"Friend," quoth the razor-man, "I'm not a knave; As for the razors you have bought, Upon my soul, I never thought That they would shave." "Not think they'd shave!" quoth Hodge, with wondering eyes, And voice not much unlike an Indian yell; "What were they made for, then, you dog?" he cries. "Made," quoth the fellow with a smile,—"to sell."
DR. JOHN WOLCOTT. (Peter Pindar)
PAPER. A CONVERSATIONAL PLEASANTRY.
Some wit of old—such wits of old there were, Whose hints showed meaning, whose allusions care— By one brave stroke to mark all human kind, Called clear, blank paper every infant mind: Where still, as opening sense her dictates wrote, Fair virtue put a seal, or vice a blot.
The thought was happy, pertinent, and true; Methinks a genius might the plan pursue. I (can you pardon my presumption?)—I, No wit, no genius, yet for once will try.
Various the paper various wants produce,— The wants of fashion, elegance, and use. Men are as various; and, if right I scan, Each sort of paper represents some man.
Pray note the fop, half powder and half lace; Nice, as a bandbox were his dwelling-place; He's the gilt-paper, which apart you store, And lock from vulgar hands in the 'scrutoire.
Mechanics, servants, farmers, and so forth Are copy-paper of inferior worth; Less prized, more useful, for your desk decreed; Free to all pens, and prompt at every need.
The wretch whom avarice bids to pinch and spare, Starve, cheat, and pilfer, to enrich an heir, Is coarse brown paper, such as pedlers choose To wrap up wares, which better men will use.
Take next the miser's contrast, who destroys Health, fame, and fortune in a round of joys; Will any paper match him? Yes, throughout; He's a true sinking-paper, past all doubt. The retail politician's anxious thought Deems this side always right, and that stark naught; He foams with censure; with applause he raves; A dupe to rumors and a tool of knaves; He'll want no type, his weakness to proclaim, While such a thing as foolscap has a name.