,
Which the jolly red god so peculiarly owns,
’Twill well suit your humour—
For, pray, what would you more,
Than mirth with good claret, and bumpers, Squire Jones?
Ye lovers who pine
For lasses that oft prove as cruel as fair,
Who whimper and whine
For lilies and roses,
With eyes, lips, and noses,
Or tip of an ear!
Come hither, I’ll show ye
How Phillis and Chloe
No more shall occasion such sighs and such groans;
For what mortal’s so stupid
As not to quit Cupid,
When called to good claret, and bumpers, Squire Jones?
Ye poets who write,
And brag of your drinking famed Helicon’s brook,—
Though all you get by it
Is a dinner ofttimes,
In reward for your rhymes,
With Humphry the Duke,—
Learn Bacchus to follow,
And quit your Apollo,
Forsake all the Muses, those senseless old crones:
Our jingling of glasses
Your rhyming surpasses
When crowned with good claret, and bumpers, Squire Jones.
Ye soldiers so stout,
With plenty of oaths, though no plenty of coin,
Who make such a rout
Of all your commanders,
Who served us in Flanders,
And eke at the Boyne,—
Come leave off your rattling
Of sieging and battling,
And know you’d much better to sleep in whole bones;
Were you sent to Gibraltar,
Your notes you’d soon alter,
And wish for good claret, and bumpers, Squire Jones.
Ye clergy so wise,
Who mysteries profound can demonstrate so clear,
How worthy to rise!
You preach once a week,
But your tithes never seek
Above once in a year!
Come here without failing,
And leave off your railing
’Gainst bishops providing for dull stupid drones;
Says the text so divine,
“What is life without wine?”
Then away with the claret,—a bumper, Squire Jones!
Ye lawyers so just,
Be the cause what it will, who so learnedly plead,
How worthy of trust!
You know black from white,
You prefer wrong to right,
As you chance to be fee’d:—
Leave musty reports
And forsake the king’s courts,
Where dulness and discord have set up their thrones;
Burn Salkeld and Ventris,[4]
And all your damned entries,
And away with the claret,—a bumper, Squire Jones!
Ye physical tribe
Whose knowledge consists in hard words and grimace,
Whene’er you prescribe,
Have at your devotion,
Pills, bolus, or potion,
Be what will the case;
Pray where is the need
To purge, blister, and bleed?
When, ailing yourselves, the whole faculty owns
That the forms of old Galen
Are not so prevailing
As mirth with good claret,—and bumpers, Squire Jones!
Ye fox-hunters eke,
That follow the call of the horn and the hound,
Who your ladies forsake
Before they’re awake,
To beat up the brake
Where the vermin is found:—
Leave Piper and Blueman,
Shrill Duchess and Trueman,—
No music is found in such dissonant tones!
Would you ravish your ears
With the songs of the spheres,
Hark away to the claret,—a bumper, Squire Jones!
Arthur Dawson (1700?–1775).
JACK LOFTY.
Scene—Croaker’s House.
Present—Mrs. Croaker and Lofty.
Enter Lofty, speaking to his servant.
Lofty. And if the Venetian ambassador, or that teasing creature, the marquis, should call, I am not at home. D— me, I’ll be a pack-horse to none of them. My dear madam, I have just snatched a moment—and if the expresses to his Grace be ready, let them be sent off; they’re of importance. Madam, I ask a thousand pardons.
Mrs. C. Sir, this honour——
Lofty. And, Dubardieu, if the person calls about the commission, let him know that it is made out. As for Lord Cumbercout’s stale request, it can keep cold; you understand me. Madam, I ask ten thousand pardons. And, Dubardieu, if the man comes from the Cornish borough, you must do him—you must do him, I say. Madam, I ask you ten thousand pardons—and if the Russian ambassador calls—but he will scarce call to-day, I believe. And now, madam, I have just got time to express my happiness in having the honour of being permitted to profess myself your most obedient humble servant.
Mrs. C. Sir, the happiness and honour are all mine; and yet, I am only robbing the public while I detain you.
Lofty. Sink the public, madam, when the fair are to be attended. Ah! could all my hours be so charmingly devoted! Thus it is eternally: solicited for places here; teased for pensions there; and courted everywhere. I know you pity me.
Mrs. C. Excuse me, sir. “Toils of empires, pleasures are,” as Waller says——
Lofty. Waller, Waller! Is he of the house?
Mrs. C. The modern poet of that name, sir.
Lofty. Oh, a modern! We men of business despise the moderns; and as for the ancients, we have no time to read them. Poetry is a pretty thing enough for our wives and daughters; but not for us. Why, now, here I stand, that know nothing of books; and yet, I believe, upon a land-carriage fishery, a stamp act, or a jaghire, I can talk my two hours without feeling the want of them.
Mrs. C. The world is no stranger to Mr. Lofty’s eminence in every capacity.
Lofty. I am nothing, nothing, nothing in the world; a mere obscure gentleman. To be sure, indeed, one or two of the present ministers are pleased to represent me as a formidable man. I know they are pleased to bespatter me at all their little dirty levees; yet, upon my soul, I don’t know what they see in me to treat me so! Measures, not men, have always been my mark; and I vow, by all that’s honourable, my resentment has never done the men, as mere men, any manner of harm; that is, as mere men.
Mrs. C. What importance! and yet, what modesty!
Lofty. Oh, if you talk of modesty, madam, there, I own, I am accessible to praise; modesty is my foible. It was so the Duke of Brentford used to say of me, “I love Jack Lofty,” he used to say; “no man has a finer knowledge of things, quite a man of information, and when he speaks upon his legs, by the lord, he’s prodigious! He scouts them. And yet all men have their faults,—too much modesty is his,” says his Grace.
“I CAN TALK MY TWO HOURS WITHOUT FEELING THE WANT OF THEM.”
Mrs. C. And yet, I dare say, you don’t want assurance when you come to solicit for your friends.
Lofty. Oh, there, indeed, I’m in bronze! Apropos, I have just been mentioning Miss Richland’s case to a certain personage; we must name no names. When I ask, I am not to be put off, madam. No, no; I take my friend by the button: a fine girl, sir; great justice in her case. A friend of mine. Borough interest. Business must be done, Mr. Secretary. I say, Mr. Secretary, her business must be done, sir. That’s my way, madam.
Mrs. C. Bless me! You said all this to the Secretary of State, did you?
Lofty. I did not say the Secretary, did I? Well, curse it! since you have found me out, I will not deny it. It was to the Secretary.
Mrs. C. This was going to the fountain-head at once; not applying to the understrappers, as Mr. Honeywood would have had us.
Lofty. Honeywood! he, he! He was, indeed, a fine solicitor. I suppose you have heard what has just happened to him?
Mrs. C. Poor, dear man! no accident, I hope.
Lofty. Undone, madam, that’s all. His creditors have taken him into custody. A prisoner in his own house.
Mrs. C. A prisoner in his own house? How! I am quite unhappy for him.
Lofty. Why, so am I. This man, to be sure, was immensely good-natured; but, then, I could never find that he had anything in him.
Mrs. C. His manner, to be sure, was excessive harmless; some, indeed, thought it a little dull. For my part, I always concealed my opinion.
Lofty. It can’t be concealed, madam, the man was dull; dull as the last new comedy. A poor, impracticable creature! I tried once or twice to know if he was fit for business; but he had scarce talents to be groom-porter to an orange-barrow.
Mrs. C. How differently does Miss Richland think of him; for, I believe, with all his faults, she loves him.
Lofty. Loves him! Does she? You should cure her of that, by all means. Let me see, what if she were sent to him this instant, in his present doleful situation? My life for it, that works her cure. Distress is a perfect antidote to love. Suppose we join her in the next room? Miss Richland is a fine girl, has a fine fortune, and must not be thrown away. Upon my honour, madam, I have a regard for Miss Richland; and rather than she should be thrown away, I should think it no indignity to marry her myself.
[Exeunt.
Scene—Young Honeywood’s House.
Present—Sir William Honeywood and Miss Richland.
Sir W. Do not make any apologies, madam. I only find myself unable to repay the obligation. And yet, I have been trying my interest of late to serve you. Having learned, madam, that you had some demands upon Government, I have, though unasked, been your solicitor there.
Miss R. Sir, I am infinitely obliged to your intentions; but my guardian has employed another gentleman, who assures of success.
Sir W. Who? The important little man that visits here? Trust me, madam, he’s quite contemptible among men in power, and utterly unable to serve you. Mr. Lofty’s promises are much better known to people of fashion than his person, I assure you.
Miss R. How have we been deceived! As sure as can be, here he comes.
Sir W. Does he? Remember, I am to continue unknown; my return to England has not as yet been made public. With what impudence he enters!
Enter Lofty.
Lofty. Let the chariot—let my chariot drive off; I’ll visit his Grace’s in a chair. Miss Richland here before me! Punctual, as usual, to the calls of humanity. I am very sorry, madam, things of this kind should happen, especially to a man I have shown everywhere, and carried amongst us as a particular acquaintance.
Miss R. I find, sir, you have the art of making the misfortunes of others your own.
Lofty. My dear madam, what can a private man like me do? One man can’t do everything—and, then, I do so much in this way every day. Let me see: something considerable might be done for him by subscription; it could not fail if I carried the list. I’ll undertake to set down a brace of dukes, two dozen lords, and half the lower house, at my own peril.
Sir W. And, after all, it is more than probable, sir, he might reject the offer of such powerful patronage
Lofty. Then, madam, what can we do? You know, I never make promises. In truth, I once or twice tried to do something with him in the way of business; but, as I often told his uncle, Sir William Honeywood, the man was utterly impracticable.
Sir W. His uncle! Then that gentleman, I suppose, is a particular friend of yours?
Lofty. Meaning me, sir? Yes, madam; as I often said, “My dear Sir William, you are sensible I would do anything, as far as my poor interest goes, to serve your family;” but what can be done? There’s no procuring first-rate places for ninth-rate abilities.
Miss R. I have heard of Sir William Honeywood; he’s abroad in employment; he confided in your judgment, I suppose.
Lofty. Why, yes, madam; I believe Sir William had some reason to confide in my judgment; one little reason, perhaps.
Miss R. Pray, sir, what was it?
Lofty. Why, madam—but let it go no further; it was I procured him his place.
Sir W. Did you, sir?
Lofty. Either you or I, sir.
Miss R. This, Mr. Lofty, was very kind, indeed.
Lofty. I did love him; to be sure, he had some amusing qualities; no man was fitter to be toast-master to a club, or had a better head.
Miss R. A better head?
Lofty. Ay, at a bottle. To be sure, he was as dull as a choice spirit; but hang it, he was grateful—very grateful; and gratitude hides a multitude of faults.
Sir W. He might have reason, perhaps. His place is pretty considerable, I am told.
Lofty. A trifle, a mere trifle among us men of business. The truth is, he wanted dignity to fill up a greater.
Sir W. Dignity of person, do you mean, sir? I am told he is much about my size and figure, sir.
Lofty. Ay; tall enough for a marching regiment, but then he wanted a something; a consequence of form; a kind of a—I believe the lady perceives my meaning.
Miss R. Oh, perfectly; you courtiers can do anything, I see.
Lofty. My dear madam, all this is but a mere exchange; we do greater things for one another every day. Why as thus, now, let me suppose you the First Lord of the Treasury, you have an employment in you that I want; I have a place in me that you want; do me here, do you there; interest of both sides, few words, flat, done and done, and it’s over.
Sir W. A thought strikes me. (Aside.) Now you mention Sir William Honeywood, madam, and as he seems, sir, an acquaintance of yours, you’ll be glad to hear he’s arrived from Italy; I had it from a friend who knows him as well as he does me, and you may depend on my information.
Lofty. The devil he is. (Aside.)
Sir W. He is certainly returned; and as this gentleman is a friend of yours, you can be of signal service to us, by introducing me to him; there are some papers relative to your affairs that require despatch and his inspection.
Miss R. This gentleman, Mr. Lofty, is a person employed in my affairs; I know you will serve us.
Lofty. My dear madam, I live but to serve you. Sir William shall even wait upon him, if you think proper to command it.
Sir W. That would be quite unnecessary.
Lofty. Well, we must introduce you, then. Call upon me—let me see—ay, in two days.
Sir W. Now, or the opportunity will be lost for ever.
Lofty. Well, if it must be now, now let it be. But, d—n it, that’s unfortunate; my Lord Grig’s cursed Pensacola business comes on this very hour, and I’m engaged to attend—another time——
Sir W. A short letter to Sir William will do.
Lofty. You shall have it; yet, in my opinion, a letter is a very bad way of going to work; face to face, that’s my way.
Sir W. The letter, sir, will do quite as well.
Lofty. Zounds, sir! do you pretend to direct me—direct me in the business of office? Do you know me, sir? Who am I?
Miss R. Dear Mr. Lofty, this request is not so much his as mine; if my commands—but you despise my power.
Lofty. Sweet creature! your commands could even control a debate at midnight; to a power so constitutional, I am all obedience and tranquillity. He shall have a letter; where is my secretary, Dubardieu? And yet, I protest, I don’t like this way of doing business. I think if I spoke first to Sir William—— But you will have it so.
[Exit with Miss R.
Scene—An Inn.
Present—Sir William Honeywood, his nephew, Croaker, Lofty, and Miss Richland.
Enter Lofty.
Lofty. Is the coast clear? None but friends. I have followed you here with a trifling piece of intelligence; but it goes no further, things are not yet ripe for a discovery. I have spirits working at a certain board; your affair at the Treasury will be done in less than—a thousand years. Mum!
Miss R. Sooner, sir, I should hope.
Lofty. Why, yes, I believe it may, if it falls into proper hands, that know where to push and where to parry; that know how the land lies.
Miss R. It is fallen into yours.
Lofty. Well, to keep you no longer in suspense, your thing is done. It is done, I say; that’s all I have just had assurances from Lord Neverout that the claim has been examined and found admissible. Quietus is the word, madam.
Miss R. But how? his lordship has been at Newmarket these ten days.
Lofty. Indeed! then Sir Gilbert Goose must have been most d—y mistaken. I had it of him.
Miss R. He? Why, Sir Gilbert and his family have been in the country this month.
Lofty. This month? It must certainly be so. Sir Gilbert’s letter did come to me from Newmarket, so that he must have met his lordship there; and so it came about. I have his letter about me; I’ll read it to you. (Taking out a large bundle.) That’s from Paoli of Corsica, that from the Marquis of Squilachi. Have you a mind to see a letter from Count Poniatowski, now King of Poland? Honest Pon—— (Searching.) Oh, sir, what, are you here too? I’ll tell you what, honest friend, if you have not absolutely delivered my letter to Sir William Honeywood, you may return it. The thing will do without him.
Sir W. Sir, I have delivered it, and must inform you, it was received with the most mortifying contempt.
Croa. Contempt! Mr. Lofty, what can that mean?
Lofty. Let him go on, let him go on, I say. You’ll find it come to something directly.
Sir W. Yes, sir, I believe you’ll be amazed; after waiting some time in the ante-chamber, after being surveyed with insolent curiosity by the passing servants, I was at last assured that Sir William Honeywood knew no such person, and I must certainly have been imposed upon.
Lofty. Good; let me die, very good. Ha, ha, ha!
Croa. Now, for my life, I can’t find out half the goodness of it.
Lofty. You can’t? Ha, ha!
Croa. No, for the soul of me; I think it was as confounded a bad answer as ever was sent from one private gentleman to another.
Lofty. And so you can’t find out the force of the message? Why, I was in the house at that very time. Ha, ha! It was I that sent that very answer to my own letter. Ha, ha!
Croa. Indeed! How?—why?
Lofty. In one word, things between Sir William and me must be behind the curtain. A party has many eyes. He sides with Lord Buzzard, I side with Sir Gilbert Goose. So that unriddles the mystery.
Croa. And so it does, indeed, and all my suspicions are over.
Lofty. Your suspicions! What, then, you have been suspecting, you have been suspecting, have you? Mr. Croaker, you and I were friends, we are friends no longer.
Croa. As I hope for your favour, I did not mean to offend. It escaped me. Don’t be discomposed.
Lofty. Zounds, sir! but I am discomposed, and will be discomposed. To be treated thus! Who am I? Was it for this I have been dreaded both by ins and outs? Have I been libelled in the Gazetteer and praised in the St. James’s? Have I been chaired at Wildman’s, and a speaker at Merchant Tailors’ Hall? Have I had my hand to addresses, and my head in the print-shops, and talk to me of suspects!
Croa. My dear sir, be pacified. What can you have but asking pardon?
Lofty. Sis, I will not be pacified! Suspects! Who am I? To be used thus, have I paid court to men in favour to serve my friends, the Lords of the Treasury, Sir William Honeywood, and the rest of the gang, and talk to me of suspects! Who am I, I say—who am I?
Sir W. Since, sir, you’re so pressing for an answer, I’ll tell you who you are. A gentleman, as well acquainted with politics as with men in power; as well acquainted with persons of fashion as with modesty; with the Lords of the Treasury as with truth; and with all, as you are with Sir William Honeywood. I am Sir William Honeywood.
[Discovers his ensigns of the Bath.
Croa. Sir William Honeywood!
Hon. Astonishment! my uncle
“‘YOU KNOW I HATE FLATTERY,—ON MY SOUL, I DO.’”
Our pursuer soon came up, and joined us with all the familiarity of an old acquaintance. “My dear Drybone,” cries he, shaking my friend’s hand, “where have you been hiding this half a century? Positively I had fancied you were gone to cultivate matrimony and your estate in the country.” During the reply, I had an opportunity of surveying the appearance of our new companion: his hat was pinched up with peculiar smartness; his looks were pale, thin, and sharp; round his neck he wore a broad black riband, and in his bosom a buckle studded with glass; his coat was trimmed with tarnished twist; he wore by his side a sword with a black hilt, and his stockings of silk, though newly washed, were grown yellow by long service. I was so much engaged with the peculiarity of his dress, that I attended only to the latter part of my friend’s reply, in which he complimented Mr. Tibbs on the taste of his clothes and the bloom in his countenance. “Pshaw, pshaw, Will,” cried the figure, “no more of that, if you love me; you know I hate flattery,—on my soul, I do; and yet, to be sure, an intimacy with the great will improve one’s appearance, and a course of venison will fatten; and yet, faith, I despise the great as much as you do; but there are a great many damn’d honest fellows among them, and we must not quarrel with one half because the other wants weeding. If they were all such as my Lord Mudler, one of the most good-natured creatures that ever squeezed a lemon, I should myself be among the number of their admirers. I was yesterday to dine at the Duchess of Piccadilly’s. My lord was there. ‘Ned,’ says he to me; ‘Ned,’ says he, ‘I’ll hold gold to silver I can tell where you were poaching last night?’ ‘Poaching, my lord?’ says I; ‘faith, you have missed already; for I stayed at home, and let the girls poach for me. That’s my way: I take a fine woman as some animals do their prey—stand still, and swoop, they fall into my mouth.’”
“Ah! Tibbs, thou art a happy fellow,” cried my companion, with looks of infinite pity; “I hope your fortune is as much improved as your understanding in such company?” “Improved!” replied the other; “you shall know,—but let it go no farther—a great secret—five hundred a year to begin with—my lord’s word of honour for it. His lordship took me down in his own chariot yesterday, and we had a tête-à-tête dinner in the country, where we talked of nothing else.” “I fancy you forget, sir,” cried I, “you told us but this moment of your dining yesterday in town.” “Did I say so?” replied he, coolly; “to be sure, if I said so, it was so. Dined in town; egad, now I do remember I did dine in town; but I dined in the country, too; for you must know, my boys, I eat two dinners. By-the-bye, I am grown as nice as the devil in my eating. We were a select party of us to dine at Lady Grogram’s,—an affected piece, but let it go no farther—a secret. Well, there happened to be no asafœtida in the sauce to a turkey, upon which says I, ‘I’ll hold a thousand guineas, and say done first, that—— ’ But, dear Drybone, you are an honest creature; lend me half-a-crown for a minute or two, or so, just till—but hearkee, ask me for it the next time we meet, or it may be twenty to one but I forget to pay you.”
My little Beau yesterday overtook me again in one of the public walks, and, slapping me on the shoulder, saluted me with an air of the most perfect familiarity. His dress was the same as usual, except that he had more powder in his hair, wore a dirtier shirt, a pair of temple spectacles, and his hat under his arm.
As I knew him to be a harmless, amusing little thing, I could not return his smiles with any degree of severity; so we walked forward on terms of the utmost intimacy, and in a few minutes discussed all the usual topics preliminary to particular conversation. The oddities that marked his character, however, soon began to appear; he bowed to several well-dressed persons, who, by their manner of returning the compliment, appeared perfect strangers. At intervals he drew out a pocket-book, seeming to take memorandums before all the company, with much importance and assiduity. In this manner he led me through the length of the whole walk, fretting at his absurdities, and fancying myself laughed at not less than him by every spectator. When we were got to the end of our procession, “Blast me,” cries he, with an air of vivacity, “I never saw the Park so thin in my life before! There’s no company at all to-day; not a single face to be seen.” “No company!” interrupted I, peevishly; “no company where there is such a crowd? why, man, there’s too much. What are the thousands that have been laughing at us but company?” “Lord, my dear,” returned he with the utmost good-humour, “you seem immensely chagrined; but, blast me, when the world laughs at me, I laugh at the world, and so we are even. My Lord Trip, Bill Squash the Creolian, and I, sometimes make a party at being ridiculous; and so we say and do a thousand things for the joke’s sake. But I see you are grave, and if you are for a fine, grave, sentimental companion, you shall dine with me and my wife to-day; I must insist on’t. I’ll introduce you to Mrs. Tibbs, a lady of as elegant qualifications as any in nature; she was bred (but that’s between ourselves) under the inspection of the Countess of All-Night. A charming body of voice; but no more of that,—she will give us a song. You shall see my little girl, too, Carolina Wilhelmina Amelia Tibbs, a sweet, pretty creature! I design her for my Lord Drumstick’s eldest son; but that’s in friendship—let it go no farther: she’s but six years old, and yet she walks a minuet, and plays on the guitar immensely already. I intend she shall be as perfect as possible in every accomplishment. In the first place, I’ll make her a scholar; I’ll teach her Greek myself, and learn that language purposely to instruct her; but let that be a secret.”
Thus saying, without waiting for a reply, he took me by the arm and hauled me along. We passed through many dark alleys and winding ways; for, from some motives to me unknown, he seemed to have a particular aversion to every frequented street; at last, however, we got to the door of a dismal-looking house in the outlets of the town, where he informed me he chose to reside for the benefit of the air. We entered the lower door, which ever seemed to lie most hospitably open; and I began to ascend an old and creaking staircase, when, as he mounted to show me the way, he demanded whether I delighted in prospects; to which, answering in the affirmative, “Then,” says he, “I shall show you one of the most charming in the world out of my window; you shall see the ships sailing and the whole country for twenty miles round, tip top, quite high. My Lord Swamp would give ten thousand guineas for such a one; but, as I sometimes pleasantly tell him, I always love to keep my prospects at home, that my friends may visit me the oftener.”
By this time we were arrived as high as the stairs would permit us to ascend, till we came to what he was facetiously pleased to call the first floor down the chimney; and knocking at the door, a voice from within demanded, “Who’s there?” My conductor answered that it was him. But this not satisfying the querist, the voice again repeated the demand; to which he answered louder than before; and now the door was opened by an old woman with cautious reluctance. When we were got in, he welcomed me to his house with great ceremony, and turning to the old woman, asked where was her lady. “Good troth,” replied she in a peculiar dialect, “she’s washing your twa shirts at the next door, because they have taken an oath against lending out the tub any longer.” “My two shirts!” cried he in a tone that faltered with confusion, “what does the idiot mean?” “I ken what I mean weel enough,” replied the other; “she’s washing your twa shirts at the next door, because——” “Fire and fury, no more of thy stupid explanations!” cried he; “go and inform her we have got company. Were that Scotch hag,” continued he, turning to me, “to be for ever in my family, she would never learn politeness, nor forget that absurd poisonous accent of hers, or testify the smallest specimen of breeding or high life; and yet it is very surprising, too, as I had her from a parliament man, a friend of mine from the Highlands, one of the politest men in the world; but that’s a secret.”
We waited some time for Mrs. Tibbs’ arrival, during which interval I had a full opportunity of surveying the chamber and all its furniture, which consisted of four chairs with old wrought bottoms, that he assured me were his wife’s embroidery; a square table that had been once japanned; a cradle in one corner, a lumbering cabinet in the other; a broken shepherdess, and a mandarine without a head, were stuck over the chimney; and round the walls several paltry unframed pictures, which, he observed, were all his own drawing. “What do you think, sir, of that head in the corner, done in the manner of Grisoni? there’s the true keeping in it; it is my own face, and though there happens to be no likeness, a Countess offered me a hundred for its fellow; I refused her, for, hang it, that would be mechanical, you know.”
The wife at last made her appearance, at once a slattern and a coquette; much emaciated, but still carrying the remains of beauty. She made twenty apologies for being seen in such odious deshabille, but hoped to be excused, as she had stayed out all night with the Countess, who was excessively fond of the horns. “And, indeed, my dear,” added she, turning to her husband, “his lordship drank your health in a bumper.” “Poor Jack!” cries he, “a dear, good-natured fellow; I know he loves me. But I hope, my dear, you have given orders for dinner; you need make no great preparations neither, there are but three of us; something elegant, and little, will do,—a turbot, an ortolan, a—— ” “Or what do you think, my dear,” interrupts the wife, “of a nice pretty bit of ox-cheek, piping hot, and dressed with a little of my own sauce?” “The very thing!” replies he; “it will eat best with some smart bottled beer; but be sure to let us have the sauce his Grace was so fond of. I hate your immense loads of meat; that is country all over; extremely disgusting to those who are in the least acquainted with high life.” By this time my curiosity began to abate and my appetite to increase: the company of fools may at first make us smile, but at last never fails of rendering us melancholy; I therefore pretended to recollect a prior engagement, and after having shown my respect to the house, according to the fashion of the English, by giving the old servant a piece of money at the door, I took my leave; Mrs. Tibbs assuring me that dinner, if I stayed, would be ready at least in less than two hours.
Oliver Goldsmith.
“A CHIRPING CUP IS MY MATIN SONG.”
THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GREY.
I am a friar of orders grey:
As down the valley I take my way,
I pull not blackberry, haw, or hip,
Good store of venison does fill my scrip:
My long bead-roll I merrily chaunt,
Where’er I walk, no money I want;
And why I’m so plump the reason I’ll tell—
Who leads a good life is sure to live well.
What baron or squire
Or knight of the shire
Lives half so well as a holy friar!
After supper, of heaven I dream,
But that is fat pullet and clouted cream.
Myself, by denial, I mortify
With a dainty bit of a warden pie:
I’m clothed in sackcloth for my sin:
With old sack wine I’m lined within:
A chirping cup is my matin song,
And the vesper bell is my bowl’s ding dong.
What baron or squire
Or knight of the shire
Lives half so well as a holy friar!
John O’Keeffe (1747–1833).
THE TAILOR AND THE UNDERTAKER.
(The two tradesmen call for orders respecting a supposed corpse.)
Enter Shears, a tailor, and Grizley, a servant.
Griz. Mr. Shears, sir,—I’ll tell him, sir.
Shears. Yes, Mr. Shears, to take orders for his mourning. (Exit Grizley.) A bailiff shall carry them home, tho’—yet no tailor in town so complacently suits his own dress to the present humour of his employer—to a brisk bridegroom, I’m white as a swan, and here, to this woful widower, I appear black—black as my own goose.
Enter Undertaker.
Under. “Hearse—mourning-coaches—scarfs—pall.” Um—ay—if the cash was plenty this might turn out a pretty sprightly funeral.
Shears. Servant, sir.
Under. Scarfs—a merry death—coffin—um—ay——
Shears. A sudden affair this, sir.
Under. Sudden—ah! I’m always prepared for death.
Shears. Sign of a good liver.
Under. No tradesman within the bills of mortality lives better.
Shears. You’ve many customers then, sir?
Under. Not one breathing.
Shears. You disoblige them, perhaps?
Under. Why, the truth is, sir, tho’ my friends would die to serve me, yet I can’t keep one three days without turning up my nose at him—Od so! I forgot to take measure of the body.
Shears (aside). Oh, oh!—a brother tailor—you measure nobody here.
Under. Yes, I shall—Mr. Sandford’s body.
Shears. For what, pray?
Under. For a wooden surtout lined with white satin.
Shears (aside). Odd sort of mourning!—But, sir, I have the business of this family.
Under. You! I know I have had it since St. James’s churchyard was set on fire by old Mattack the grave-digger, twenty years last influenza business. I have nineteen bodies under lock and key this moment.
Shears. You may have bodies, skirts, cuffs, and buttons—my business!—ask my foreman—I don’t set a stitch—I’m merely an undertaker.
Under. Undertaker! so am I!—and for work——
Shears. Now I do no work—I cut out indeed——
Under. Cut out! oh, you embowel ’em, perhaps—can you make a mummy in the Egyptian fashion?
Shears. I never made masquerade habits.
Under. What! could you stuff a person of rank, to send him sweet over sea?
Shears. Stuff! persons of rank—Irish tabinets are in style for people of rank.
Under. Nothing like sage, thyme, pepper and salt.
Shears. Pepper and salt!—thunder and lightning!—for a colour!
Under. Thunder and lightning! why, you are in the clouds, man—in one word, could you pickle a Duke?
Shears. I pickle a Duke!
Under. Could you place a lozenge over a window, or make out a coat for a hatchment, without the help of a herald?
Shears. Mr. Hatchment! never made a coat for a gentleman of that name.
Under. Mr. Hatchment—you’ve a skull as thick as a tombstone.
Shears. Mayhap so, but I’ll let you know no cross-legg’d and bandy button-making, Bedford-bury, shred-seller shall rip a customer from me.
Under. Friend, depart in peace—or my cane shall make you a memento mori to all impertinent rascals.
Shears. Here’s a cowardly advantage! to attack a naked man—lay by your cane, and I’ll talk to you.
(The Undertaker throws down his cane, which Shears takes up and beats him with.)
Under. Oh, death and treachery! help! murder!
Enter Dennis.
Den. Hey! what’s all this?
“I PERCEIVE THIS MISTAKE.”
Under. A villain!—why, here’s another undertaker insists that he’s to bury your master.
Shears. Oh, thread and needles! I bury a gentleman! but, egad, you’re a frolicsome tailor.
Under. Tailor! oh, you son of a sexton! call you me tailor? a more capital undertaker than yourself.
Shears. Zounds, man, I’m no undertaker! I’m a tailor.
Under. And, zounds, man—tailor, I mean—I’m an undertaker.
Den. (aside). I perceive this mistake. One word, good gentlemen mechanics—Mr. Tailor!
Shears. Sir!
Den. My lady is not dead.
Shears. Your lady not dead!
Den. No, nor my master neither.
Under. Your master not dead!
Den. No.
Under. Then perhaps he don’t want to be buried!
Den. Not alive, I believe.
Under. The most good-for-nothing family in the parish.
Shears. By these shears, parchment of mine shall never cross a shoulder in it.[Exit.
Under. Zounds, I’ll go home and bury myself for the good of my family.[Exit.
John O’Keeffe.
TOM GROG.
Present—Tom Grog and Rupee.
Rupee. I drink tea at Sir Toby Tacit’s this evening. Tom, you’ll come—I’ll introduce you to the ladies; you’ll see my intended sposa, Cornelia.
Grog. Ay, give me her little waiting-maid, Nancy. If I can get her to my berth in the Minories, I shall be as happy as an Admiral.
Rupee. Admiral! apropos—I shall be married to-morrow—Tom, you’ll dress to honour my wedding?
Grog. Ay, if the tailor brings home my new rigging. But now you talk of a wife, the first time I ever saw my wife, the pretty Peggy, was on Portsmouth ramparts, full dress’d, streamers flying, gay as a commissioner’s yacht at a naval review—What cheer, my heart! says I—she bore away; love gave signal for chase, so I crowded sail, threw a salute shot across her fore-foot to make her bring-to; prepared for an engagement, we came to close quarters, grappled. I threw a volley of kisses at her round-top, she struck—next day, with a cheer, I took my prize in tow to Farum Church, and the parson made out my warrant for command—captain of the Pretty Peggy fifteen years; then she foundered in Blanket Bay—Death took charge, and left me to swim thro’ life, and keep my chin above water as long as I cou’d.
Rupee. Tom, you may be chin-deep, but water can never reach your lips unless mixed with brandy—brandy! apropos, now for the ladies.
Grog. Well, sheer off; d’ye see, I have business at the Admiralty, and then I bear away for Tower Hill, to meet some Hearts of Oak.
Rupee. Adieu, my Man of War; my vis-a-vis is at St. James’ Gate, so, Tom, farewell; and now, hey for the land of love. [Exit.
Grog. Now must I cruise in the channel of Charing Cross, to look out for this lubber that affronted me aboard the Dreadnought. I heard he put in at the Admiralty—Hold! is Rupee gone? If he thought I went to fight, mayhap he’d bring the Master-at-Arms upon me, and have me in the bilboes—Smite my timbers! there goes the enemy.
Enter Stern (crossing).
I’ll hail him—yo! ho!
Stern. What cheer?
Grog. You’re Sam Stern?
Stern. Yes.
Grog. Do you remember me?
Stern. Remember! Yes, though you’re rich now, you’re still Tom Grog.
Grog. You affronted me aboard the Dreadnought; the Spaniards were then in view, and I didn’t think it time to resent private quarrels when it is our duty to thrash the enemies of our country; but, Sam Stern, you are the man that affronted Tom Grog.
Stern. Mayhap so.
Grog. Mayhap you’ll fight me?
“WHAT CHEER?”
Stern. I will—when and where?
Grog. The where is here, and when is now; and slap’s the word. (Lays his hand on his hanger.) But hold, we must steer off the open sea into some creek.
Stern. But I’ve neither cutlash nor pistols.
Grog. I saw a handsome cutlash and a pretty pair of barking-irons in a pawnbroker’s window; come, it lies on our way to the War Office.
Stern. I should like to touch at the Victualling Office in our voyage.
Grog. Why, ha’n’t you dined?
Stern. I’ve none to eat.
Grog. A seaman in England without a dinner! that’s hard, d—d hard! there’s money—pay me when you can. (Gives a handful of money.)
Stern. How much?
Grog. I don’t know—get your dinner—buy the arms—meet me in two hours at Deptford, and, shiver me like a biscuit, if I don’t blow your head off.
Stern. Then I can’t pay you your money.
Grog. True; but mayhap you may take off mine; and if so, I shall have no occasion for it.
Stern. Right, I forgot that.
(Wipes his eyes with his sleeve.)
Grog. What do you snivel for?
Stern. What a dog am I to use a man ill, and now be obliged to him for a meal’s meat.
Grog. Then you own you’ve used me ill! Ask my pardon.
Stern. I’ll be d—d if I do.
Grog. Then take it without asking. You’re cursed saucy, but you’re a good seaman; and hark ye, Sam, the brave man, though he scorns the fear of punishment, is always afraid to deserve it. Come, when you’ve stowed your bread-room, a bowl of punch shall again set friendship afloat. (Shake hands.)
Stern. Oh, I’m a lubber!
Grog. Avast! Swab the spray from your bows! poor fellow! don’t heed, my soul! whilst you’ve the heart of a lion, never be ashamed of the feelings of a man.
John O’Keeffe.
BULLS.
In a speech on the threatened French invasion into Ireland, made, like the rest, in the Irish House of Commons, Sir Boyle Roche said—
“Mr. Speaker, if we once permitted the villainous French masons to meddle with the buttresses and walls of our ancient constitution, they would never stop nor stay, sir, till they brought the foundation-stones tumbling down about the ears of the nation.... Here, perhaps, sirs, the murderous Marshellaw men (Marseillais) would break in, cut us to mincemeat, and throw our bleeding heads upon that table, to stare us in the face.”
When a member had committed a breach of privilege, and the sergeant-at-arms was censured for letting him escape, he said—
“How could the sergeant-at-arms stop him in the rear, while he was catching him in the front? Could he, like a bird, be in two places at once?”
In opposing a proposed grant for some public works, he said—
“What, Mr. Speaker, and so we are to beggar ourselves for the fear of vexing posterity? Now, I would ask the honourable gentleman, and this still more honourable house, why we should put ourselves out of our way to do anything for posterity; for what has posterity done for us! (Laughter.) I apprehend gentlemen have entirely mistaken my words. I assure the house that by posterity I do not mean my ancestors, but those who are to come immediately after them.”
Sir Boyle Roche (1740?—1807).
THE MONKS OF THE SCREW.
When St. Patrick this order established,
He called us the “Monks of the Screw”;
Good rules he revealed to our abbot
To guide us in what we should do.
But first he replenished our fountain
With liquor the best from on high;
And he said, on the word of a saint,
That the fountain should never run dry.
Each year, when your octaves approach,
In full chapter convened let me find you;
And when to the convent you come,
Leave your favourite temptation behind you.
And be not a glass in your convent—
Unless on a festival—found;
And, this rule to enforce, I ordain it
One festival all the year round.
My brethren, be chaste—till you’re tempted;
While sober, be grave and discreet;
And humble your bodies with fasting,
As oft as you’ve nothing to eat.
Yet, in honour of fasting, one lean face
Among you I’d always require;
If the abbot should please, he may wear it,
If not, let it come to the prior.
Come, let each take his chalice, my brethren,
And with due devotion, prepare,
With hands and with voices uplifted,
Our hymn to conclude with a prayer.
May this chapter oft joyously meet,
And this gladsome libation renew,
To the saint, and the founder, and abbot,
And prior, and Monks of the Screw.
John Philpot Curran (1750–1817).
ANA.
One day, when out riding with Lord Norbury, they came to a gallows, and pointing to it the judge said, “Where would you be, Curran, if that scaffold had its due?” “Riding alone, my lord,” was Curran’s prompt reply.
The same judge (noted for his merciless severity) was seated opposite Curran at dinner on another occasion, and asked, “Is that hung beef before you, Curran?” “Do you try it, my lord,” replied the advocate, “and it is sure to be.”
A blustering Irish barrister once told the little man he would put him in his pocket if he provoked him further. “Egad, if you do, you’ll have more law in your pocket than ever you had in your head.”
“Do you see anything ridiculous in my wig, Curran?” asked a vain barrister, whose displaced head-gear had caused some merriment in court. “Nothing, except the head, sir,” answered Curran.
Another judge had the habit of continually shaking his head during Curran’s addresses to the jury, and the counsel, fearing the jury might be influenced, assured them that the judge was not expressing dissent—“when he shakes his head, there’s nothing in it.”
When he had to meet a notorious duellist named Bully Egan, whose girth was twice that of Curran’s, Egan complained that the advantages were all on one side, inasmuch as he could barely see Curran’s diminutive person, while Curran could hardly fail to hit him. “Oh!” said Curran, “we can soon arrange that. Let the size of my body be chalked on Mr. Egan’s, and I am willing all shots outside the marks should not be counted.”
THE CRUISKEEN LAWN.
Let the farmer praise his grounds,
Let the huntsman praise his hounds,
The farmer his sweet-scented lawn;
While I, more blest than they,
Spend each happy night and day
With my smiling little cruiskeen lawn.
Gra-ma-chree-ma cruiskeen,
Slainte geal ma vourneen,
Gra-ma-chree a coolin bawn, bawn, bawn,
Gra-ma-chree a coolin bawn!
Immortal and divine,
Great Bacchus, god of wine,
Create me by adoption your son,
In hope that you’ll comply
That my glass shall ne’er run dry,
Nor my smiling little cruiskeen lawn.
Gra-ma-chree, etc.
And when grim Death appears,
After few but happy years,
And tells me my glass it is run,
I’ll say, “Begone, you slave!
For great Bacchus gave me leave
Just to fill another cruiskeen lawn.”
Gra-ma-chree, etc.
Then fill your glasses high,
Let’s not part with lips a-dry,
Though the lark now proclaims it is dawn;
And since we can’t remain,
May we shortly meet again
To fill another cruiskeen lawn.
Gra-ma-chree, etc.
Anonymous.
THE SCANDAL-MONGERS.
Scene—Lady Sneerwell’s House.
Present—Lady Sneerwell, Maria, Mrs. Candour, and Joseph Surface.
Mrs. C. My dear Lady Sneerwell, how have you been this century? Mr. Surface, what news do you hear? though indeed it is no matter, for I think one hears nothing else but scandal.
Joseph. Just so, indeed, ma’am.
Mrs. C. (to Maria). Oh, Maria! child, what! is the whole affair off between you and Charles? His extravagance, I presume; the town talks of nothing else.
Maria. I am very sorry, ma’am, the town has so little to do.
Mrs. C. True, true, child; but there’s no stopping people’s tongues. I own I was hurt to hear it, as I indeed was to learn, from the same quarter, that your guardian, Sir Peter, and Lady Teazle, have not agreed lately as well as could be wished.
Maria. ’Tis strangely impertinent for people to busy themselves so.
Mrs. C. Very true, child; but what’s to be done? People will talk, there’s no preventing it. Why, it was but yesterday I was told that Miss Gadabout had eloped with Sir Filigree Flirt. But, lord! there’s no minding what one hears; though, to be sure, I had this from very good authority.
Maria. Such reports are highly scandalous.
Mrs. C. So they are, child; shameful, shameful! But the world is so censorious, no character escapes. Lord, now, who would have suspected your friend, Miss Prim, of an indiscretion? Yet such is the ill-nature of people that they say her uncle stopped her last week, just as she was stepping into the York mail with her dancing-master.
Maria. I’ll answer for’t, there are no grounds for that report.
Mrs. C. Ay, no foundation in the world, I dare swear; no more, probably, than for the story circulated last month of Mrs. Festino’s affair with Colonel Cassino; though, to be sure, that matter was never rightly cleared up.
Joseph. The licence of invention some people take is monstrous, indeed.
Maria. ’Tis so; but, in my opinion, those who report such things are equally culpable.
Mrs. C. To be sure they are; tale-bearers are as bad as tale-makers; ’tis an old observation, and a very true one; but what’s to be done, as I said before? how will you prevent people from talking? To-day, Mrs. Clackit assured me Mr. and Mrs. Honeymoon were at last become mere man and wife, like the rest of their acquaintance. She likewise hinted that a certain widow in the next street had got rid of her dropsy, and recovered her shape in a most surprising manner. And at the same time Miss Tattle, who was by, affirmed that Lord Buffalo had discovered his lady at a house of no extraordinary fame; and that Sir Harry Bouquet and Tom Saunter were to measure swords on a similar provocation. But, lord! do you think I would report these things? No, no! tale-bearers, as I said before, are just as bad as tale-makers.
Joseph. Ah! Mrs. Candour, if everybody had your forbearance and good nature!
Mrs. C. I confess, Mr. Surface, I cannot bear to hear people attacked behind their backs; and when ugly circumstances come out against our acquaintance, I own I always love to think the best. (Lady Sneerwell and Maria retire.) By-the-bye, I hope ’tis not true that your brother is absolutely ruined?
Joseph. I am afraid his circumstances are very bad, indeed, ma’am.
Mrs. C. Ah! I heard so. But you must tell him to keep up his spirits; everybody almost is in the same way. Lord Spindle, Sir Thomas Splint, and Mr. Nickit—all up, I hear, within this week; so if Charles be undone, he’ll find half his acquaintance ruined, too; and that, you know, is a consolation.
Joseph. Doubtless, ma’am: a very great one.
Enter Servant.
Serv. Mr. Crabtree and Sir Benjamin Backbite. [Exit.
Lady S. So, Maria, you see your lover pursues you; positively, you shan’t escape.
Enter Crabtree and Sir Benjamin Backbite.
Crab. Lady Sneerwell, I kiss your hand! Mrs. Candour, I don’t believe you are acquainted with my nephew, Sir Benjamin Backbite? Egad, ma’am, he has a pretty wit, and is a pretty poet, too; isn’t he, Lady Sneerwell?
Sir B. Oh, fie, uncle!
Crab. Nay, egad! it is true; I back him at a rebus or a charade against the best rhymer in the kingdom. Has your ladyship heard the epigram he wrote last week on Lady Frizzle’s feather catching fire. Do, Benjamin, repeat it, or the charade you made last night extempore at Mrs. Drowzie’s conversazione. Come now; your first is the name of a fish, your second a great naval commander, and——
Sir B. Uncle, now—pr’ythee——
Crab. I’faith, ma’am, ’twould surprise you to hear how ready he is at these things.
Lady S. I wonder, Sir Benjamin, you never publish anything.
Sir B. To say the truth, ma’am, ’tis very vulgar to print; and as my little productions are mostly satires and lampoons on particular people, I find they circulate more by giving copies in confidence to the friends of the parties. However, I have some love elegies, which, when favoured with this lady’s smiles, I mean to give the public.
Crab. ’Fore heaven, ma’am, they’ll immortalise you! you will be handed down to posterity, like Petrarch’s Laura, or Waller’s Sacharissa.
Sir B. Yes, madam, I think you will like them, when you shall see them on a beautiful quarto page, where a neat rivulet of text shall meander through a meadow of margin. ’Fore gad! they will be the most elegant things of their kind.
Crab. But, ladies, have you heard the news?
Mrs. C. What, sir, do you mean the report of——
Crab. No, ma’am, that’s not it—Miss Nicely is going to be married to her own footman.
Mrs. C. Impossible!
Crab. Ask Sir Benjamin.
Sir B. ’Tis very true, ma’am; everything is fixed, and the wedding liveries bespoke.
Crab. Yes; and they do say there were very pressing reasons for it.
Lady S. Why, I have heard something of this before.
Mrs. C. It can’t be; and I wonder any one should believe such a story of so prudent a lady as Miss Nicely.
Sir B. Oh, lud! ma’am, that’s the very reason ’twas believed at once. She has always been so cautious and so reserved, that everybody was sure there was some reason for it at bottom.
Mrs. C. Why, to be sure, a tale of scandal is as fatal to the credit of a prudent lady of her stamp, as a fever is generally to those of the strongest constitutions. But there is a sort of puny sickly reputation that is always ailing, yet will outlive the robuster characters of a hundred prudes.
Sir B. True, madam; there are true valetudinarians in reputation as well as constitution; who, being conscious of their weak part, avoid the least breath of air, and supply their want of stamina by care and circumspection.
Mrs. C. Well, but this may be all a mistake. You know, Sir Benjamin, very trifling circumstances often give rise to the most injurious tales.
Crab. That they do, I’ll be sworn, ma’am. Did you ever hear how Miss Piper came to lose her lover and her character last summer at Tunbridge? Sir Benjamin, you remember it?
Sir B. Oh, to be sure; the most whimsical of circumstances.
Lady S. How was it, pray?
Crab. Why, one evening at Miss Ponto’s assembly, the conversation happened to turn on the breeding Nova Scotia sheep in this country. Says a young lady in company, I have known instances of it; for Miss Letitia Piper, a first cousin of mine, had a Nova Scotia sheep that produced her twins. What! cries the lady dowager Dundizzy (who you know is as deaf as a post), has Miss Piper had twins? This mistake, as you may imagine, threw the whole company into a fit of laughter. However, ’twas the next day everywhere reported, and in a few days believed by the whole town, that Miss Letitia Piper had actually been brought to bed of a fine boy and girl; and in less than a week there were some people who could name the father, and the farmhouse where the babies were put to nurse.
Lady S. Strange, indeed!
Crab. Matter of fact, I assure you. Oh, lud! Mr. Surface, pray is it true that your uncle, Sir Oliver, is coming home?
Joseph. Not that I know of, indeed, sir.
Crab. He has been in the East Indies a long time. You can scarcely remember him, I believe? Sad comfort, whenever he returns, to hear how your brother has gone on.
Joseph. Charles has been imprudent, sir, to be sure; but I hope no busy people have already prejudiced Sir Oliver against him. He may reform.
Sir B. To be sure he may; for my part, I never believed him to be so utterly void of principle as people say; and though he has lost all his friends, I am told nobody is better spoken of by the Jews.
Crab. That’s true, egad! nephew. If the Old Jewry were a ward, I believe Charles would be an alderman: no man more popular there, ’fore gad! I hear he pays as many annuities as the Irish tontine; and that whenever he is sick, they have prayers for the recovery of his health in all the synagogues.
Sir B. Yet no man lives in greater splendour. They tell me, when he entertains his friends, he will sit down to dinner with a dozen of his own securities; have a score of tradesmen waiting in the ante-chamber, and an officer behind every guest’s chair.
Joseph. This may be entertainment to you, gentlemen, but you pay very little regard to the feelings of a brother.
Maria. Their malice is intolerable. Lady Sneerwell, I must wish you a good morning. I’m not very well. [Exit.
Mrs. C. Oh, dear! she changes colour very much.
Lady S. Do, Mrs. Candour, follow her: she may want your assistance.
Mrs. C. That I will, with all my soul, ma’am. Poor dear girl, who knows what her situation may be? [Exit.
Lady S. ’Twas nothing but that she could not bear to hear Charles reflected on, notwithstanding their difference.
Sir B. The young lady’s penchant is obvious.
Crab. But, Benjamin, you must not give up the pursuit for that; follow her, and put her into good humour. Repeat her some of your own verses. Come, I’ll assist you.
Sir B. Mr. Surface, I did not mean to hurt you; but depend on’t, your brother is utterly undone.
Crab. Oh, lud! ay, undone as ever man was. Can’t raise a guinea!
Sir B. And everything sold, I’m told, that was movable.
“POOR DEAR GIRL, WHO KNOWS WHAT HER SITUATION MAY BE?”
Crab. I have seen one that was at his house. Not a thing left but some empty bottles that were overlooked, and the family pictures, which I believe are framed in the wainscot!
Sir B. And I’m very sorry, also, to hear some bad stories against him.
Crab. Oh! he has done many mean things, that’s certain.
Sir B. But, however, as he’s your brother——
Crab. We’ll tell you all another opportunity.
[Exit with Sir Benjamin.
R. B. Sheridan (1751–1816).
CAPTAIN ABSOLUTE’S SUBMISSION.
Scene—Captain Absolute’s Lodgings.
Present—Captain Absolute and his Father.
Capt. Absolute. Now for a parental lecture. I hope he has heard nothing of the business that has brought me here. I wish the gout had held him fast in Devonshire, with all my soul!
Enter Sir Anthony.
Sir, I am glad to see you here, and looking so well!—your sudden arrival at Bath made me apprehensive for your health.
Sir Anth. Very apprehensive, I dare say, Jack. What, you are recruiting here, eh?
Capt. A. Yes, sir, I am on duty.
Sir Anth. Well, Jack, I am glad to see you, though I did not expect it; for I was going to write to you on a little matter of business. Jack, I have been considering that I grow old and infirm, and shall probably not trouble you long.
Capt. A. Pardon me, sir, I never saw you look more strong and hearty, and I pray fervently that you may continue so.
Sir Anth. I hope your prayers may be heard with all my heart. Well then, Jack, I have been considering that I am so strong and hearty I may continue to plague you a long time. Now, Jack, I am sensible that the income of your commission, and what I have hitherto allowed you, is but a small pittance for a lad of your spirit.
Capt. A. Sir, you are very good.
Sir Anth. And it is my wish, while yet I live, to have my boy make some figure in the world. I have resolved, therefore, to fix you at once in a noble independence.
Capt. A. Sir, your kindness overpowers me. Yet, sir, I presume you would not wish me to quit the army?
Sir Anth. Oh! that shall be as your wife chooses.
Capt. A. My wife, sir!
Sir Anth. Ay, ay, settle that between you; settle that between you.
Capt. A. A wife, sir, did you say?
Sir Anth. Ay, a wife; why, did not I mention her before?
Capt. A. Not a word of her, sir.
Sir Anth. Od so! I mustn’t forget her though—Yes, Jack, the independence I was talking of is by a marriage; the fortune is saddled with a wife; but I suppose that makes no difference.
Capt. A. Sir, sir, you amaze me!
Sir Anth. Why, what the devil’s the matter with the fool? Just now you were all gratitude and duty.
Capt. A. I was, sir; you talked to me of independence and a fortune, but not a word of a wife.
Sir Anth. Why, what difference does that make? Ods life, sir! if you have the estate, you must take it with the live stock on it, as it stands.
Capt. A. Pray, sir, who is the lady?
Sir Anth. What’s that to you, sir? Come, give me your promise to love, and to marry her directly.
Capt. A. Sure, sir, this is not very reasonable, to summon my affections for a lady I know nothing of!
Sir Anth. I am sure, sir, ’tis more unreasonable in you to object to a lady you know nothing of.
Capt. A. You must excuse me, sir, if I tell you, once for all, that in this point I cannot obey you.
Sir Anth. Harkye, Jack! I have heard you for some time with patience, I have been cool, quite cool; but take care; you know I am compliance itself,—when I am not thwarted! No one more easily led,—when I have my own way; but don’t put me in a frenzy.
Capt. A. Sir, I must repeat it,—in this I cannot obey you.
Sir Anth. Now, d—n me! if ever I call you Jack again, while I live!
Capt. A. Nay, sir, but hear me.
Sir Anth. Sir, I won’t hear a word, not a word; not one word: so give me your promise by a nod; and I’ll tell you what, Jack (I mean, you dog!), if you don’t, by——
Capt. A. What, sir, promise to link myself to some mass of ugliness!——
Sir Anth. Zounds, sirrah! the lady shall be as ugly as I choose: she shall have a hump on each shoulder; she shall be as crooked as the crescent; her one eye shall roll like the bull’s in Cox’s museum; she shall have a skin like a mummy, and the beard of a Jew; she shall be all this, sirrah! yet, I’ll make you ogle her all day, and sit up all night to write sonnets on her beauty.
Capt. A. This is reason and moderation, indeed!
Sir Anth. None of your sneering, puppy! no grinning, jackanapes!
Capt. A. Indeed, sir, I never was in a worse humour for mirth in my life.
Sir Anth. ’Tis false, sir; I know you are laughing in your sleeve! I know you’ll grin when I am gone, sirrah!
Capt. A. Sir, I hope I know my duty better.
Sir Anth. None of your passion, sir! none of your violence, if you please; it won’t do with me, I promise you.
Capt. A. Indeed, sir, I never was cooler in my life.
Sir Anth. ’Tis a confounded lie! I know you are in a passion at your heart; I know you are, you hypocritical young dog; but it won’t do.
Capt. A. Nay, sir, upon my word——
Sir Anth. So you will fly out! Can’t you be cool, like me? What the devil good can passion do? passion is of no service, you impudent, insolent, overbearing reprobate! There, you sneer again! don’t provoke me! but you rely upon the mildness of my temper; you do, you dog! you play upon the meekness of my disposition! Yet, take care; the patience of a saint may be overcome at last. But mark!—I give you six hours and a half to consider of this: if you then agree, without any condition, to do every thing on earth that I choose, why—confound you! I may in time forgive you. If not, zounds! don’t enter into the same hemisphere with me! don’t dare to breathe the same air, or use the same light with me; but get an atmosphere and a sun of your own! I’ll strip you of your commission! I’ll lodge a five-and-threepence in the hands of trustees, and you shall live on the interest. I’ll disown you, I’ll disinherit you, I’ll unget you! and d—n me! if ever I call you Jack again! [Exit.]
Capt. A. Mild, gentle, considerate father! I kiss your hands.
Enter Fag.
Fag. Assuredly, sir, your father is wroth to a degree; he comes downstairs eight or ten steps at a time, muttering, growling, or thumping the banisters all the way; I and the cook’s dog stand bowing at the door—rap! he gives me a stroke on the head with his cane; bids me carry that to my master; then kicking the poor turnspit into the area, d—ns us all for a puppy triumvirate! Upon my credit, sir, were I in your place, and found my father such very bad company, I should certainly drop his acquaintance.
Capt. A. Cease your impertinence, sir; did you come in for nothing more? Stand out of the way.
[Pushes him aside, and exit.
Fag. So! Sir Anthony trims my master; he is afraid to reply to his father, then vents his spleen on poor Fag! When one is vexed by one person, to revenge one’s self on another who happens to come in the way, shows the worst of temper, the basest——
Enter Errand Boy.
Boy. Mr. Fag! Mr. Fag! your master calls you.
Fag. Well, you little, dirty puppy, you needn’t bawl so: the meanest disposition, the——
Boy. Quick, quick, Mr. Fag!
“YOU LITTLE, IMPERTINENT, INSOLENT, KITCHEN-BRED—— ”
Fag. Quick, quick, you impudent jackanapes! am I to be commanded by you, too? you little, impertinent, insolent, kitchen-bred—— [Kicks him off, and exit.
Scene—The North Parade.
Enter Captain Absolute.
Capt. A. ’Tis just as Fag told me, indeed. Whimsical enough, ’faith. My father wants to force me to marry the very girl I am plotting to run away with. He must not know of my connection with her yet awhile. He has too summary a method of proceeding in these matters; however, I’ll read my recantation instantly. My conversion is something sudden, indeed; but, I can assure him, it is very sincere. So, so, here he comes; he looks plaguy gruff. (Steps aside.)
Enter Sir Anthony.
Sir Anth. No—I’ll sooner die than forgive him! Die, did I say? I’ll live these fifty years to plague him. At our last meeting, his impudence had almost put me out of temper; an obstinate, passionate, self-willed boy! Who can he take after? This is my return for getting him before all his brothers and sisters! for putting him at twelve years old into a marching regiment, and allowing him fifty pounds a year, besides his pay, ever since! But I’ve done with him; he’s anybody’s son for me: I never will see him more, never, never; never, never.
Capt. A. Now for a penitential face! (Advances.)
Sir Anth. Fellow, get out of the way!
Capt. A. Sir, you see a penitent before you.
Sir Anth. I see an impudent scoundrel before me.
Capt. A. A sincere penitent. I am come, sir, to acknowledge my error, and to submit entirely to your will.
Sir Anth. What’s that?
Capt. A. I have been revolving, and reflecting, and considering on your past goodness, and kindness, and condescension to me.
Sir Anth. Well, sir?
Capt. A. I have been likewise weighing and balancing what you were pleased to mention concerning duty, and obedience, and authority.
Sir Anth. Well, puppy?
Capt. A. Why, then, sir, the result of my reflections is, a resolution to sacrifice every inclination of my own to your satisfaction.
Sir Anth. Why, now you talk sense, absolute sense; I never heard anything more sensible in my life. Confound you! you shall be Jack again.
“SIR, YOU SEE A PENITENT BEFORE YOU.”
Capt. A. I am happy in the appellation.
Sir Anth. Why then, Jack, my dear Jack, I will now inform you who the lady really is. Nothing but your passion and violence, you silly fellow, prevented me telling you at first. Prepare, Jack, for wonder and rapture—prepare. What think you of Miss Lydia Languish?
Capt. A. Languish! What, the Languishes of Worcestershire?
Sir Anth. Worcestershire! no. Did you never meet Mrs. Malaprop and her niece, Miss Languish, who came into our country just before you were last ordered to your regiment?
Capt. A. Malaprop! Languish! I don’t remember ever to have heard the names before. Yet stay, I think I do recollect something—Languish—Languish—She squints, don’t she? A little red-hair’d girl!
Sir Anth. Squints! A red-hair’d girl! Zounds! no!
Capt. A. Then I must have forgot; it can’t be the same person.
Sir Anth. Jack! Jack! what think you of blooming love-breathing seventeen?
Capt. A. As to that, sir, I am quite indifferent; if I can please you in the matter, ’tis all I desire.
Sir Anth. Nay, but Jack, such eyes! such eyes! so innocently wild! so bashfully irresolute! Not a glance but speaks and kindles some thought of love! Then, Jack, her cheeks! her cheeks, Jack! so deeply blushing at the insinuations of her tell-tale eyes! Then, Jack, her lips! Oh, Jack, lips, smiling at their own discretion! and, if not smiling, more sweetly pouting—more lovely in sullenness! Then, Jack, her neck! Oh, Jack! Jack!
Capt. A. And which is to be mine, sir, the niece or her aunt?
Sir Anth. Why, you unfeeling, insensible puppy, I despise you. When I was of your age, such a description would have made me fly like a rocket! The aunt, indeed! Ods life! when I ran away with your mother, I would not have touched anything old or ugly to gain an empire.
Capt. A. Not to please your father, sir?
Sir Anth. To please my father—Zounds! not to please—Oh, my father—Odso!—yes, yes; if my father, indeed, had desired—that’s quite another matter. Though he wasn’t the indulgent father that I am, Jack.
Capt. A. I dare say not, sir.
Sir Anth. But, Jack, you are not sorry to find your mistress is so beautiful?
Capt. A. Sir, I repeat it, if I please you in this affair, ’tis all I desire. Not that I think a woman the worse for being handsome; but, sir, if you please to recollect, you before hinted something about a hump or two, one eye, and a few more graces of that kind; now, without being very nice, I own I should rather choose a wife of mine to have the usual number of limbs, and a limited quantity of back: and though one eye may be very agreeable, yet, as the prejudice has always run in favour of two, I should not wish to affect a singularity in that article.
Sir Anth. What a phlegmatic sot it is! Why, sirrah, you are an anchorite! a vile, insensible stock! You a soldier! You’re a walking block, fit only to dust the company’s regimentals on! Ods life! I’ve a great mind to marry the girl myself!
Capt. A. I am entirely at your disposal, sir; if you should think of addressing Miss Languish yourself, I suppose you would have me marry the aunt; or if you should change your mind, and take the old lady,—’tis the same to me, I’ll marry the niece.
Sir Anth. Upon my word, Jack, thou art either a very great hypocrite, or—but, come, I know your indifference on such a subject must be all a lie—I’m sure it must—come now, d—n your demure face; come, confess, Jack, you have been lying—ha’n’t you? You have been playing the hypocrite, eh?—I’ll never forgive you, if you ha’n’t been lying and playing the hypocrite.
Capt. A. I’m sorry, sir, that the respect and duty which I bear to you should be so mistaken.
Sir Anth. Hang your respect and duty! But come along with me. I’ll write a note to Mrs. Malaprop, and you shall visit the lady directly. Her eyes shall be the Promethean torch to you—come along: I’ll never forgive you, if you don’t come back stark mad with rapture and impatience—if you don’t, egad, I’ll marry the girl myself. [Exeunt.
R. B. Sheridan.
ANA.
When some one proposed to tax milestones, Sheridan protested that it would not be constitutional or fair, as they could not meet to remonstrate.
Lord Lauderdale having declared his intention to circulate some witticism of Sheridan’s, the latter hastily exclaimed, “Pray don’t, my dear Lauderdale; a joke in your mouth is no laughing matter!”
Lord Erskine on one occasion said that “a wife was only a tin canister tied to one’s tail.” Lady Erskine was justly annoyed at this remark, and Sheridan dashed off this impromptu:—
“Lord Erskine, at woman presuming to rail,
Calls a wife a tin canister tied to one’s tail;
And fair Lady Anne, while the subject he carries on,
Seems hurt at his lordship’s degrading comparison.
But wherefore degrading? Considered aright,
A canister’s polished and useful and bright;
And should dirt its original purity hide,
That’s the fault of the puppy to whom it is tied.”
Sheridan met two sprigs of nobility one day in St. James’s Street, and one of them said to him, “I say, Sherry, we have just been discussing which you were, a knave or a fool. What is your opinion on the subject?” Sheridan took each of them by the arm, and replied, “Why, faith, I believe I am between the two.”
Of his parliamentary opponent, Mr. Dundas, he once said, “The honourable gentleman is indebted to his imagination for his facts, and to his memory for his jests.”
“‘WHY, FAITH, I BELIEVE I AM BETWEEN THE TWO.’”
When he was found intoxicated in the gutter by a night-watchman and was asked his name, he replied, “Wilberforce,” meaning the eminent teetotal advocate.
Once at a parliamentary committee he found every seat occupied, and looking round, asked, “Will any gentleman move that I may take the chair?”
Michael Kelly, the singer and composer, kept a shop at the bottom of the Haymarket, where he sold wine and music. He asked Sheridan for a sign, and Sheridan gave him the following:—“Michael Kelly, composer of wine and importer of music.”
MY AMBITION.
Ease often visits shepherd-swains,
Nor in the lowly cot disdains
To take a bit of dinner;
But would not for a turtle-treat,
Sit with a miser or a cheat,
Or cankered party sinner.
Ease makes the sons of labour glad,
Ease travels with the merry lad
Who whistles by his waggon;
With me she prattles all day long,
And choruses my simple song,
And shares my foaming flagon.
The lamp of life is soon burnt out;
Then who’d for riches make a rout,
Except a doating blockhead?
When Charon takes ’em both aboard,
Of equal worth’s the miser’s hoard
And spendthrift’s empty pocket.
In such a scurvy world as this
We must not hope for perfect bliss,
And length of life together;
We have no moral liberty
At will to live, at will to die,
In fair or stormy weather.
Many, I see, have riches plenty—
Fine coaches, livery, servants twenty;—
Yet envy never pains me;
My appetite’s as good as theirs,
I sleep as sound, as free from fears;
I’ve only what maintains me!
And while the precious joys I prove
Of Tom’s true friendship—and the love
Of bonny black-ey’d Jenny,—
Ye gods! my wishes are confin’d
To—health of body, peace of mind,
Clean linen, and a guinea!
Edward Lysaght (1763–1810).
A WAREHOUSE FOR WIT.
It is with men of their wit, as with women of their beauty. Tell a woman she is fair, and she will not be offended that you tell her she is cruel. Tell a man that he is a wit, and if you lay to his charge ill-nature or blasphemy, he will take it as a compliment rather than a reproach. Thus, too, there is no woman but lays some claim to beauty; and no man will give up his pretensions to wit. In cases of this kind, therefore, where so much depends upon opinion, and where every man thinks himself qualified to be his own judge, there is nothing so useless to a reader as illustrations; and nothing to an author so dangerous as definition. Any attempt therefore to decide what true wit is must be ineffectual, as not one in a hundred would be content to abide by the decision; it is impossible to rank all mankind under the name of wits, and there is scarce one in a hundred who does not think that he merits the appellation.
Hence it is that every one, how little qualified soever, is fond of making a display of his fancied abilities; and generally at the expense of some one to whom he supposes himself infinitely superior. And from this supposition many mistakes arise to those who commence wags, with a very small share of wit, and a still smaller of judgment; whose imaginations are by nature unprolific, and whose minds are uncultivated by education. These persons, while they are ringing their rounds on a few dull jests, are apt to mistake the rude and noisy merriment of illiterate jocularity for genuine humour. They often unhappily conceive that those laugh with them who laugh at them. The sarcasms which every one disdains to answer, they vainly flatter themselves are unanswerable; forgetting, no doubt, that their good things are unworthy the notice of a retort, and below the condescension of criticism. They know not perhaps that the Ass, whom the fable represents assuming the playfulness of the lap-dog, is a perfect picture of jocular stupidity; and that, in like manner, that awkward absurdity of waggishness which they expect should delight, cannot but disgust; and instead of laying claim to admiration, must ensure contempt. But, alas! I am aware that mine will prove a success-less undertaking; and that though knight-errant-like I sally forth to engage with the monsters of witticism and waggery, all my prowess will be inadequate to the achievement of the enterprise. The world will continue as facetious as ever in spite of all I can do; and people will be just as fond of their “little jokes and old stories” as if I had never combated their inclination.
Since then I cannot utterly extirpate this unchristian practice, my next endeavour must be to direct it properly, and improve it by some wholesome regulations. I propose, if I meet with proper encouragement, making application to Parliament for permission to open “A Licensed Warehouse for Wit,” and for a patent, entitling me to the sole vending and uttering ware of this kind, for a certain term of years. For this purpose I have already laid in Jokes, Jests, Witticisms, Morceaus, and Bon-Mots of every kind, to a very considerable amount, well worthy the attention of the public. I have Epigrams that want nothing but the sting; Conundrums that need nothing but an explanation; Rebuses and Acrostics that will be complete with the addition of the name only. These being in great request, may be had at an hour’s warning. Impromptus will be got ready at a week’s notice. For common and vernacular use, I have a long list of the most palpable Puns in the language, digested in alphabetical order; for these I expect good sale at both the universities. Jokes of all kinds, ready cut and dry.
N.B.—Proper allowance made to gentlemen of the law going on circuit; and to all second-hand vendors of wit and retailers of repartee, who take large quantities.
N.B.—Attic Salt in any quantity.
N.B.—Most money for old Jokes.
George Canning (1770–1827).
CONJUGAL AFFECTION.
When Elliott (called the Salamander)
Was famed Gibraltar’s stout commander,
A soldier there went to a well
To fetch home water to his Nell;
But fate decreed the youth to fall
A victim to a cannon ball.
One brought the tidings to his spouse,
Which drove her frantic from the house;
On wings of love the creature fled
To seek her dear—she found him dead!
Her husband killed—the water spilt—
Judge, ye fond females, what she felt!
She looked—she sighed—and melting, spoke—
“Thank God, the pitcher is not broke!”
Thomas Cannings (fl. 1790–1800).
WHISKY, DRINK DIVINE!
Whisky, drink divine!
Why should drivellers bore us
With the praise of wine
While we’ve thee before us?
Were it not a shame,
Whilst we gaily fling thee
To our lips of flame,
If we could not sing thee?
Whisky, drink divine, etc.
Greek and Roman sung
Chian and Falernian—
Shall no harp be strung
To thy praise, Hibernian?
Yes! let Erin’s sons—
Generous, brave, and frisky—
Tell the world at once
They owe it to their whisky—
Whisky, drink divine, etc.
If Anacreon—who
Was the grape’s best poet—
Drank our mountain-dew,
How his verse would show it!
As the best then known,
He to wine was civil;
Had he Inishowen,
He’d pitch wine to the divil—
Whisky, drink divine, etc.
Bright as beauty’s eye,
When no sorrow veils it:
Sweet as beauty’s sigh,
When young love inhales it:
Come, then, to my lips—
Come, thou rich in blisses!
Every drop I sip
Seems a shower of kisses—
Whisky, drink divine, etc.
Could my feeble lays
Half thy virtues number,
A whole grove of bays
Should my brows encumber.
Be his name adored,
Who summed up thy merits
In one little word,
When he called thee spirits—
Whisky, drink divine, etc.
Send it gaily round—
Life would be no pleasure,
If we had not found
This enchanting treasure:
And when tyrant death’s
Arrow shall transfix ye,
Let your latest breaths
Be whisky! whisky! whisky!
Whisky, drink divine, etc.
Joseph O’Leary (17— -1845?).
TO A YOUNG LADY BLOWING A TURF FIRE WITH HER PETTICOAT.
Cease, cease, Amira, peerless maid!
Though we delighted gaze,
While artless you excite the flame,
We perish in the blaze.
Haply you too provoke your harm—
Forgive the bold remark—
Your petticoat may fan the fire,
But, O! beware a spark!
Anonymous (1772).
EPIGRAMS, ETC.
On Lord Dudley, who was noted for learning all his speeches by heart.
In vain my affections the ladies are seeking:
If I give up my heart, there’s an end to my speaking.
On Miss Ellen Tree, the singer.
On this Tree if a nightingale settles and sings,
The tree will return her as good as she brings.
On Moore the poet’s excuse to his guests that his servant was ill from the effects of a carousal.
Come, come, for trifles never stick,
Most servants have a failing,
Yours, it is true, are sometimes sick,
But mine are always aleing.
On being asked what “on the contrary” meant, when that phrase was used by a person charged with eating three eggs every morning, Luttrell’s ready retort was, “Laying them, I daresay.”
I hate the sight of monkeys, they remind one so of poor relations.
On a man run over by an omnibus.
Killed by an omnibus—why not?
So quick a death a boon is.
Let not his friends lament his lot—
Mors omnibus communis.
At one of the crowded receptions at Holland House, Lady Holland was requested by the guests to “make room.” “It must certainly be made, for it does not exist,” said Luttrell.
On Samuel Rogers’ poem, “Italy,” which was illustrated by Turner.
Of Rogers’ “Italy” Luttrell relates
That ’twould have been dished, if ’twere not for the plates!
Henry Luttrell (1766?-1851.)
LETTER FROM MISS BETTY FUDGE, IN PARIS, TO MISS DOROTHY——.
What a time since I wrote!—I’m a sad naughty girl—
For though, like a tee-totum, I’m all in a twirl;—
Yet ev’n (as you wittily say) a tee-totum
Between all its twirls gives a letter to note ’em.
But, Lord, such a place! and then, Dolly, my dresses,
My gowns, so divine!—there’s no language expresses,
Except just the words “superbe,” “magnifique,”
The trimmings of that which I had home last week!
It is call’d—I forget—à la—something which sounded
Like alicampane—but, in truth, I’m confounded
And bother’d, my dear, ’twixt that troublesome boy’s
(Bob’s) cookery language, and Madame Le Roi’s:
What with fillets of roses and fillets of veal,
Things garni with lace, and things garni with eel,
One’s hair and one’s cutlets both en popillote,
And a thousand more things I shall ne’er have by rote,
I can scarce tell the diff’rence, at least as to phrase,
Between beef à la Psyche and curls à la braise.—
But, in short, dear, I’m trick’d out quite à la Française,
With my bonnet—so beautiful!—high up and poking,
Like things that are put to keep chimneys from smoking.
Where shall I begin with the endless delights
Of this Eden of milliners, monkeys, and sights—
This dear busy place, where there’s nothing transacting
But dressing and dinnering, dancing and acting?
Imprimis, the opera—mercy, my ears!
Brother Bobby’s remark, t’other night, was a true one;—
“This must be the music,” said he, “of the spears,
For I’m curst if each note of it doesn’t run through one!”
Pa says (and you know, love, his Book’s to make out,
’Twas the Jacobins brought ev’ry mischief about)
That this passion for roaring has come in of late,
Since the rabble all tried for a voice in the State.—
What a frightful idea, one’s mind to o’erwhelm!
What a chorus, dear Dolly, would soon be let loose of it,
If, when of age, every man in the realm
Had a voice like old Laïs,[5] and chose to make use of it;
No—never was known in this riotous sphere
Such a breach of the peace as their singing, my dear.
So bad, too, you’d swear that the God of both arts,
Of Music and Physic, had taken a frolic
For setting a loud fit of asthma in parts,
And composing a fine rumbling base in a cholic!
But the dancing—ah! parlez-moi, Dolly, de ça—
There, indeed, is a treat that charms all but Papa.
Such beauty—such grace—oh, ye sylphs of romance!
Fly, fly to Titania, and ask her if she has
One light-footed nymph in her train, that can dance
Like divine Bigottini and sweet Fanny Bias!
Fanny Bias in Flora—dear creature!—you’d swear,
When her delicate feet in the dance twinkle round,
That her steps are of light, that her home is the air,
And she only par complaisance touches the ground.
And when Bigottini in Psyche dishevels
Her black flowing hair, and by demons is driven,
Oh! who does not envy those rude little devils,
That hold her and hug her, and keep her from Heaven?
Then, the music—so softly its cadences die,
So divinely—oh, Dolly! between you and I,
It’s as well for my peace that there’s nobody nigh
To make love to me then—you’ve a soul, and can judge
What a crisis ’twould be for your friend, Betty Fudge!
The next place (which Bobby has near lost his heart in)
They call it the Play-house—I think—of St. Martin;
Quite charming—and very religious—what folly
To say that the French are not pious, dear Dolly,
When here one beholds, so correctly and rightly,
The Testament turned into melodrames nightly;
And, doubtless, so fond they’re of scriptural facts,
They will soon get the Pentateuch up in five acts.
Here Daniel, in pantomime, bids bold defiance
To Nebuchadnezzar and all his stuff’d lions,
While pretty young Israelites dance round the Prophet,
In very thin clothing, and but little of it;—
Here Bégrand,[6] who shines in the scriptural path,
As the lovely Suzanna, without ev’n a relic
Of drapery round her, comes out of the bath
In a manner that, Bob says, is quite Eve-angelic!
But, in short, dear, ’twould take me a month to recite
All the exquisite places we’re at, day and night.
Thomas Moore (1779–1852).
MONTMORENCI AND CHERUBINA.
[The two extracts which follow are taken from a burlesque novel which had a great success early in the century. Its ridicule of the Radcliffian type of romance, full of accumulated horrors and grotesque affectation, probably did much to extirpate the worst examples of that unrealistic school.]
This morning, soon after breakfast, I heard a gentle knocking at my door, and, to my great astonishment, a figure, cased in shining armour, entered. Oh! ye conscious blushes; it was my Montmorenci! A plume of white feathers nodded on his helmet, and neither spear nor shield were wanting. “I come,” cried he, bending on one knee, and pressing my hand to his lips, “I come in the ancient armour of my family to perform my promise of recounting to you the melancholy memoirs of my life.” “My lord,” said I, “rise and be seated. Cherubina knows how to appreciate the honour that Montmorenci confers.” He bowed; and having laid by his spear, shield, and helmet, he placed himself beside me on the sofa, and began his heart-rending history.
“All was dark. The hurricane howled, the hail rattled, and the thunder rolled. Nature was convulsed, and the traveller inconvenienced. In the province of Languedoc stood the Gothic castle of Montmorenci. Before it ran the Garonne, and behind it rose the Pyrenees, whose summits exhibiting awful forms, seen and lost again, as the partial vapours rolled along, were sometimes barren, and gleamed through the blue tinge of air, and sometimes frowned with forests of gloomy fir, that swept downward to their base. ‘My lads, are your carbines charged, and your daggers sharpened?’ whispered Rinaldo, with his plume of black feathers, to the banditti, in their long cloaks. ‘If they an’t,’ said Bernardo, ‘by St. Jago, we might load our carbines with the hail, and sharpen our daggers against this confounded north-wind.’ ‘The wind is east-south-east,’ said Ugo. At this moment the bell of Montmorenci Castle tolled one. The sound vibrated through the long corridors, the spiral staircases, the suites of tapestried apartments, and the ears of the personage who has the honour to address you. Much alarmed, I started from my couch, which was of exquisite workmanship; the coverlet of flowered gold, and the canopy of white velvet painted over with jonquils and butterflies by Michael Angelo. But conceive my horror when I beheld my chamber filled with banditti! Snatching my faulchion, I flew to the armoury for my coat of mail; the bravos rushed after me, but I fought and dressed and dressed and fought, till I had perfectly completed my unpleasing toilet. I then stood alone, firm, dignified, collected, and only fifteen years of age.”
“‘Alack! there lies more peril in thine eye,
Than twenty of their swords——’
To describe the horror of the contest that followed were beyond the pen of an Anacreon. In short, I fought till my silver skin was laced with my golden blood; while the bullets flew round me, thick as hail,
“‘And whistled as they went for want of thought.’
At length I murdered my way down to my little skiff, embarked in it, and arrived at this island. As I first touched foot on its chalky beach, ‘Hail! happy land,’ cried I, ‘hail, thrice hail!’ ‘There is no hail here, sir,’ said a child running by.... Nine days and nights I wandered through the country, the rivulet my beverage, and the berry my repast; the turf my couch, and the sky my canopy.” “Ah!” interrupted I, “how much you must have missed the canopy of white velvet painted over with jonquils and butterflies!” “Extremely,” said he, “for during sixteen long years I had not a roof over my head—I was an itinerant beggar! One summer’s day, the cattle lay panting under the broad umbrage, the sun had burst into an immoderate fit of splendour, and the struggling brook chided the matted grass for obstructing it. I sat under a hedge, and began eating wild strawberries; when lo! a form, flexile as the flame ascending from a censer, and undulating with the sighs of a dying vestal, flitted inaudible by me, nor crushed the daisies as it trod. What a divinity! she was fresh as the Anadyomene of Apelles, and beautiful as the Gnidus of Praxiteles, or the Helen of Zeuxis. Her eyes dipt in heaven’s own hue——” “Sir,” said I, “you need not mind her eyes; I dare say they were blue enough. But pray, who was this immortal doll of yours?” “Who?” cried he, “why, who but—shall I speak it? who but—the Lady Cherubina De Willoughby!!!” “I!” “You!” “Ah! Montmorenci!” “Ah! Cherubina! I followed you with cautious steps,” continued he, “till I traced you into your—you had a garden, had you not?” “Yes.” “Into your garden. I thought ten thousand flowerets would have leapt from their beds to offer you a nosegay. But the age of gallantry is past, that of merchants, placemen, and fortune-hunters has succeeded, and the glory of Cupid is extinguished for ever!... But wherefore,” cried he, starting from his seat, “wherefore talk of the past? Oh! let me tell you of the present and of the future. Oh! let me tell you how dearly, how deeply, how devotedly I love you!” “Love me!” cried I, giving such a start as the nature of the case required. “My Lord, this is so—really now, so——” “Pardon this abrupt avowal of my unhappy passion,” said he, flinging himself at my feet; “fain would I have let concealment, like a worm in the bud, feed on my damask cheek; but, oh! who could resist the maddening sight of so much beauty?” I remained silent, and, with the elegant embarrassment of modesty, cast my blue eyes to the ground. I never looked so lovely.... “I declare,” said I, “I would say anything on earth to relieve you—only tell me what.” “Angel of light!” exclaimed he, springing upon his feet, and beaming on me a smile that might liquefy marble. “Have I then hope? Dare I say it? Dare I pronounce the divine words, ‘she loves me’?” “I am thine and thou art mine,” murmured I, while the room swam before me.
Eaton Stannard Barrett (1786–1820).
MODERN MEDIÆVALISM.
CHAPTER I.
“Blow, blow, thou wintry wind.”
—Shakespeare.
“Blow, breezes, blow.”
—Moore.
It was on a nocturnal night in autumnal October; the wet rain fell in liquid quantities, and the thunder rolled in an awful and Ossianly manner. The lowly but peaceful inhabitants of a small but decent cottage were just sitting down to their homely but wholesome supper, when a loud knocking at the door alarmed them. Bertram armed himself with a ladle. “Lack-a-daisy!” cried old Margueritone, and little Billy seized the favourable moment to fill his mouth with meat. Innocent fraud! happy childhood!
“The father’s lustre and the mother’s bloom.”
Bertram then opened the door, when, lo! pale, breathless, dripping, and with a look that would have shocked the Royal Humane Society, a beautiful female tottered into the room. “Lack-a-daisy! ma’am,” said Margueritone, “are you wet?” “Wet?” exclaimed the fair unknown, wringing a rivulet of rain from the corner of her robe; “O ye gods, wet!” Margueritone felt the justice, the gentleness of the reproof, and turned the subject, by recommending a glass of spirits.
“Spirit of my sainted sire.”
The stranger sipped, shook her head, and fainted. Her hair was long and dark, and the bed was ready; so since she seems in distress, we will leave her there awhile, lest we should betray an ignorance of the world in appearing not to know the proper time for deserting people.
On the rocky summit of a beetling precipice, whose base was lashed by the angry Atlantic, stood a moated and turreted structure called Il Castello di Grimgothico. As the northern tower had remained uninhabited since the death of its late lord, Henriques de Violenci, lights and figures were, par consequence, observed in it at midnight. Besides, the black eyebrows of the present baron had a habit of meeting for several years, and quelque fois, he paced the picture-gallery with a hurried step. These circumstances combined, there could be no doubt of his having committed murder....
CHAPTER II.
“Oh!”
—Milton.
“Ah!”
—Pope.
One evening, the Baroness de Violenci, having sprained her left leg in the composition of an ecstatic ode, resolved not to go to Lady Penthesilea Rouge’s rout. While she was sitting alone at a plate of prawns, the footman entered with a basket, which had just been left for her. “Lay it down, John,” said she, touching his forehead with her fork. The gay-hearted young fellow did as he was desired and capered out of the room. Judge of her astonishment when she found, on opening it, a little cherub of a baby sleeping within. An oaken cross, with “Hysterica” inscribed in chalk, was appended at its neck, and a mark, like a bruised gooseberry, added interest to its elbow. As she and her lord had never had children, she determined, sur le champ, on adopting the pretty Hysterica. Fifteen years did this worthy woman dedicate to the progress of her little charge; and in that time taught her every mortal accomplishment. Her sigh, particularly, was esteemed the softest in Europe.
But the stroke of death is inevitable; come it must at last, and neither virtue nor wisdom can avoid it. In a word, the good old Baroness died, and our heroine fell senseless on her body.
“O what a fall was there, my countrymen!”
But it is now time to describe our heroine. As Milton tells us that Eve was “more lovely than Pandora” (an imaginary lady who never existed but in the brains of poets), so do we declare, and are ready to stake our lives, that our heroine excelled in her form the Timinitilidi, whom no man ever saw; and in her voice, the music of the spheres, which no man ever heard. Perhaps her face was not perfect; but it was more—it was interesting—it was oval. Her eyes were of the real, original old blue; and her lashes of the best silk. You forgot the thickness of her lips in the casket of pearls which they enshrined; and the roses of York and Lancaster were united in her cheek. A nose of the Grecian order surmounted the whole. Such was Hysterica.
But, alas! misfortunes are often gregarious, like sheep. For one night, when our heroine had repaired to the chapel, intending to drop her customary tear on the tomb of her sainted benefactress, she heard on a sudden,
“Oh, horrid horrible, and horridest horror!”
the distant organ peal a solemn voluntary. While she was preparing, in much terror and astonishment, to accompany it with her voice, four men in masks rushed from among some tombs and bore her to a carriage, which instantly drove off with the whole party. In vain she sought to soften them by swoons, tears, and a simple little ballad; they sat counting murders and not minding her. As the blinds of the carriage were closed the whole way, we waive a description of the country which they traversed. Besides, the prospect within the carriage will occupy the reader enough; for in one of the villains Hysterica discovered—Count Stilletto! She fainted. On the second day the carriage stopped at an old castle, and she was conveyed into a tapestried apartment—in which rusty daggers, mouldering bones, and ragged palls lay scattered in all the profusion of feudal plenty—where the delicate creature fell ill of an inverted eyelash, caused by continual weeping....
CHAPTER III.
“Sure such a day as this was never seen!”
—Thomas Thumb.
“The day, th’ important day!”
—Addison.
“O giorno felice!”
—Italian.
The morning of the happy day destined to unite our lovers was ushered into the world with a blue sky, and the ringing of bells. Maidens, united in bonds of amity and artificial roses, come dancing to the pipe and tabor; while groups of children and chickens add hilarity to the union of congenial minds. On the left of the village are some plantations of tufted turnips; on the right a dilapidated dog-kennel
“With venerable grandeur marks the scene,”
while everywhere the delighted eye catches monstrous mountains and minute daisies. In a word,
“All nature wears one universal grin.”
The procession now set forward to the church. The bride was habited in white drapery. Ten signs of the Zodiac, worked in spangles, sparkled round its edge, but Virgo was omitted at her desire, and the bridegroom proposed to dispense with Capricorn. Sweet delicacy! She held a pot of myrtle in her hand, and wore on her head a small lighted torch, emblematical of Hymen.... The marriage ceremony passed off with great spirit, and the fond bridegroom, as he pressed her to his heart, felt how pure, how delicious are the joys of virtue.
Eaton Stannard Barrett.
THE NIGHT BEFORE LARRY WAS STRETCHED.[7]
The night before Larry was stretched,
The boys they all paid him a visit;
A bit in their sacks, too, they fetched—
They sweated their duds till they riz it;
For Larry was always the lad,
When a friend was condemned to the squeezer,
To fence all the togs that he had,
Just to help the poor boy to a sneezer,
And moisten his gob ’fore he died.
“I’m sorry now, Larry,” says I,
“To see you in this situation;
’Pon my conscience, my lad, I don’t lie,
I’d rather it was my own station.”
“Ochone! ’tis all over,” says he,
“For the neckcloth I am forced to put on,
And by this time to-morrow you’ll see
Your Larry will be dead as mutton;
Bekase why?—his courage was good!”
The boys they came crowding in fast;
They drew all their stools round about him,
Six glims round his trap-case were placed—
He couldn’t be well waked without ’em.
I ax’d him was he fit to die,
Without having duly repented?
Says Larry, “That’s all in my eye,
And all by the gownsmen invented,
To make a fat bit for themselves.”
Then the cards being called for, they played,
Till Larry found one of them cheated;
Quick he made a smart stroke at his head—
The lad being easily heated.
“Oh! by the holy, you thief,
I’ll scuttle your nob with my daddle!
You cheat me bekase I’m in grief,
But soon I’ll demolish your noddle,
And leave you your claret to drink.”
Then in came the priest with his book;
He spoke him so smooth and so civil;
Larry tipp’d him a Kilmainham look,
And pitched his big wig to the divil.
Then stooping a little his head,
To get a sweet drop of the bottle,
And pitiful, sighing he said,
“Oh! the hemp will be soon round my throttle,
And choke my poor windpipe to death!”
So moving these last words he spoke,
We all vented our tears in a shower;
For my part, I thought my heart broke,
To see him cut down like a flower!
On his travels we watched him next day,
Oh! the hangman I thought I could kill him!
Not one word did our poor Larry say,
Nor changed, till he came to “King William”:
Och! my dear, then his colour turned white.
When he came to the nubbling chit,
He was tucked up so neat and so pretty,
The rumbler jogged off from his feet,
And he died with his face to the city.
He kicked, too, but that was all pride,
For soon you might see ’twas all over;
And as soon as the noose was untied,
Then at evening we waked him in clover,
And sent him to take a ground sweat.
William Maher (?) (fl. 1780).