Riddle.
A LITERARY CHARACTER.
I have long maintained a distinguished station in our modern days, but I cannot trace my origin to ancient times, though the learned have attempted it. After the revolution in 1688, I was chief physician to the king; at least in my absence he ever complained of sickness. Had I lived in ancient days, so friendly was I to crowned heads, that Cleopatra would have got off with a sting; and her cold arm would have felt a reviving heat. I am rather a friend to sprightliness than to industry; I have often converted a neutral pronoun into a man of talent: I have often amused myself with reducing the provident ant to indigence; I never meet a post horse without giving him a blow; to some animals I am a friend, and many a puppy has yelped for aid when I have deserted him. I am a patron of architecture, and can turn every thing into brick and mortar; and so honest withal, that whenever I can find a pair of stockings, I ask for their owner. Not even Lancaster has carried education so far as I have: I adopt always the system of interrogatories. I have already taught my hat to ask questions of fact; and my poultry questions of chronology. With my trees I share the labours of my laundry; they scour my linen; and when I find a rent, ’tis I who make it entire.
In short, such are my merits, that whatever yours may be, you can never be more than half as good as I am.
ANSWER
TO THE PRECEDING.
A literary character you view,
Known to the moderns only—W:
I was physician to king William;
When absent, he would say, “how—ill I am!”
In ancient days if I had liv’d, the asp
Which poison’d Egypt’s queen, had been a—Wasp;
And the death-coldness of th’ imperial arm
With life reviving had again been—Warm.
A friend to sprightliness, that neuter it
By sudden pow’r I’ve chang’d into a—Wit.
The vainly-provident industrious ant
With cruel sport I oft reduce to—Want;
Whene’er I meet with an unlucky hack,
I give the creature a tremendous—Whack:
And many a time a puppy cries for help,
If I desert capriciously the—Whelp.
A friend to architecture, I turn all
(As quick as Chelt’nham builders) into—Wall.
I’m honest, for whene’er I find some hose,
I seek the owner, loud exclaiming—Whose?
Farther than Lancaster I educate,
My system’s always to interrogate;
Already have I taught my very hat
Questions of fact to ask, and cry out—What?
Questions of time my poultry, for the hen
Cackles chronology, enquiring—When?
My laundry’s labour I divide with ashes;
It is with them the laundress scours and—Washes:
And if an ugly rent I find, the hole
Instantly vanishes, becoming—Whole.
In short, my merits are so bright to view
How good soe’er you may be, just or true,
You can but halve my worth, for I am—double you.
Cheltenham.
THE MERRY MONARCH,
AND “BLYTHE COCKPEN.”
While Charles II. was sojourning in Scotland, before the battle of Worcester, his chief confidant and associate was the laird of Cockpen, called by the nick-naming fashion of the times, “Blythe Cockpen.” He followed Charles to the Hague, and by his skill in playing Scottish tunes, and his sagacity and wit, much delighted the merry monarch. Charles’s favourite air was “Brose and Butter;” it was played to him when he went to bed, and he was awakened by it. At the restoration, however, Blythe Cockpen shared the fate of many other of the royal adherents; he was forgotten, and wandered upon the lands he once owned in Scotland, poor and unfriended. His letters to the court were unpresented, or disregarded, till, wearied and incensed, he travelled to London; but his mean garb not suiting the rich doublets of court, he was not allowed to approach the royal presence. At length, he ingratiated himself with the king’s organist, who was so enraptured with Cockpen’s wit and powers of music, that he requested him to play on the organ before the king at divine service. His exquisite skill did not attract his majesty’s notice, till, at the close of the service, instead of the usual tune, he struck up “Brose and Butter,” with all its energetic merriment. In a moment the royal organist was ordered into the king’s presence. “My liege, it was not me! it was not me!” he cried, and dropped upon his knees. “You!” cried his majesty, in a rapture, “you could never play it in your life—where’s the man? let me see him.” Cockpen presented himself on his knee. “Ah, Cockpen, is that you?—Lord, man, I was like to dance coming out of the church!”—“I once danced too,” said Cockpen, “but that was when I had land of my own to dance on.”—“Come with me,” said Charles taking him by the hand, “you shall dance to Brose and Butter on your own lands again to the nineteenth generation;” and as far as he could, the king kept his promise.