An
Outline of Humor

Being a True Chronicle From
Prehistoric Ages to the
Twentieth Century

Edited by

Carolyn Wells

Editor of
“The Book of Humorous Verse,”
“A Nonsense Anthology,” etc.

G. P. Putnam’s Sons
New York & London
The Knickerbocker Press
1923

Copyright, 1923
by
Carolyn Wells Houghton

Made in the United States of America

Dedicated
WITH
Highest Regard
TO
DOCTOR HUBER GRAY BUEHLER

Outlining is a modern art. For centuries we have collected and selected, compiled and compended, but only of late have we outlined.

And an Outline is a result differing in kind from the other work mentioned, and presenting different conditions and contingencies.

An Outline, owing to its sweep of magnificent distances, can touch only the high spots, and can but skim those. Not in its province is criticism or exhaustive commentary. Not in its scope are long effusions or lengthy extracts.

Nor may it include everybody or everything that logically belongs to it.

An Outline is at best an irregular proposition, and the Outliner must follow his irregular path as best he may. But one thing is imperative, the Outliner must be conscientious. He must weigh to the best of his knowledge and belief the claims to inclusion that his opportunities present. He must pick and choose with all the discernment of which he is capable and while following his best principles of taste he must sink his personal preferences in his regard for his Outline as a whole.

Nor can he pick and choose his audience. To one reader,—or critic,—a hackneyed selection is tiresome, while to another it is a novelty and a revelation. And it must be remembered that a hackneyed poem is a favorite one and a favorite is one adjudged best, by a consensus of human opinion, and is therefore a high spot to be touched upon.

While the Outline is generally chronological, it is not a history and dates are not given. Also, when it seemed advisable to desert the chronological path for the topographical one, that was done.

[vi]

Yet Foreign Literatures cannot be adequately treated in an Outline printed in English. Translations are at best misleading. If the translation is a poor one, the pith and moment of the original is partly, or wholly lost. And if the translation be of great merit, the work may show the merit of the new rendition rather than the original.

And aside from all that, few translations of Humor are to be found.

The translators of foreign tongues choose first the philosophy, the fiction or the serious poetry of the other nations, leaving the humor, if any there be, to hang unplucked on the tree of knowledge.

So the foreign material is scant, but the high spots are touched as far as could be found convenient.

The Outline stops at the year 1900. Humor since then is too close to be viewed in proper perspective.

But the present Outliner mainly hopes to show how, with steady footstep, from the Caveman to the current comics Humor has followed the Flag.

C. W.

New York,

April, 1923.

All rights on poems and prose in this volume are reserved by the authorized publisher, the author, or the holder of copyright, with whom special arrangements have been made for including such material in this work. The editor expresses thanks for such permission as indicated below.

D. Appleton & Company: For “To a Mosquito” by William Cullen Bryant; “Tushmaker’s Tooth-Puller” by G. H. Derby; and for “The Sad End of Brer Wolf” by Joel C. Harris, from Uncle Remus, His Songs and His Sayings.

The Century Co.: For an extract from the “Chimmie Fadden” stories; and for the poem “What’s in a Name?” by R. K. Munkittrick.

David McKay Company: For “Ballad of the Noble Ritter Hugo” by Charles G. Leland.

Dodd, Mead and Company: For “At the Sign of the Cock” by Owen Seaman; “Here Is the Tale” by Anthony C. Deane; and “On a Fan” and “The Rondeau” by Austin Dobson.

Forbes & Company: For “If I Should Die To-Night” and “The Pessimist” by Ben King.

Harper & Brothers: For “Elegy” and “Mavrone” by Arthur Guiterman. With the permission of the Estate of Samuel L. Clemens, the Mark Twain Company, and Harper & Brothers, publishers, with a full reservation of all copyright privileges is included an extract from the “Jumping Frog” by Mark Twain.

Hurst & Company: For an extract from “Bill Nye.”

Houghton Mifflin Company: With their permission and by special arrangement with them as authorized publishers of the following authors’ works, are used selections from: Charles E. Carryl, Guy Wetmore Carryl, Ralph Waldo Emerson, James T. Fields, Bret Harte, John Hay, Oliver Wendell Holmes, James Russell Lowell, John G. Saxe, E. R. Sill, Bayard Taylor.

Little, Brown & Company: For five limericks and “The Two Old Bachelors” from Nonsense Books.

[viii]

Lothrop, Lee & Shepard Co.: For “A Philosopher” by Sam Walter Foss from Dreams in Homespun; also for an extract from “The Partington Papers” by B. P. Shillaber.

The Macmillan Company: For verses from Through the Looking-Glass by Lewis Carroll.

Charles Scribner’s Sons: For “Two Men” and “Miniver Cheevy” by E. A. Robinson from The Children of the Night and The Town Down the River.

Small, Maynard & Company: For an extract from Finley Peter Dunne (Mr. Dooley).

Speaking exactly, an Outline of the World’s Humor is an impossibility.

For surely the adjectives most applicable to humor are elusive, evasive, evanescent, ephemeral, intangible, imponderable, and other terms expressing unavailability.

To outline such a thing is like trying to trap a sunbeam or bound an ocean.

Yet an Outline of the History of the World’s recorded humor as evolved by the Human Race, seems within the possibilities.

First of all, it must be understood that the term humor is here used in its broadest, most comprehensive sense. Including both wit and humor; including the comic, fun, mirth, laughter, gayety, repartee,—all types and classes of jests and jokes.

The earliest reference to this mental element is that of Aristotle, and the word he uses to represent it is translated the Ridiculous.

His definition states that the Ridiculous is that which is in itself incongruous, without involving the notion of danger or pai

Coleridge thus refers to Aristotle’s definition:

Yet, notwithstanding Coleridge’s scientific views on the subject, Humor is not an exact science. It is, more truly, an art, whose principles are based on several accepted theories, and some other theories, not so readily accepted or admitted only in part by these who have thought and written on the subject.

A true solution of the mystery of why a joke makes us laugh, has yet to be found. To the mind of the average human being, anything that makes him laugh is a joke. Why it does so, there are very few to know and fewer still to care.

Nor are the Cognoscenti in much better plight. A definition of humor has been attempted by many great and wise minds. Like squaring the circle, it has been argued about repeatedly, it has been written about voluminously. It has been settled in as many different ways as there have been commentators on the subject. And yet no definition, no formula has ever been evolved that is entirely satisfactory.

Aristotle’s theory of the element of the incongruous has come to be known as the Disappointment theory, or Frustrated Expectation.

But Aristotle voiced another theory, which he, in turn, derived from Plato.

Plato said, though a bit indefinitely, that the pleasure we derive in laughing at the comic is an enjoyment of other[5] people’s misfortune, due to a feeling of superiority or gratified vanity that we ourselves are not in like plight.

This is called the Derision theory, and as assimilated and expressed by Aristotle comes near to impinging on and coinciding with his own Disappointment theory.

Moreover, he attempted to combine the two.

For, he said, we always laugh at someone, but in the case, where laughter arises from a deceived expectation, our mistake makes us laugh at ourselves.

In fact, Plato held, in his vague and indefinite statements that there is a disappointment element, a satisfaction element, and sometimes a combination of the two in the make-up of the thing we are calling Humor.

All of which is not very enlightening, but it is to be remembered that those were the first fluttering flights of imagination that sought to pin down the whole matter; yet among the scores that have followed, diverging in many directions, we must admit few, if any, are much more succinct or satisfactory.

The Derision or Discomfiture Theory holds that all pleasure in laughing at a comic scene is an enjoyment of another’s discomfiture. Yet it must be only discomfiture, not grave misfortune or sorrow.

If a man’s hat blows off and he runs out into the street after it, we laugh; but if he is hit by a passing motor car, we do not laugh. If a fat man slips on a banana peel and lands in a mud puddle, we laugh; but if he breaks his leg we do not laugh.

It is the ridiculous discomfiture of another that makes a joke, not the serious accident, and though there are other types and other theories of the cause of humor, doubtless the majority of jokes are based on this principle.

From the Circus Clown to Charlie Chaplin, episodes of discomfiture make us laugh. Every newspaper cartoon or comic series hinges on the discomfiture of somebody. The fly on the bald head, the collar button under the bureau, the henpecked husband, all depend for their humor on the trifling misfortune that makes its victim ridiculous.

An enjoyment of this discomfiture of a fellow man is[6] inherent in human nature, and though there are subtler jests, yet this type has a grip on the risibilities that can never be loosened.

Can we doubt that it was the Serpent’s laughing at the discomfiture of Adam and Eve, caught in deshabille, that caused them to rush for the nearest fig tree? Or perhaps, their eyes being opened, they laughed at one another. Anyway, they were decidedly discomfited, and did their best to remedy matters.

This Derision Theory includes also the jests at the ignorance or stupidity of another. The enormous vogue of the Noodle jokes, some centuries ago, hinged on the delight felt in the superiority of the hearer over the subject of the jest. All laughable blunders, every social faux pas, all funny stories of children’s sayings and doings are based on the consciousness of superiority. Practical jokes represent the simplest form of this theory, as in them the discomfiture of the other person is the prime element, with no subtle byplay to relieve it.

A mild example is the polite rejoinder of the street car conductor when a lady asked at which end of the car she should get off.

“Either end, madame,” he responded, “both ends stop.”

An extreme specimen is the man who told the story of a burning house—“I saw a fellow up on the roof,” he related, “and I called to him, ‘Jump, and I’ll catch you in a blanket!’ Well, I had to laugh,—he jumped,—and I didn’t have no blanket!”

Implied discomfiture is in the story of the agnostic, who was buried in his evening clothes. “Poor Jim,” said a funeral guest; “he didn’t believe in Heaven and he didn’t believe in Hell; and there he lies, all dressed up and no place to go!”

Almost a practical joke is the man who, reading a newspaper, suddenly exclaimed, “Why, here’s a list of people who won’t eat onions any more!” And when his hearer asked to see the list, he handed over the obituary column.

The Disappointment Theory, though overlapping the[7] Derision Theory at times, is based on the idea that the essence of the laughable is the incongruous.

Hazlitt says:

A beautiful definition of the Disappointment Theory is Max Eastman’s, “The experience of a forward motion of interest sufficiently definite so that its ‘coming to nothing’ can be felt.”

Mr. Eastman says further:

The point of the Disappointment Theory, that of frustrating a carefully built up expectation is exemplified in jests like these.

“Is your wife entertaining this winter?” asks one society man of another. “Not very,” is the reply.

“I have to go to Brooklyn—” says a perplexed-looking old lady to a traffic policeman. “Are you asking directions, ma’am, or just telling me your troubles?”

The incongruity may be merely a collocution of words.

Mark Twain described Turner’s Slave Ship as “A tortoise-shell cat having a fit in a platter of tomatoes.”

In a newspaper cartoon, a wife says to her husband, “Even if it is Sunday morning and a terribly hot day, that’s no reason you should go around looking like the dog’s breakfast!”

So we see the element of surprise must be combined with the element of appropriate inappropriateness to gain the desired result.

In this story expectation is aroused for a human tragedy. The incongruity and disappointment make its humor.

As Mr. Caveman was gnawing at a bone in his cave one morning, Mrs. Caveman rushed in, exclaiming, “Quick! get your club! Oh, quick!”

“What’s the matter?” growled Mr. Caveman.

“A sabre-toothed tiger is chasing mother!” gasped his wife.

Mr. Caveman uttered an expression of annoyance.

“And what the deuce do I care,” he said, “what happens to a sabre-toothed tiger?”

[9]

It must be admitted that a hard and fast line cannot be drawn between the two theories given us by the Greek philosophers.

Cicero subscribed to the Derision theory, and said the ridiculous rested on a certain meanness and deformity, and a joke to be pleasing must be on somebody. But he declared, also, that the most eminent kind of the ridiculous is that in which we expect to hear one thing and hear another said.

Several other Greek and Roman philosophers tackled the subject without adding anything of importance, and some of them, as well as later writers declared that the comic could never be defined, but is to be appreciated only by taste and natural discernment; while many moderns agree that all theories are inadequate and contradictory, however useful they may be for convenience in discussion.

Perhaps the trouble may be that only serious-minded people attempt a definition of humor, and they are not the ones best fitted for the work.

For the discussion goes on still, and is as fascinating to some types of mentality as is the question of perpetual motion or the Fountain of Immortal Youth.

A useful commentary on the matter, and one appropriate at this juncture is the following extract from the works of the celebrated theologian, Dr. Isaac Barrow, an Englishman of the Seventeenth century.

Also in the Seventeenth century there sprang into being a definition that has lived, possibly because of the apt wording of its phrase.

It is by Thomas Hobbes, who declared for the Derision Theory, but with less sweetness and light than it had hitherto enjoyed.

and, also from Hobbes:

There is small doubt that the vogue of Hobbes’ definition of this theory rests on the delightfully expressive, “Sudden Glory,” for those two words beautifully picture the emotion caused by the unexpected opportunity to laugh at the discomfiture of another.

Locke followed with a dry and meaningless dissertation, and Coleridge wrote his discerning but all too brief remarks.

Many German writers gave profound if unimportant opinions.

Addison wrote pleasantly about it, and George Meredith, while accepting the Derision Theory, modified its harshness thus:

With Kant, however, the other theory of Aristotle came into notice. Kant declared, “Laughter is the affection arising from the sudden transformation of a strained expectation into nothing.”

This was dubbed by Emerson, “Frustrated Expectation,” and describes the Disappointment Theory as Sudden Glory describes the Derision Theory.

On these two commandments hang all the law and the prophets of the World of Humor.

There are many other theories and sub-theories, there are long and prosy books written about them, but are outside our Outline.

A general understanding of the humorous element is all we are after and that has now been set forth.

A question closely akin to What is Humor? is What is a Sense of Humor?

The phrase seems self-explanatory, and is by no means identical with the thing itself. Nor are the two inseparable. Humor and the sense of humor need not necessarily lie in the same brain.

Two erudite writers on this subject have chosen to consider the phrase as a unique bit of terminology.

Mr. Max Eastman says; “The creation of that name is the most original and the most profound contribution of modern thought to the problem of the comic.”

While Professor Brander Matthews says; “Ample as the English vocabulary is today, it is sometimes strangely deficient in needful terms. Thus it is that we have nothing but the inadequate phrase sense of humor to denominate a quality[14] which is often confounded with humor itself, and which should always be sharply discriminated from it.”

Now it would seem that the phrase was simply a matter of evolution, coming along when the time was ripe. Surely it is no stroke of genius, nor yet is it hopelessly inadequate.

It must be granted that a sense of the humorous is as logical a thought as a sensitive ear for music, or, to be more strictly analogous, a sense of moderation or that very definite thing, card sense.

Sense, used thus, is almost synonymous with taste, and a taste for literature or for the Fine Arts in no way implies a productive faculty in those fields. A taste for humor would mean precisely the same thing as a sense of humor, and the taste or the sense may be more or less natural and more or less cultivated, as in the matter of books or pictures.

A taste for music is a sense of music, and one may appreciate and enjoy music and its rendition to the utmost without being able to sing a note or play upon any instrument whatever.

One may be a music critic or an art critic, or even a critic of literature, without being able to create any of these things.

Why, then, put forth as a discovery that one may have a sense of humor without being humorous and vice versa?

Humor is creative, while the sense of humor is merely receptive and appreciative.

Many great humorists have little or no sense of humor. Try to tell a joke to an accredited joker and note his blank expression of uncomprehension. It is because he has no sense of humor that he takes himself seriously.

Such was the case with Dickens, with Carlyle, with many renowned wits. The humorist without the sense of humor is a bore. He tells long, detailed yarns, proud of himself, and not seeing his hearers’ lack of interest.

The man with a sense of humor is a joy to know and to be with.

The man who possesses both is already an immortal.

Now as the sense of humor is negative, recipient, while[15] humor is positive and creative, it follows that a sense of humor alone cannot produce humorous literature.

These mute, inglorious Miltons, therefore, have no place in our Outline, but they deserve a passing word of recognition for the assistance they have been to the humorists, by way of being applauding audiences.

For humor, like beauty is in the eye of the beholder. One with an acute sense of humor will see comic in stones, wit in the running brooks,—while a dull or absent sense of humor can see no fun save in the obvious jest.

The lines,

in Love’s Labour’s Lost proves that Shakespeare understood the meaning and value of a sense of humor.

Although it was at a much later date that the word humor came to be used as now, to mean a gentle, good-natured sort of fun.

All types of humor are universal and of all time. But the first definitions were arrived at by the men of Greece and Rome, who were scholarly and analytical, hence the hair-splitting and meticulous efforts to treat it metaphysically.

Humor today rarely is used in a caustic or biting sense,—that is reserved for wit.

Which brings us to another great and futile question,—the distinction between wit and humor.

There is not time or space to take up this subject fully here. But we can sum up the decisions and opinions of some few of the thinking minds that have been bent upon it.

As the best and most comprehensive is the dissertation by William Hazlitt, most of this is here given.

Thus Hazlitt: yet it is not necessary to be so verbose in the matter of discriminating wit from humor.

They are intrinsically different though often outwardly alike.

Wit is intensive or incisive, while humor is expansive. Wit is rapid, humor is slow. Wit is sharp, humor is gentle. Wit is intentional, humor is fortuitous.

But to my mind the great difference lies in the fact that wit is subjective while humor is objective.

Wit is the invention of the mind of its creator; humor lies in the object that he observes. Wit originates in one’s self, humor outside one’s self.

Again, wit is art, humor is nature. Wit is creative fancy, more or less educated and skilled. Humor is found in a simple object, and is unintentional.

Yet in these, as in all definitions, we must stretch a point when necessary; we must make allowances for viewpoints and opinions, and we must agree that the question is not one that may be answered by the card.

Nor is it necessary in the present undertaking.

An Outline of Humor is planned to include all sorts and[18] conditions of fun, all types and distinctions of wit and humor from the earliest available records, or deductions from records, down to the dawn of the Twentieth Century.

Man has been defined as the animal capable of laughter. Although this definition has been attacked by lovers of quadrupeds, it has held in the minds of thinkers and students. Aristotle, Milton, Hazlitt, Voltaire, Schopenhauer, Bergson and many other distinguished scholars hold that the playfulness seen in animals is in no way an indication of their sense of humor.

The Laughing Hyena and the Laughing Jackass are so called only because their cry has a likeness to the sound of raucous human laughter, but it is no result of mirthful feeling.

Hazlitt says man is the only animal that laughs and weeps, for he is the only animal that is struck with the difference between what things are and what they ought to be.

The playfulness of dogs or kittens is often assumed to be humor, when it is mere imitative sagacity. The stolid, imperturbable gravity of animals’ faces shows no appreciation of mirth.

Oliver Wendell Holmes speaks of the large brown eyes of oxen as imperfect organisms, because they may show no sign of fun.

Yet it is, in a way, a matter of opinion, for the instinct of humor was among the latest to evolve in the human race, and rudimentary hints of it may be present in other animals as in our own children. A monkey or a baby will show amusement when tickled, but this is mere physical reflex action, and cannot be called a true sense of humor.

Many animal lovers assume intelligences in their pets that are mere reflections of their own mental processes or are thoughts fathered by their own wishes.

It is, however, of little importance, for however appreciative of fun an animal may be, it cannot create or impart wit or humor, and most certainly it cannot laugh.

[19]

Bergson goes even farther. He declares the comic does not exist outside the pale of what is strictly human.

He states: You may laugh at an animal, but only because you have detected in it some human attitude or expression.

This is easily proved by the recollection of the fun of Puss In Boots or The Three Bears, and the gravity of a Natural History.

Therefore, Bergson argues, man is not only the only animal that laughs, he is the only animal which is laughed at, for if any other animal or any lifeless object provokes mirth, it is only because of some resemblance to man in appearance or intent.

So, with such minor exceptions as to be doubtful or negligible, we must accept man as the only exponent or possessor of humor.

And it is one of the latest achievements of humanity.

First, we assent, was the survival of the fittest. Followed a sense of hunger, a sense of safety, a sense of warfare, a sense of Tribal Rights,—through all these stages there was no time or need for humor.

Among the earliest fossilized remains no funny bone has been found.

Doubtless, too, a sense of sorrow came before the sense of humor dawned. Death came, and early man wept long before it occurred to him to laugh and have the world laugh with him. Gregariousness and leisure were necessary before mirth could ensue. All life was subjective; dawning intelligence learned first to look out for Number One.

Yet it was early in the game that our primordial ancestors began to see a lighter side of life.

Indeed, as Mr. Wells tells us, they mimicked very cleverly, gestured, danced and laughed before they could talk!

And the consideration of the development of this almost innate human sense is our present undertaking.

The matter falls easily,—almost too easily,—into three divisions.

Let us call them, Ancient, Middle and Modern.

This is perhaps not an original idea of division, but it is[20] certainly the best for a preliminary arrangement. And it may not be convenient to stick religiously to consecutive dates; our progress may become logical rather than chronological.

As to a general division, then, let us consider Ancient Humor as a period from the very beginning down to the time of the Greeks. The Middle Division to continue until about the time of Chaucer. And the Modern Period from that time to the present.

[21]

After careful consideration of all available facts and theories of the earliest mental processes of our race, we must come to the conclusion that mirth had its origin in sorrow; that laughter was the direct product of tears.

Nor are they even yet completely dissevered. Who has not laughed till he cried? Who has not cried herself into hysterical laughter? All theories of humor include an element of unhappiness; all joy has its hint of pain.

And so, when our archæologists hold the mirror up to prehistoric nature, we see among the earliest reflected pictures, a procession or group of evolving humanity about to sacrifice human victims to their monstrous superstitions and, withal, showing a certain festival cheerfulness. Moreover, we note that they are fantastically dressed, and wear horns and painted masks. Surely, the first glimmerings of a horrid mirth are indubitably the adjunct of such celebrations.

Since we have reason to believe that man mimicked before he could talk,—and, observing a baby, we have no difficulty in believing this,—we readily believe that his earliest mimicries aroused a feeling of amusement in his auditors, and as their applause stimulated him to fresh effort, the ball was set rolling and the fun began.

From mimicry was born exaggeration and the horns and painted masks were grotesque and mirth-provoking.

Yet were they also used to inculcate fear, and moreover had significance as expressions of sorrow and woe.

Thus the emotions, at first, were rather inextricably intermingled, nor are they yet entirely untangled and straightened out.

Not to inquire too closely into the vague stories of these[24] prehistoric men, not to differentiate too exactly between Cro-Magnards and Grimaldis, we at least know a few things about the late Palæolithic people, and one indicative fact is that they had a leaning toward paint.

They buried their dead after painting the body, and they also painted the weapons and ornaments that were interred with him.

It is owing to this addiction to paint that scientists have been enabled to learn so much of primordial life, for the pigments of black, brown, red, yellow and white still endure in the caves of France and Spain.

And, since it is known that they painted their own faces and bodies we can scarce help deducing that they presented grotesque appearances and moved their fellows to laughter.

But any earnest thinker or student is very likely to get out of his subject what he brings to it, at least, in kind. And so, archæologists and antiquarians, being of grave and serious nature, have found no fun or humor in these early peoples,—perhaps, because they brought none to their search.

It remains, therefore, for us to sift their findings, and see, if by a good chance we may discover some traces of mirth among the evidential remains of prehistoric man.

It would not be, of course, creative or even intentional humor, but since we know he was a clever mimic, we must assume the appreciation of his mimicry by his fellows.

Moreover, he was deeply impressed by his dreams, and it must have been that some of those dreams were of a humorous nature.

We are told his mentality was similar to that of a bright little contemporary boy of five. This theory would give him the power of laughter at simple things and it seems only fair to assume that he possessed it.

In the beginnings of humanity there was very close connection between man and the animals. Not only did man kill and eat the other animals, but he cultivated and bred them, he watched them and studied their habits.

It is, therefore, not surprising that man’s earliest efforts at drawing should represent animals.

[25]

The earliest known drawings, those of the Palæolithic men show the bison, horse, ibex, cave bear and reindeer. The drawing at first was primitive, but later it became astonishingly clever and life-like.

Also, among these primitive peoples, there was some attempt at sculpture, in the way of little stone or ivory statuettes. These incline to caricature, and are probably the first dawning of that tendency of the human brain.

Yet the accounts of these earliest men show little that can be definitely styled humorous, and while we cannot doubt they possessed a sense of mirth, they have left us scant traces of it, or else the solemn archæologists have overlooked such.

The latter may be the case, for a scholar with a sense of humor, Thomas Wright, declares as follows:

An early development of humor was seen in the recognition of the fool or buffoon.

It is not impossible that this arose because of the discovery or invention of intoxicating drinks.

This important date is set, not very definitely, somewhere between 10,000 B.C. and 2,000 B.C. Its noticeable results were merriment and feast-making. At these feasts the fool, who was not yet a wit, won the laughter of the guests by his idiocy, or, often by his deformity. The wise fool is a later development.

But at these feasts also appeared the bards or rhapsodists, who entertained the company by chanting or reciting stories and jokes.

These are called the artists of the ear as the rock painters are called the artists of the eye. And with them language grew in beauty and power. They were living books, the only books then extant. For writing came slowly and was a clumsy affair at best for a long period. The Bards sang and recited and so kept alive folk-tales and jests that remain to this day.

Writing, like most of the inventions of man served every other purpose before that of humor.

At first it was only for accounts and matters of fact. In Egypt it was used for medical recipes and magic formulas. Accounts, letters, name lists and itineraries followed; but for the preservation of humorous thought writing was not used. That was left to the bards, and of course, to the caricaturists.

Therefore, Egyptian art usually presents itself in solemn and dignified effects with no lightness or gayety implied.

Yet we are told by Sir Gardner Wilkinson, the early Egyptian[27] artists cannot always conceal their natural tendency to the humorous, which creeps out in a variety of little incidents. Thus, in a series of grave historical pictures on one of the great monuments at Thebes, we find a representation of a wine party, where the company consists of both sexes, and which evidently shows that the ladies were not restricted in the use of the juice of the grape in their entertainments; and, as he adds, “the painters, in illustrating this fact, have sometimes sacrificed their gallantry to a love of caricature.” Among the females, evidently of rank, represented in this scene, “some call the servants to support them as they sit, others with difficulty prevent themselves from falling on those behind them, and the faded flower, which is ready to drop from their heated hands, is intended to be characteristic of their own sensations.” Sir Gardner observes that “many instances of a talent for caricature, are observable in the compositions of the Egyptian artists, who executed the paintings of the tombs at Thebes, which belong to a very early period of the Egyptian annals. Nor is the application of this talent restricted always to secular subjects, but we see it at times intruding into the most sacred mysteries of their religion.”

A class of caricatures which dates from a very remote period, shows comparisons between men and the particular animals whose qualities they possess.

As brave as a lion, as faithful as a dog, as sly as a fox or as swinish as a pig,—these things are all represented in these ancient caricatures.

More than a thousand years B.C. there was drawn on an Egyptian papyrus a cat carrying a shepherd’s crook and driving a flock of geese. This is but one section of a long picture, in which the animals are often shown treating their human tyrants in the manner they are usually treated by them.

All sorts of animals are shown, in odd contortions and grotesque attitudes, and not infrequently the scene or episode depicted refers to the state or condition of the human soul after death.

It is deduced that from these animal pictures arose the[28] class of stories called fables, in which animals are endued with human attributes.

And also connected with them is the belief in metempsychosis or the transmission of the human soul into the body of an animal after death, which is a strong factor in the primitive religions.

Indeed, the intermingling of humans and animals is inherent in all art and literature, as, instance the calling of Our Lord a Lamb, or the Holy Ghost, a Dove.

Or, as to this day we call our children lambs or kittens, or, slangily, kids. As we still call a man an ass or a puppy; or a woman, a cat.

An argument for evolution can perhaps be seen in the inevitable turning back to the animals for a description or representation of human types.

At any rate, early man used this sort of humor almost exclusively, and so combined it with his serious thought, even his religions, that it was a permanently interwoven thread.

And the exaggeration of this mimicry of animals resulted in the grotesque and from that to the monstrous, as the mind grew with what it fed on, and caricature developed and progressed.

Also, a subtler demonstration of dawning wit and humor is seen in the deliberate and intentional burlesque of one picture by another.

In the British Museum is an Egyptian papyrus showing a lion and a unicorn playing chess, which is a caricature of a picture frequently seen on ancient monuments. And in the Egyptian collection of the New York Historical Society there is a slab of limestone, dating back three thousand years, which depicts a lion, seated upon a throne as king. To him, a fox, caricaturing a High Priest, offers a goose and a fan. This, too, is a burlesque of a serious picture.

Again, a lion is engaged in laying out the dead body of another animal, and a hippopotamus is washing his hands in a water jar.

One of these burlesque pictures shows a soul doomed to return to its earthly home in the form of a pig. This picture,[29] of such antiquity that it deeply impressed the Greeks and Romans, is part of the decoration of a king’s tomb.

The ancient Egyptians, it may be gathered from their humorous pictures, were not averse to looking on the wine when it was red. Several delineations of Egyptian servants carrying home their masters after a carouse, are graphic and convincing; while others, equally so, show the convivial ones dancing, standing on their heads or belligerently wrestling.

The tombs of the ancient Egyptians abound in these representations of over-merry occasions, and it all goes to prove the close connection in the primitive mind of the emotions of grief and mirth.

Yet, The Book of the Dead that monument of Egyptian literature, and the oldest in the world, contains only records of conquests and a few stories and moral sayings,—not a trace of humor. That, in ancient Egypt is represented solely by the ready and deft pencil of the caricaturist.

Though humor came to them later, the earliest records of the Eastern and Oriental countries show little or no traces of the comic.

Indeed eminent authorities state that there is not a single element of the amusing in the art or literature of the Babylonians or Assyrians. It may be that the eminent authorities hadn’t a nose for nonsense, or the statement may be true. We never shall know.

But both these peoples had great skill in drawing and sculpture, and though their records are chiefly historical or religious, we cannot help feeling there may have been some jesting at somebody’s expense.

However, there are no existing records of any sort, and we fear the ancient Assyrians and Babylonians must go down in history as serious-minded folk.

The Hebrews show up much better.

In recent years Renan and Carlyle both declared the Jewish race possessed no sense of humor, but their opinions probably reflected their own viewpoint.

[30]

For the early examples of Hebrew Satire and Parody are distinctly humorous both in intent and in effect.

Parody is, of course, the direct outcome of the primeval passion for mimicry. The first laugh-provoker was no doubt an exaggerated imitation of some defect or peculiarity of another. And the development of the art of amusement took centuries to get past that preliminary thought.

The tendency to imitation was the impetus that turned the religious hymns into ribaldry and wine-songs, and the religious or funeral festivals into orgies of grotesque masquerading.

And Hebrew literature is renowned for its parodies of serious matters both of church and state.

With this race, satire sprang from parody and grew and thrived rapidly.

To quote from the learned Professor Chotzner:

A WIFE’S RUSE
(A Rabbinical Tale)

Arabian and Turkish thought and speech seem to be tinged with the sense of the bizarre and strange rather than the grotesque. Their earliest folk tales and pleasant stories, from which later grew the Arabian Nights, form a cumulative, though broken chain from ancient to modern times.

Persian humor leans toward the romantic and sentimental, but no ancient fragments are available. From the later[34] writers, as Omar and Sadi, we feel convinced there was an early literature but we can find none to quote.

India shows the oldest and most definite signs of early folk lore and retold tales.

Buddha’s Jatakas produced the stories that later proved the germs of merry tales by Boccaccio and Chaucer. That these later writers put in all the fun is not entirely probable.

Some antiquarians claim to find humor in the hymns of the Rig Vedas, whose date is indefinitely put at between 2,000 and 1,500 B.C. while others of different temperament deny it.

From this example the reader may judge for himself.

The Jatakas of Buddha, though religious writings, and teachings by parables, are not without humor. The one about the silly son who killed the mosquito on his father’s bald head with a heavy blow of an ax, has its funny side. Or the old monarch who had reigned 252,000 years and still had 84,000 years more ahead of him, and went into solitary retirement because he discovered a gray hair in his head. Another shrewd fellow made an enormous fortune out of the sale of a dead mouse.

[35]

Of course, the animals figure largely. There is the tale of the monkeys who watered a garden and then pulled up the plants to see if their roots were wet, and the angry crows who tried to drink up the sea.

Riddles, too, must be remembered.

Though not many specimens have been preserved, yet we remember Samson’s riddle, so disastrous to the Philistines.

“Out of the eater came forth meat; and out of the strong came forth sweetness.”

And when his susceptibility to cajolery led him to tell his wife the answer, and she tattled, his comment was the pithy; “If ye had not plowed with my heifer, ye had not found out my riddle.”

The Sphinx’s riddle is well known. “What animal goes on four legs in the morning, on two at noon, and on three at night?”

The answer being: Man, who goes on all-fours in infancy, walks upright in middle life, and adds a staff in old age.

An ancient riddle is ascribed to the problematical personality of Homer, though it was doubtless originated before his time,—if he had a time.

Homer, the tale goes, met some boys coming home from a fishing trip. On his asking them of their luck, they replied, “What we caught we threw away; what we didn’t catch, we have.”

It seems they referred to fleas, not fish, and his inability to guess this so enraged Homer, that he killed himself.

And here is a free translation of an ancient Arabian riddle.

The answer is Fire, and as may be seen, the type of riddle is precisely such as are found in the puzzle columns of today’s papers.

Riddles are frequently mentioned in Ancient Literature,—[36] every country or race indulging in them. Josephus tells us that Solomon and Hiram of Tyre were in the habit of exchanging riddles.

So we find that a love of fun or playfulness was inherent in our early ancestors, yet it did not reach a height to be called genuine creative humor.

But there is always the feeling that if more of the translators themselves possessed more humor, they might find more in the originals.

As a rule, translators and antiquarian researchers are so engaged in serious seeking that they would probably pass over humor if they ran across it.

When a man is prospecting for iron or coal, he may easily be blind to indications of wells of natural oil.

More wit and humor of Ancient India has come down to us through the caricatures and grotesque drawings than in words.

The innumerable pictures of the God Krishna are the most humorous of these.

Krishna appears to have been a veritable Don Juan, and his multitude of lady friends numbered up to many thousands.

It is narrated that a friend of his, who had no wife, begged for just one from Krishna’s multiplicity.

“Court any one you wish,” said the light-hearted god, pleasantly.

So the friend went from house to house of Krishna’s various wives, but one and all, they declared themselves quite satisfied with husband, Krishna, and moreover each one was convinced that he was hers alone. The seeker visited sixteen thousand and eight houses, and then gave it up.

The endless pictures of Krishna represent him surrounded by lovely ladies, and a curious detail of these drawings is that in many instances the group of girls is wreathed and twisted into the shape or semblance of a bird or a horse or an elephant, presenting an interesting and not unpleasing effect.

Now, all we have given so far, seems indeed a meager grist[37] for the first division of our Outline. But one may not find what does not exist.

There is no doubt that humor was known and loved from the dawning of independent thought, but as it was not recorded, save for a few drawings, on the enduring rocks, it died with its originators.

Humor was the last need of a self-providing race, and even when found it was a luxury rather than a necessity.

As a fair example of the earliest tales that have lived in various forms ever since their first recital, is appended the bit of ancient Hindoo folk-lore, called

THE GOOD WIFE AND THE BAD HUSBAND

In a secluded village there lived a rich man, who was very miserly, and his wife, who was very kind-hearted and charitable, but a stupid little woman that believed everything she heard. And there lived in the same village a clever rogue, who had for some time watched for an opportunity for getting something from this simple woman during her husband’s absence. So one day, when he had seen the old miser ride out to inspect his lands, this rogue of the first water came to the house, and fell down at the threshold as if overcome by fatigue. The woman ran up to him at once and inquired whence he came. “I am come from Kailása,” said he; “having been sent down by an old couple living there, for news of their son and his wife.” “Who are those fortunate dwellers in Siva’s mountain?” she asked. And the rogue gave the names of her husband’s deceased parents, which he had taken good care, of course, to learn from the neighbours. “Do you really come from them?” said the simple woman. “Are they doing well there? Dear old people! How glad my husband would be to see you, were he here! Sit down, please, and rest until he returns. How do they live there? Have they enough to eat and dress themselves withal?” These and a hundred other questions she put to the rogue, who, for his part, wished to get away as soon as possible, knowing full well how he would be treated if the miser should[38] return while he was there. So he replied, “Mother, language has no words to describe the miseries they are undergoing in the other world. They have not a rag of clothing, and for the last six days they have eaten nothing, and have lived on water only. It would break your heart to see them.” The rogue’s pathetic words deceived the good woman, who firmly believed that he had come down from Kailása, a messenger from the old couple to herself! “Why should they so suffer,” said she, “when their son has plenty to eat and clothe himself withal, and when their daughter-in-law wears all sorts of costly garments?” So saying, she went into the house, and soon came out again with two boxes containing all her own and her husband’s clothes, which she handed to the rogue, desiring him to deliver them to the poor old couple in Kailása. She also gave him her jewel-box, to be presented to her mother-in-law. “But dress and jewels will not fill their hungry stomachs,” said the rogue. “Very true; I had forgot: wait a moment,” said the simple woman, going into the house once more. Presently returning with her husband’s cash chest, she emptied its glittering contents into the rogue’s skirt, who now took his leave in haste, promising to give everything to the good old couple in Kailása; and having secured all the booty in his upper garment, he made off at the top of his speed as soon as the silly woman had gone indoors.

Shortly after this the husband returned home, and his wife’s pleasure at what she had done was so great that she ran to meet him at the door, and told him all about the arrival of the messenger from Kailása, how his parents were without clothes and food, and how she had sent them clothes and jewels and store of money. On hearing this, the anger of the husband was great; but he checked himself, and inquired which road the messenger from Kailása had taken, saying that he wished to follow him with a further message for his parents. So she very readily pointed out the direction in which the rogue had gone. With rage in his heart at the trick played upon his stupid wife, he rode off in hot haste, and after having proceeded a considerable distance, he caught[39] sight of the flying rogue, who, finding escape hopeless, climbed up into a pipal tree. The husband soon reached the foot of the tree, when he shouted to the rogue to come down. “No, I cannot,” said he; “this is the way to Kailása,” and then climbed to the very top of the tree. Seeing there was no chance of the rogue coming down, and there being no one near to whom he could call for help, the old miser tied his horse to a neighbouring tree, and began to climb up the pipal himself. When the rogue observed this, he thanked all his gods most fervently, and having waited until his enemy had climbed nearly up to him, he threw down his bundle of booty, and then leapt nimbly from branch to branch till he reached the ground in safety, when he mounted the miser’s horse and with his bundle rode into a thick forest, where he was not likely to be discovered. Being thus balked the miser came down the pipal tree slowly, cursing his own stupidity in having risked his horse to recover the things which his wife had given the rogue, and returned home at leisure. His wife, who was waiting his return, welcomed him with a joyous countenance, and cried, “I thought as much: you have sent away your horse to Kailása, to be used by your old father.” Vexed at his wife’s words, as he was, he replied in the affirmative, to conceal his own folly.

PART I
GREECE

In essaying an Outline of the World’s Humor, the greatest obstacle to our work is the insufficiency of data.

While we are sure there was humor in the early days, we cannot get much of it for publication. The Fables and Folk Tales that come down to us are of uncertain origin and date. Traditions have been traced to their inception but the tracery is of vague and shadowy lines.

Wherefore it is well nigh impossible to formulate or systematize our chronology.

The simple division of Ancient, Middle and Modern must serve for a main arrangement, with the subdivision of the Middle into Greece, Rome, and the Mediæval Ages.

Greece will include generally the time from 500 B.C. to 500 A.D., although its traditions reach farther back into antiquity.

The whole Middle Division must include all from 500 B.C. to about 1300 A.D.

So, we see the boundaries are inevitable if not entirely satisfactory.

Greece was the primeval European civilization, and in the year 500 B.C. it already had its own literature and the Iliad and Odyssey were even then antique.

These, at this time, were traditionally ascribed to Homer as they have ever since remained. But Homer’s individual existence is a matter of doubt, and his history and personality are as unknown as those of the ancient patriarchs of the Old Testament.

[44]

Even from this distant viewpoint the humor of antiquity is, like beauty, in the eye of the beholder.

Coleridge says definitely, “Amongst the classic ancients there was little or no humor.” But, on the other hand, that eminent antiquarian, William Hayes Ward says, “The Greeks were the maddest, jolliest race of men that ever inhabited our planet. As they loved games and play, they loved the joke.”

So, as more than any other human emotion, humor is a matter of opinion, we must dig up whatever nuggets we can and not assay them too meticulously.

Like Homer, Æsop, is wrapped in mystery. Like Homer, too, various cities claimed the honor of being his birthplace. The truth is not known.

Tradition places Æsop in the sixth century, B.C. and makes him a dwarf and, originally, a slave.

Though probably not a historic personage, his name is inseparably connected with the Fables that have been known to us for centuries; and, according to scholars, some of them were known a thousand years earlier to the Egyptians.

Of these things we cannot speak positively, but Æsop’s Fables certainly come at or near the beginnings of Greek Literature, and their place is here.

ÆSOP’S FABLES

THE LION, THE BEAR, THE MONKEY, AND THE FOX

The Tyrant of the forest issued a proclamation, commanding all his subjects to repair immediately to his royal den. Among the rest, the Bear made his appearance; but pretending to be offended with the steams which issued from the Monarch’s apartments, he was imprudent enough to hold his nose in his Majesty’s presence. This insolence was so highly resented, that the Lion in a rage laid him dead at his feet. The Monkey, observing what had passed, trembled for his carcass; and attempted to conciliate favor by the most abject flattery. He began with protesting, that for his part he thought the apartments were perfumed with Arabian spices; and exclaiming against the rudeness of the Bear, admired the[45] beauty of his Majesty’s paws, so happily formed, he said, to correct the insolence of clowns. This fulsome adulation, instead of being received as he expected, proved no less offensive than the rudeness of the Bear; and the courtly Monkey was in like manner extended by the side of Sir Bruin. And now his Majesty cast his eye upon the Fox. “Well, Reynard,” said he, “and what scent do you discover here?” “Great Prince,” replied the cautious Fox, “my nose was never esteemed my most distinguishing sense; and at present I would by no means venture to give my opinion, as I have unfortunately got a terrible cold.”

Reflection

It is often more prudent to suppress our sentiments, than either to flatter or to rail.

THE PARTIAL JUDGE

A Farmer came to a neighbouring Lawyer, expressing great concern for an accident which he said had just happened. “One of your oxen,” continued he, “has been gored by an unlucky bull of mine, and I shall be glad to know how I am to make you a reparation.” “Thou art a very honest fellow,” replied the Lawyer, “and wilt not think it unreasonable that I expect one of thy oxen in return.” “It is no more than justice,” quoth the Farmer, “to be sure: but what did I say!—I mistake—It is your bull that has killed one of my oxen.” “Indeed,” says the Lawyer, “that alters the case: I must inquire into the affair; and if”—“And if!” said the Farmer, “the business I find would have been concluded without an if, had you been as ready to do justice to others as to exact it from them.”

Reflection

The injuries we do, and those we suffer, are seldom weighed in the same scales.

It is all very well for some wiseacres to say, “Humor came in with civilization,” for others to say, “Humor took its rise in the Middle Ages,” or to set any other arbitrary time.

[46]

The truth is that Humor, is an innate emotion, and in a general sense, it is the child of religion.

The primitive religions were conducted with Festival Ceremonies, whose celebrations were of such symbolic nature, and later, such burlesque of symbolism that gaiety ensued and then ribaldry.

The worship of the god Dionysus,—later mixed up in tradition with Bacchus,—was responsible for much reckless license that was the earliest form of comedy.

Dionysus, being deity of the vineyard, as well as of phallic worship, lent himself readily to the grotesque representations and hysterical orgies of his followers and Greek Comedy was probably the outcome of this.

In these Dionysiac festivals the processions and parades represented everything imaginable that was bizarre or ridiculous.

As in all ages, before and since, the mummers clothed themselves in the likeness of animals, and invented horrible masks.

Comedy came to be abuse, ridicule and parody of sacred things.

Notwithstanding Coleridge’s comment, laughter was universal in Greece and Plato declared the agelastoi or non-laughers to be the least respectable of mortals.

Small wonder then that their mirth exhibited itself in drawings and paintings. These mediums were easier to come by than writings, and the early grotesques and caricatures of the Greeks are drawings on Greek vases which show the playfulness as well as the serious purpose of the artist-potter. The first and greatest of Greek poets adds strokes of wit to his stories of the Trojan war. When Ulysses returns from the siege of Ilium he stops at the island of Sicily, and he and his companions are caught by the one-eyed giant Polyphemus and imprisoned in his cave. Then comes the story of the crafty leader’s escape, after some of his companions had been slain and eaten by the monster. It is a most amusing story, told with all Greek humor, how the giant was blinded with the burnt stick which gouged out his eye while in a drunken sleep; how the Greeks escaped through the entrance by clinging[47] under the bodies of his sheep, while he felt of them one by one to see that not a Greek escaped. Then comes the giant’s howling call to his distant companions, and in answer to their question, who had blinded him, his telling them that “Outis” (Nobody) had done it, Outis (Nobody) being the name Ulysses had given the giant as his own. “If nobody has done it”, replied his companions, “then it is the act of the gods”, and they left him to endure his loss. Thus the Greeks escape to their ships and taunt the monster as they flee away, followed by his vain pursuit. Homer relieves the wisdom of Ulysses and the dignity of Agamemnon with the gibes of Thersites or the rude humor of the suitors of Penelope, the trick of whose embroidery is itself an amusing story.

Greece, of course, was the cradle of all that we now call art. Landscape painters, painters of animals and portrait limners, as well as still life artists and sculptors and workers in mosaics reached a high state of perfection.

Then naturally the caricaturists and comic artists could not be wanting there. Burlesque affected their pencils and brushes as it had their speech and caricature and parody were rampant.

A marvelous example is the parody or caricature of the Oracle of Apollo at Delphi. It is taken from an oxybaphon which was brought from the Continent to England, where it passed into the collection of Mr. William Hope. The oxybaphon, or, as it was called by the Romans, acetabulum, was a large vessel for holding vinegar, which formed one of the important ornaments of the table, and was therefore very susceptible of pictorial embellishment of this description. It is one of the most remarkable Greek caricatures of this kind yet known, and represents a parody on one of the most interesting stories of the Grecian mythology, that of the arrival of Apollo at Delphi. The artist, in his love of burlesque, has spared none of the personages who belonged to the story. The Hyperborean Apollo himself appears in the character of a quack doctor, on his temporary stage, covered by a sort of roof, and approached by wooden steps. On the stage lies Apollo’s luggage, consisting of a bag, a bow, and his Scythian cap. Chron is represented as labouring under the effects of age and[48] blindness, and supporting himself by the aid of a crooked staff, as he repairs to the Delphian quack doctor for relief. The figure of the centaur is made to ascend by the aid of a companion, both being furnished with the masks and other attributes of the comic performers. Above are the mountains, and on them the nymphs of Parnassus, who, like all the other actors in the scene, are disguised with masks, and those of a very grotesque character. On the right-hand side stands a figure which is considered as representing the epoptes, the inspector or overseer of the performance, who alone wears no mask. Even a pun is employed to heighten the drollery of the scene, for instead of ΠΥΘΙΑΣ, the Pythian, placed over the head of the burlesque Apollo, it seems evident that the artist had written ΠΕΙΘΙΑΣ, the consoler in allusion, perhaps, to the consolation which the quack-doctor is administering to his blind and aged visitor.

The comic and grotesque led on to the representation of the monstrous, and queer, strange figures became part of their art and architecture. Out of these, perhaps, grew the hideous masks and strange distortions of the human figure.

Perhaps this is why Æsop was represented as a dwarf and a hunchback.

But the whole trend of the grotesque and monstrous in religious ornamentation grew and flourished on into the Middle Ages and later, and the gargoyles of our latest churches show the persisting influence.

The old comedy of Greece has been called the comedy of caricature, and hand in hand, verbal and pictorial parody have come to us down the centuries.

Pictorial burlesque, however, was not placed on the public monuments, but lent itself more readily to objects of common usage or individual belongings. It is found abundantly on the pottery of Greece and Rome and abounded in the wall paintings of Herculaneum and Pompeii.

This is not the place to discuss the identity of Homer. Whether a real man, a group of men or a myth, the works of Homer are immortal and, for the most part serious.

Our task is to find anything humorous in the Greek epics.

[49]

It is not easy, indeed, it is almost impossible. But we subjoin an extract which, we may say, comes the nearest to humor in Homer.

THE BEATING OF THERSITES

Attributed to Homer by many, and stoutly denied by others, is a comedy called The Battle of the Frogs and Mice.

Again we note the device of animals masquerading as human beings.

Samuel Wesley, himself a humorist, calls this the oldest burlesque in the world, and he also dubs it, The Iliad in a Nutshell. He holds that Homer wrote it as a parody of his own masterpiece, while, conversely, Statius contends that it is a work of youth, written by Homer before he wrote The Iliad. Chapman deems it the work of the poet’s old age, and as none may decide when doctors disagree, many scholars deny a[52] Homeric authorship to it at all. Plutarch asserts the real author was Pigres of Halicarnassus, who flourished during the Persian war.

This first burlesque known to literature has the following plot.

A mouse, while slaking his thirst on the margin of a pond, after a hot pursuit by a weasel, enters into conversation with a frog on the merits of their respective modes of life. The frog invites the mouse to a nearer inspection of the abode and habits of his own nation, and for this purpose offers him a sail on his back. When the party are at some distance from land, the head of an otter suddenly appears on the surface. The terrified frog at once dives to the bottom, disengaging himself from his rider, who, with many a struggle and bitter imprecations on his betrayer, is involved in a watery grave. Another mouse, who from the shore had witnessed the fate of his unfortunate comrade, reports it to his fellow-citizens. A council is held, and war declared against the nation of the offender.

“Jupiter and the gods deliberate in Olympus on the issue of the contest. Mars and Minerva decline personal interference, as well from the awe inspired by such mighty combatants as from previous ill-will towards both contending powers, in consequence of injuries inflicted by each on their divine persons or properties. A band of mosquitoes sound the war-alarum with their trumpets, and, after a bloody engagement, the frogs are defeated with great slaughter. Jupiter, sympathising with their fate, endeavours in vain by his thunders to intimidate the victors from further pursuit. The rescue of the frogs, however, is effected by an army of land-crabs, who appear as their allies, and before whom the mice, in their turn, are speedily put to flight.”

The Battle of the Frogs and Mice, then, is well described as the earliest and most successful extant specimen of the “mock-heroic,” the double object of which is, according to Barrow’s famous definition, to debase things pompous and elevate things mean. An amusing version of this Homeric jeu d’esprit was published in 1851 by an author who gave himself out as the “Singing Mouse,” “the last minstrel of his race.” “The[53] theme,” he says, “belongs to that heroic age of which history has recorded that the very mountains laboured when a mouse was born.” The metre of this translation has been altered from the stately elegance of the original to one which is perhaps better fitted to the subject in itself than to its special object as a travestie on the epic style of the Iliad. The names of the heroes are happily rendered; but it will be seen that some difference exists between this author and the one just cited as to certain of the zoological terms in the poem.

Wesley’s rendering of the dénouement is a thoroughly good specimen of the mock-heroic style which runs through the original:

[55]

By this time Greece was ready for definite mirth and laughter. What has come to be known as the Old Comedy was to the Athenians, we are told, what is now shown in the influences of the newspaper, the review, the Broadside, the satire, the caricature of the times and manners.

Nor were cartoons missing, for the grotesque pictures were as important a factor as the verbal or written words.

The Old Comedy is marked by political satire of a virulent personality. This is prohibited in the Middle Comedy, and replaced by literary and philosophical criticism of the ways of the citizens. The New Comedy, more repressed still, is the comedy of manners, and its influence continued to the Roman stage and further.

Of the Old Comedy, save for a few lesser lights, Aristophanes is the sole representative.

At the festivals of the god Dionysus, two elements were present. One the solemn rites, which developed into tragedy, and the other the grotesque and ribald orgies which were equally in evidence and which culminated in the idea of comedy.

The license of these symbolic representations was unbridled and all rules of decorum and decency were violated in the frenzied antics.

Doubtless many writings now lost to us were filled with the broad humor of the day, but we have only the plays of Aristophanes left.

Of the life of this Athenian not much is known. He was born after 450 B.C. and it was after the Peloponnesian War that he wrote his plays.

The principal and best known of his eleven extant plays is The Frogs.

Of this, two clever translations are given.

One, is thus introduced by a writer in The Quarterly Review:

Scene.—The Acherusian Lake—Bacchus at the oar in Charon’s Boat—Charon—Chorus of Frogs—In the background a view of Bacchus’s Temple or Theatre, from which are heard the sounds of a Scenic Entertainment.

THE PASSAGE OF THE STYX

CHARON, BACCHUS, and XANTHIAS

[64]

Another play of Aristophanes is The Birds.

The plot of this is simply that two Athenians, disgusted with the state of things in their native city, form the idea of building a city where the birds shall regain their old traditional supremacy.

The proposal is happily received by the birds and the city of Nephelococyggia, or Cloud-cuckoo-town is the result.[65]

It was merely a burlesque on the Athenians who were given to building castles in the air.

Lack of space forbids further quotation from Aristophanes, but his comedies are available to all who wish to read them.

Among the predecessors of Aristophanes was Cratinus, who was an enemy of water drinkers, and expressed the dictum that no verses written by abstainers could ever please or live!

Another, whose fragmentary lines have a certain modern ring, is Simonides, who left us a poem of the ladies, which, it has been said, gave the tone to all the Greek pasquinades of the same class. He compares the different types of ladies to various members of the lower orders in creation; and the “Fine Lady” is represented by a high-bred steed.

Two more examples of the wit of Cratinus follow:

Plato Comicus (as distinguished from the philosopher), who carried on a poetic contest with Aristophanes, ranks among the best of the poets of the Old Comedy, but only a few fragments of his work remain.

Here are two of them:

As students of the Classics themselves find great difficulty in drawing strict boundaries between the Old and Middle Comedy, we need not pay careful attention to exact dates, but accept the general idea that one passed into the other at about the time the Peloponnesian War ended.

This was 404 B.C. and Middle Comedy may be said to extend from that date until the overthrow of the Athenians by Philip of Macedon in 338 B.C.

The most distinguished poet of the Middle Comedy was Antiphanes, who lived in the Fourth Century, B.C.

His lines are epigrammatic and frequently refer to the prevailing theme of drunkenness.

[67]

Another epigrammatist was

Anaxandriades

Other Greek wits offer these:

[69]

Eubulus

Aristophon

Alexis

Aristotle, though the first to put into words the definition of the ridiculous, can furnish no extracts which come within our present scope.

Indeed the great teacher considered comedy from its dramatic side rather than as mere humor.

One of his pupils, Theophrastus, left us some fragments, especially a short collection of character sketches which show both wit and humor.

OF SLOVENLINESS

This vice is a lazy and beastly negligence of a man’s person, whereby he becomes so filthy as to be offensive to those who are about him. You’ll see him come into a company when he is covered all over with a leprosy or scurf, or with very long nails, and he says those distempers are hereditary, that his father and grandfather had them before him. He will speak with his mouth full, and gurgle at his cup in drinking. He will intrude into the best company in ragged clothes. If he goes with his mother to the soothsayers, he cannot even then refrain from coarse and profane expressions. When he is making his[71] oblations at the temple, he will let the dish fall out of his hand, and laugh as at some jocular exploit. At the finest concert of music he cannot forbear clapping his hands and making a rude noise. He will pretend to sing along with the singers, and rail at them when they leave off.

—The Characters.

OF LOQUACITY

If we would define loquacity, it is an excessive affluence of words. The prater will not suffer any person in company to tell his own story, but, let it be what it will, tells you you mistake the matter, that he takes the thing right, and that if you will listen, he will make it clear to you. If you make any reply, he suddenly interrupts you, saying, “Why, sir, you forget what you were talking about; it’s very well you should begin to remember, since it is most beneficial for people to inform one another.” Then presently he says, “But what was I going to say? Why, truly, you very soon apprehend a thing, and I was waiting to see if you would be of my sentiment in this matter.” And thus he always takes such occasions as these to prevent the person he talks with the liberty of breathing. After he has thus tormented all who will hear him, he is so rude as to break into the company of persons met to discuss important affairs, and drives them away by his troublesome impertinence. Thence he goes into the public schools and places of exercise, where he interrupts the masters by his foolish prating, and hinders the scholars from improving by their instruction. If any person shows an inclination to go away, he will follow him, and will not part from him till he comes to his own door. If he hears of anything transacted in the public assembly of the citizens, he runs up and down to tell it to everybody. He gives you a long account of the famous battle that was fought when Aristophanes the orator was governor, or when the Lacedæmonians were under the command of Lysander; then tells you with what general applause he made a speech in public, repeating a great deal of it, with invectives against the common people, which are so[72] tiresome to those that hear him that some forget what he says as soon as it is out of his mouth, others fall asleep, and others leave him in the midst of his harangue. If this talker be sitting on the bench, the judge will be unable to determine matters. If he’s at the theater, he’ll neither let you hear nor see anything; nor will he even permit him that sits next to him at the table to eat his meat. He declares it very hard for him to be silent, his tongue being so very well hung that he’d rather be accounted as garrulous as a swallow than be silent, and patiently bears all ridicule, even that of his own children, who, when they want to go to rest, request him to talk to them that they may the sooner fall asleep.

—The Characters.

One of the Characters described by Theophrastus is The Stupid Man, and runs thus:

“The stupid man is one who, after doing a sum and setting down the total, will ask the person next him, ‘What does it come to?’”

It is not beyond the bounds of possibility that this is the beginning or at least the popularizing of the class of jests known as Noodles or Noodle Stories.

For all nations and races have folk-lore that details the sayings and doings of the witless or silly.

The Literature of the Orient abounds in these tales and European stories of the same sort are equally abundant.

The collection of jokes ascribed to Hierocles, may or may not have been gathered by that Alexandrian philosopher. The only form in which we may read them is said to have been made not earlier than the Ninth Century, but the stories themselves are among the very earliest of the traditional jests of all time.

Some of these old jokemongers’ witticisms are capital—so good, in fact, that the parentage of many of them has been claimed by modern wits. No doubt we shall recognise some old friends as we read:

I. A pedant (for so we must probably translate, in conventional[73] phrase, the pervading Scholastichus of the old jokemonger) wishing to teach his horse not to eat much, gave him no food. Eventually the horse died of starvation; and he complained to his friends, “I have suffered a great loss, for just when I had taught my horse to live upon nothing he died.”

II. A pedant having bought a cask of wine, sealed it. But his slave bored a hole and stole the wine. The master was amazed to find that, though his seals were unbroken, the wine gradually diminished. Someone suggested that he should examine whether it had been taken out from the bottom. “Fool,” he replied, “it isn’t the lower part that’s gone. It’s the upper.”

III. A pedant suffered shipwreck in a tempest, and seeing the passengers tie themselves to different articles on board, fastened himself to one of the anchors.

IV. Another had to cross a river, and went on board the ferry-boat on horseback. Somebody asked him why he did so, and he replied because he was in a hurry.

V. Yet another, anxious to know whether he looked well when he was asleep, stood before a looking-glass with his eyes shut to see.

VI. A landlord, who had a house to sell, went about amongst his friends, carrying a brick as a specimen.

In connection with these stories may be cited the following, from a Persian jest-book: A poor wrestler, who had passed all his life in forests, resolved to try his fortune in a great city, and as he drew near it he observed with wonder the crowds on the road, and thought, “I shall certainly not be able to know myself among so many people if I have not something about me that the others have not.” So he tied a pumpkin to his right leg and, thus decorated, entered the town. A young wag, perceiving the simpleton, made friends with him, and induced him to spend the night at his house. While he was asleep, the joker removed the pumpkin from his leg and tied it to his own, and then lay down again. In the morning, when the poor fellow awoke and found the pumpkin on his companion’s leg, he called to him, “Hey! get up, for I am perplexed[74] in my mind. Who am I, and who are you? If I am myself, why is the pumpkin on your leg? And if you are yourself, why is the pumpkin not on my leg?”

Modern counterparts of the following jest are not far to seek: Quoth a man to a pedant, “The slave I bought of you has died.” Rejoined the other, “By the gods, I do assure you that he never once played me such a trick while I had him.” The old Greek pedant is transformed into an Irishman, in our collections of facetiæ, who applied to a farmer for work. “I’ll have nothing to do with you,” said the farmer, “for the last five Irishmen I had all died on my hands.” Quoth Pat, “Sure, sir, I can bring you characters from half a dozen gentlemen I’ve worked for that I never did such a thing.” And the jest is thus told in an old translation of Les Contes Facetieux de Sieur Gaulard: “Speaking of one of his Horses which broake his Neck at the descent of a Rock, he said, Truly it was one of the handsomest and best Curtalls in all the Country; he neuer shewed me such a trick before in all his life.”

Equally familiar is the jest of the pedant who was looking out for a place to prepare a tomb for himself, and on a friend indicating what he thought to be a suitable spot, “Very true,” said the pedant, “but it is unhealthy.” And we have the prototype of a modern “Irish” story in the following: A pedant sealed a jar of wine, and his slaves perforated it below and drew off some of the liquor. He was astonished to find his wine disappear while the seal remained intact. A friend, to whom he had communicated the affair, advised him to look and ascertain if the liquor had not been drawn off from below. “Why, you fool,” said he, “it is not the lower, but the upper, portion that is going off.”

It was a Greek pedant who stood before a mirror and shut his eyes that he might know how he looked when asleep—a jest which reappears in Taylor’s Wit and Mirth in this form: “A wealthy monsieur in France (hauing profound reuenues and a shallow braine) was told by his man that he did continually gape in his sleepe, at which he was angry with his man, saying he would not belieue it. His man verified it to be true; his master said that he would neuer belieue any that[75] told him so, except (quoth hee) I chance to see it with mine owne eyes; and therefore I will have a great Looking glasse at my bed’s feet for the purpose to try whether thou art a lying knaue or not.”

Not unlike some of our “Joe Millers” is the following: A citizen of Cumæ, on an ass, passed by an orchard, and seeing a branch of a fig-tree loaded with delicious fruit, he laid hold of it, but the ass went on, leaving him suspended. Just then the gardener came up, and asked him what he did there. The man replied, “I fell off the ass.”—An analogue to this drollery is found in an Indian story-book, entitled Kathȧ Manjari: One day a thief climbed up a cocoanut tree in a garden to steal the fruit. The gardener heard the noise, and while he was running from his house, giving the alarm, the thief hastily descended from the tree. “Why were you up that tree?” asked the gardener. The thief replied, “My brother, I went up to gather grass for my calf.” “Ha! ha! is there grass, then, on a cocoanut tree?” said the gardener. “No,” quoth the thief; “but I did not know; therefore I came down again.”—And we have a variant of this in the Turkish jest of the fellow who went into a garden and pulled up carrots, turnips, and other kinds of vegetables, some of which he put into a sack, and some into his bosom. The gardener, coming suddenly on the spot, laid hold of him, and said, “What are you seeking here?” The simpleton replied, “For some days past a great wind has been blowing, and that wind blew me hither.” “But who pulled up these vegetables?” “As the wind blew very violently, it cast me here and there; and whatever I laid hold of in the hope of saving myself remained in my hands.” “Ah,” said the gardener, “but who filled this sack with them?” “Well, that is the very question I was about to ask myself when you came up.”

The Greek Anthology brings together short poems and epigrams written during the thousand years between Simonides’ time and the sixth century A.D.

Collected shortly before the beginning of the Christian Era and added to later, they comprise about four thousand five hundred specimens, by three hundred authors. Few of these[76] are witty, as, indeed, few are epigrammatic, but of them we quote some which seem most appurtenant.

FROM THE GREEK ANTHOLOGY

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Beside his short poems, we quote a little of the prose of

Lucian
A QUESTION OF PRECEDENCE

ZEUS, ÆSCULAPIUS, and HERACLES

“Zeus. Do, Æsculapius and Heracles, stop your wrangling, in which you indulge as if you were a couple of mortals; for this sort of behavior is unseemly, and quite strange to the banquets of the gods.

“Heracles. But, Zeus, would you have that quack drug-dealer there take his place at table above me?

“Æsculapius. By Zeus, yes, for I am certainly the better man.

“Heracles. How, you thunderstruck fellow, is it, pray, because Zeus knocked you on the head with his bolt for your unlawful actions, and because now, out of mere pity, by way of compensation, you have got a share of immortality?

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“Æsculapius. What! have you, for your part, Heracles, altogether forgotten your having been burned to ashes on Mount Œta, that you throw in my teeth this fire you talk of?

“Heracles. We have not lived at all an equal or similar sort of life—I, who am the son of Zeus, and have undergone so many and great labors, purifying human life, contending against and conquering wild beasts, and punishing insolent and injurious men; whereas you are a paltry herb-doctor and mountebank, skilful, possibly, in palming off your miserable drugs upon sick fools, but who have never given proof of any noble, manly disposition.

“Æsculapius. You say well, seeing I healed your burns when you came up but now half-burned, with your body all marred and destroyed by the double cause of your death—the poisoned shirt, and afterward the fire. Now I, if I have done nothing else, at least have neither worked like a slave, as you have, nor have I carded wool in Lydia, dressed in a fine purple gown; nor have I been beaten by that Omphale of yours, with her golden slipper. No, nor did I, in a mad fit, kill my children and my wife!

“Heracles. If you don’t stop your ribald abuse of me at once, you shall very speedily learn your immortality will not avail you much; for I will take and pitch you head first out of heaven, so that not even the wonderful Pæon himself shall cure you and your broken skull.

“Zeus. Have done, I say, and don’t disturb the harmony of the company, or I will pack both of you off from the supper-room; although, to speak the truth, Heracles, it is fair and reasonable Æsculapius should have precedence of you at table, inasmuch as he even took precedence of you in death.”

—“Dialogues of the Gods.”

ODYSSEUS’S TRICK ON POLYPHEMUS
Poseidon and Polyphemus

“Polyphemus. Oh, father, what have I endured at the hands of the cursed stranger, who made me drunk and put out my eye, assaulting me when I was lulled to sleep!

[81]

“Poseidon. Who dared to do this, my poor Polyphemus?

“Polyphemus. In the first instance, he called himself Outis; but when he had got clear away, and was out of reach of my arrow, he said that his name was Odysseus.

“Poseidon. I know whom you speak of—him of Ithaca, and he was on his return voyage from Ilium. But how did he do it, for he is by no means a man of too much courage?

“Polyphemus. Returning from my accustomed attending of my flock, I caught a number of fellows in my cave, evidently having designs on my herds; for when I placed the stone block against the door—the rock is of huge size—and had lighted the fire by igniting the tree which I brought from the mountain, evidently they appeared to be trying to conceal themselves. Well, when I had got hold of some of them I devoured them for a pack of thieves, as was reasonable. Hereupon that most villainous rascal, whether he was Outis or Odysseus, pours out a sort of drug and gives me to drink—sweet, indeed, and of delicious smell, but most insidious, and which caused great disorder in my head; for, immediately upon my drinking, everything seemed to me to be in a whirl, and the cave itself was turned upside down, and I was no longer at all in my senses; and at last I was dragged down into sleep. Then sharpening the bar, and igniting it besides, he blinded me as I slept, and from that time I am a blind man, at your service, Poseidon.

“Poseidon. How soundly you slept, my son, that you did not jump up while you were being blinded! But as for this Odysseus, then, how did he escape? For he could not—I am well assured that he could not—move away the rock from the door.

“Polyphemus. Yes, but it was I who removed it, that I might the better catch him as he was going out; and, sitting down close to the door, I groped for him with extended hands, letting only my sheep go out to pasture, after having given instructions to the ram what he was to do in my place.

“Poseidon. I perceive: they slipped away unnoticed, under the sheep. But you ought to have shouted, and called the rest of the Cyclopes to your aid.

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“Polyphemus. I did summon them, father, and they came. But when they asked the sneaking rascal’s name, and I said it was Outis, thinking I was in a mad fit, they took themselves off at once. Thus the cursed fellow tricked me with his name; and what especially vexes me is, that he actually threw my misfortune in my teeth. ‘Not even,’ said he, ‘will your father Poseidon cure you.’

“Poseidon. Never mind, my child, for I will revenge myself upon him; he shall learn that, even if it is not possible for me to heal the mutilation of people’s eyes, at all events the fate of voyagers is in my hands. And he is still at sea.”

—Dialogues of the Sea-Gods.

Remembering that the dividing lines may not be too strictly drawn, we close our survey of Greek Humor with some of the fragments of Menander.

Menander, who was to the Middle or New Comedy what Aristophanes was to the Old Comedy, left only fragments. One bit, rather longer than the others, shows, with the inevitable animal element not lacking, a surprisingly modern spirit of satire.

Other Fragments of Menander follow.

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The following are a few more epigrammatic bits from the writings of less noted contemporaries.

Apollodorus

The Roman Juvenal observed, “All Greece is a comedian.” But he could not say the same of his own country.

Though there was Roman Comedy and Roman Satire, the real and spontaneous spirit of fun was conspicuously lacking in the tastes and tendencies of the Romans.

Glory is attributed to Greece and grandeur to Rome, and it may be the “sudden glory” of humor was an integral part of the Grecian nature.

Yet we must not differentiate too carefully between the two, for the literature of Greece and Rome is so fused and intermingled that only a historian may take up the chronological tabulation.

For our purpose it is well to let the literature of the two countries merge and continue the consideration of classic comedy without over cautious regard for dates.

The Greek influence on literature of all ages will never disappear, but the Greek spirit of pure joy and gaiety will, probably never reappear.

From the beginnings of Greece, on through the existence of Rome, and down through the Mediæval Ages, the world of letters was self-contained, a single proposition. From 500 B.C. to 1300 A.D. the traditions of primal Greece and Rome continued to be the common possession of all Europe.

After that, literature became diverse and divergent among the countries. It was independent as well as interdependent, but this condition makes an inevitable division of time.

Greece, Rome, Mediæval Times,—these are the three sections of the Middle portion of this book.

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Rome, then, considered by herself, brought forth little quotable humorous literature, and what we have to choose from is ponderous and heavy.

Like Greece, the first germs of Roman comic literature may be traced to the religious festivals, which were marked by an admixture of religious rites and riotous Bacchanalian orgies, where as the crowds danced and sang and feasted, they became first hilarious and then abusive and indecent.

Like the Greeks, the Romans used grotesque masks, large enough to represent face and hair, too, the duplicates of which we see decorating our theater proscenium arches and drop curtains to this day.

It would seem these masks were universally made use of in their dramatic performances, for all caricatures and grotesque drawings show them.

In the burlesque entertainments there was a Buffoon, corresponding to our clown, called a Sannio, from the Greek word meaning a fool.

Later, undoubtedly, the Court Fool and the King’s Jester were the natural successors of this character.

In all these masks the features were exaggerated and made monstrous of form and size. But one reason for the greatly enlarged mouth is that it was so shaped in order to form a sort of speaking trumpet, that the actors’ voices might be heard at greater distance.

In contrast to the grotesquerie of enlargement, there was also a branch of caricature which depicted the pigmies.

The legend of the pigmies and cranes is as ancient, at least, as Homer, and many examples are found in the buried cities of Herculaneum and Pompeii.

Comic Literature was not plentiful in the days of Early Rome. Up to the second century B.C. we can glean but the two names, Plautus and Terence.

These two, nearly contemporary, founded their plays on the comedies of Menander and a few other earlier dramatic writers.

Perhaps twenty plays are left us from the hands of these two Romans, and these, though pronounced amusing by[88] scholars who can read the original text, are not what the modern layman deems very humorous.

A few examples of them will suffice.

Plautus
MILITARY SWAGGER

PYRGOPOLINICES, ARTOTROGUS, and SOLDIERS

Pyrgopolinices. Take care that the luster of my shield is more bright than the rays of the sun when the sky is clear, that, when occasion comes, the battle being joined, ’mid the fierce ranks right opposite it may dazzle the eyesight of the enemy. But I must console this saber of mine, that it may not lament nor be downcast in spirits, because I have thus long been wearing it keeping holiday, though it so dreadfully longs to make havoc of the enemy. But where is Artotrogus?

Artotrogus. Here he is; he stands close by the hero, valiant and successful, and of princely form. Mars could not dare to style himself so great a warrior, nor compare his prowess with yours.

Pyrgopolinices. Him you mean whom I spared on the Gorgonidonian plains, where Bumbomachides Clytomestoridysarchides, the grandson of Neptune, was the chief commander?

Artotrogus. I remember him; him, I suppose you mean, with the golden armor, whose legions you puffed away with your breath, just as the wind blows away leaves or the reed-thatched roof.

Pyrgopolinices. That, by my troth, was really nothing at all.

Artotrogus. Faith, that really was nothing at all in comparison with other things I could mention (aside) which you never did. If any person ever beheld a more perjured fellow than this, or one more full in vain boasting, let him have me for himself: I’ll become his slave.

Pyrgopolinices. What are you saying?

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Artotrogus. Why, that I remember in what fashion you broke the foreleg of an elephant, in India, with your fist.

Pyrgopolinices. How—the foreleg?

Artotrogus. I meant to say the thigh.

Pyrgopolinices. I struck the blow without an effort.

Artotrogus. Troth, if, indeed, you had put forth your strength, your arm would have passed right through the hide, the entrails, and the frontispiece of the elephant.

Pyrgopolinices. I don’t care to talk about these things just now.

Artotrogus. I’ faith, ’tis really not worth while for you to tell me of it, who know your prowess well. (Aside.) My appetite creates all these tales. I must hear him right out with my ears, that my teeth mayn’t have time to grow, and whatever lie he shall tell I must agree to it.

Pyrgopolinices. What was it I was saying?

Artotrogus. Oh, I know what you were going to say just now. I’ faith ’twas bravely done; I remember its being done.

Pyrgopolinices. What was that?

Artotrogus. Whatever it was you were going to say.

Pyrgopolinices. Have you got your tablets?

Artotrogus. Are you intending to enlist some one? I have them, and a pen as well.

Pyrgopolinices. How quickly you guess my thoughts!

Artotrogus. ’Tis fit that I should study your inclinations, so that whatever you wish should first occur to me.

Pyrgopolinices. What do you remember?

Artotrogus. I do remember this: In Cilicia there were a hundred and fifty men, a hundred in Cryphiolathronia, thirty at Sardis, sixty men of Macedon, whom you slaughtered altogether in one day.

Pyrgopolinices. What is the sum total of those men?

Artotrogus. Seven thousand.

Pyrgopolinices. It must be as much; you keep the reckoning well.

Artotrogus. Yet I have none of them written down; still, I remember it was so.

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Pyrgopolinices. By my troth, you have a right good memory.

Artotrogus (aside). ’Tis the flesh-pots give it a fillip.

Pyrgopolinices. So long as you shall do as you have done hitherto, you shall always have something to eat; I will always make you a partaker at my table.

Artotrogus. Besides, in Cappadocia you would have killed five hundred men altogether at one blow, had not your saber been blunt.

Pyrgopolinices. I let them live, because I was quite sick of fighting.

Artotrogus. Why should I tell you what all mortals know, that you, Pyrgopolinices, live upon the earth with your valor, beauty, and achievements unsurpassed? All the women are in love with you, and that not without reason, since you are so handsome. Witness those girls that pulled me by my mantle yesterday.

Pyrgopolinices. What was it they said to you?

Artotrogus. They questioned me about you. “Is Achilles here?” says one to me. “No,” says I, “his brother is.” Then says the other to me, “By my troth, but he is a handsome and a noble man. See how his long hair becomes him! Certainly the women are lucky who share his favors.”

Pyrgopolinices. And pray, did they really say so?

Artotrogus. They both entreated me to bring you past today, so that they might see you.

Pyrgopolinices. ’Tis really a very great plague to a man to be too handsome!

Artotrogus. They are quite a nuisance to me; they are praying, entreating, beseeching me to let them see you; sending for me for that purpose, so that I can’t give my attention to your business.

Pyrgopolinices. It seems that it is time for us to go to the Forum, that I may count out their pay to those soldiers whom I lately enlisted; for King Seleucus entreated me with most earnest suit that I would raise and enlist recruits for him. To that business I have resolved to devote my attention this day.

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Artotrogus. Come, let’s be going, then.

Pyrgopolinices. Guards, follow me.

—The Braggart Captain.

THE SUSPICIOUS MISER
MEGADORUS and EUNOMIA

Eunomia. Tell me pray, who is she whom you would like to take for a wife?

Megadorus. I’ll tell you. Do you know that Euclio, the poor old man close by?

Eunomia. I know him; not a bad sort of man.

Megadorus. I’d like his maiden daughter to be promised me in marriage. Don’t make any words about it, sister; I know what you are going to say—that she’s poor. This poor girl pleases me.

Eunomia. May the gods prosper it!

Megadorus. I hope the same.

Eunomia. Do you wish me to stay for anything else?

Megadorus. No; farewell.

Eunomia. And to you the same, brother.

(Goes into the house.)

Megadorus. I’ll go to see Euclio, if he’s at home. But, ah! here comes the very man toward his own house!

Enter Euclio

Euclio (to himself). I had a presentiment that I was going out to no purpose when I left my house, and therefore I went unwillingly; for neither did any one of the wardsmen come, nor yet the master of the ward, who ought to have distributed the money. Now I’m making all haste to hasten home; for, though I myself am here, my mind’s at home.

Megadorus. May you be well, and ever fortunate, Euclio!

Euclio. May the gods bless you, Megadorus!

Megadorus. How are you? Are you quite well and contented?

Euclio (aside). It isn’t for nothing when a rich man accosts[92] a poor man courteously. Now, this fellow knows that I’ve got some gold; for that reason he salutes me more courteously.

Megadorus. Do you say that you are well?

Euclio. Oh, I’m not very well in the money line.

Megadorus. But if you’ve a contented mind, you have enough for passing a happy life with.

Euclio (aside). By my faith, the old woman has made a discovery to him about the gold; it is clear she has told him. I’ll cut off her tongue, and tear out her eyes, when I get home.

Megadorus. Why are you talking to yourself?

Euclio. I’m lamenting my poverty. I’ve a grown-up girl without a portion, and one that can’t be disposed of in marriage; nor am I able to marry her to anybody.

Megadorus. Hold your peace; be of good courage, Euclio; she shall have a husband; you shall be assisted by myself. If you have need of help, command me.

Euclio (aside). Now he is aiming at my property, while he’s making promises. He’s gaping for my gold, that he may devour it; in the one hand he is carrying a stone, while he shows the bread in the other. I trust no person who, rich himself, is exceedingly courteous to a poor man; when he extends his hand with a kind air, then is he loading you with some damage. I know these polyps, who, when they’ve touched a thing, hold it fast.

Megadorus. Give me your attention, Euclio, for a little while; I wish to speak a few words to you about a common concern of yours and mine.

Euclio (aside). Alas! wo is me! My gold has been carried off from my house. Now he’s wishing for this thing, I’m sure, to come to a compromise with me; but I’ll look in my house first.

(He goes toward his door.)

Megadorus. Where are you going?

Euclio. I’ll return to you directly, for there’s something I must go and see to at home.

(Goes into his house.)

Megadorus. I verily believe that when I make mention of his daughter, for him to promise her to me, he’ll suppose that[93] I am laughing at him; for I do not know of any man poorer than he.

Euclio returns from his house

Euclio (aside). The gods favor me; my property’s all safe. If nothing’s lost, it’s safe. I was dreadfully afraid before I went indoors. I was almost dead. (Aloud.) I’m come back to you, Megadorus, if you wish to say anything to me.

Megadorus. I thank you. I beg that as to what I shall inquire of you, you’ll not hesitate to speak out boldly.

Euclio. So long, indeed, as you inquire nothing that I mayn’t choose to speak out upon.

Megadorus. Tell me, of what sort of family do you consider me to be sprung?

Euclio. Of a good one.

Megadorus. What do you think about my character?

Euclio. It’s a good one.

Megadorus. What of my conduct?

Euclio. Neither bad nor dishonest.

Megadorus. Do you know my age?

Euclio. I know that you are as rich in years as in pocket.

Megadorus. I surely did always take you to be a citizen without evil guile, and now I am convinced.

Euclio (aside). He smells the gold. (Aloud.) What do you want with me now?

Megadorus. Since you know me, and I know you, what sort of person you are, may it bring a blessing on myself, and you and your daughter, if I now ask your daughter as my wife. Promise me that it shall be so.

Euclio. Heyday! Megadorus, you are doing a deed that’s not becoming to your usual actions, in laughing at me, a poor man, and guiltless toward yourself and toward your family. For neither in act, nor in words, have I ever deserved it of you that you should do what you are doing now.

Megadorus. I vow that I neither came to laugh at you nor am I laughing at you, nor do I think you deserving of it.

Euclio. Why, then, do you ask my daughter for yourself?

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Megadorus. Because I believe that the match would be a good thing for all of us.

Euclio. It suggests itself to my mind, Megadorus, that you are a wealthy man, a man of rank, and that I am the poorest of the poor. Now, if I should give my daughter in marriage to you, it suggests itself to my mind that you are the ox, and that I am the ass; when I’m yoked to you, and when I’m not able to bear the burden equally with yourself, I, the ass, must lie down in the mire; you, the ox, would regard me no more than if I had never been born. I should then feel aggrieved, and my own class would laugh at me. In neither direction should I have a fixed stall, if there should be a divorce; the asses would tear me with their teeth, the oxen would butt at me with their horns. This is the great risk, in my passing over from the asses to the oxen.

Megadorus. The nearer you can unite yourself in alliance with honorable people the better. Do you receive this proposal, listen to me, and promise her to me.

Euclio. But there is no marriage portion, I tell you.

Megadorus. You are to give none; so long as she comes with good principles, she is sufficiently portioned.

Euclio. I say so for this reason, that you mayn’t be supposing that I have found any treasures.

Megadorus. I know that; don’t enlarge upon it. Promise her to me.

Euclio. So be it. (Starts and looks about.) But, oh, Jupiter, am I not utterly undone?

Megadorus. What’s the matter with you?

Euclio. What was it sounded just now as though it were iron?

Megadorus. I ordered them to dig up the garden at my place. (Euclio runs off into his house.) But where has this man gone? He’s off, and he hasn’t fully answered me; he treats me with contempt. Because he sees that I wish for his friendship, he acts after the usual manner of mankind. For if a wealthy person goes to ask a favor of a poorer one, the poor man is afraid to treat with him; through suspicion he hurts his own interest. The same person, when this opportunity is lost, afterward wishes for it too late.

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Euclio (coming out of the house, addressing servant within). By the powers, if I don’t give you up to have your tongue cut out by the roots, I order and I authorize you to hand me over to any one you please, to be mutilated.

Megadorus. By my troth, Euclio, I perceive that you consider me a fit man for you to make sport of in my old age, for no fault of my own.

Euclio. I’ faith, Megadorus, I am not doing so, nor should I desire it were I able to.

Megadorus. Well, then, do you betroth your daughter to me?

Euclio. On those terms, and with that portion which I mentioned to you.

Megadorus. Do you promise her, then?

Euclio. I do promise her.

Megadorus. May the gods bestow their blessings on it!

Euclio. May the gods do so! Observe and remember that we’ve agreed, that my daughter is not to bring you any portion.

Megadorus. I remember it.

Euclio. But I understand in what fashion people are wont to equivocate; an agreement is no agreement, no agreement is an agreement—just as it pleases you.

Megadorus. I’ll have no misunderstanding with you. But what reason is there why we shouldn’t have the nuptials this day?

Euclio. Why, by my troth, there is very good reason why we should.

Megadorus. I’ll go, then, and prepare matters. Do you want me for anything more?

Euclio. All is settled. Farewell.

Megadorus (going to the door of his house and calling out). Hullo! Strobilus, follow me quickly to the meat-market.

(Exit Megadorus.)

Euclio. He has gone. Immortal gods, I do beseech you! How powerful is gold! I do believe, now, that he has had some intimation that I’ve got a treasure at home. He’s gaping for that; for the sake of that has he persisted in this alliance!

—The Pot of Gold.

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Terence
PARASITES AND GNATHONITES

Gnathonites (soliloquizing). Immortal gods! how far does one man excel another! What a difference there is between a wise person and a fool! This came strongly into my mind from the following circumstance. As I was walking along to-day I met a certain individual of this place, of my own rank and station—no mean fellow—one who, like myself, had guttled away his paternal estate. I saw him, shabby, dirty, sickly, beset with rags and years. “What’s the meaning of this garb?” said I. He answered, “Wretch that I am, I’ve lost what I possessed; see to what I am reduced; all my acquaintances and friends have forsaken me.” On this I felt contempt for him as in comparison with myself. “What!” said I, “you pitiful sluggard, have you so managed matters as to have no hope left? Have you lost your wits together with your estate? Don’t you see me, who have risen from the same condition? What a complexion I have, how spruce and well dressed, what portliness of person? I have everything, yet have nothing; and although I possess nothing, still I am in want of nothing.” “But I,” said he, “unhappily, can no longer find anybody who will feed me in exchange for making me the butt of his jokes.” “What!” said I, “do you suppose it is managed by those means? You are quite mistaken. Once upon a time, in the early ages, there was a calling of that sort; but I will tell you a new mode of coney-catching; I, in fact, have been the first to strike into this path. There is a class of men who strive to be the first in everything, but are not; to these I pay my court. I do not offer myself to them to be laughed at, but I am the first to laugh with them, and at the same time to admire their parts. Whatever they say, I commend; if they contradict that selfsame thing, I commend again. Does any one deny? I deny; does he affirm? I affirm. In fine, I have so trained myself as to humor them in everything. This calling is now by far the most productive.” While we were thus talking, we arrived at the market-place. Overjoyed,[97] all the confectioners ran at once to meet me; fishmongers, butchers, cooks, sausage-makers, fishermen, whom, both when my fortunes were flourishing and when they were ruined, I had served, and often serve still; they complimented me, asked me to dinner, and gave me a hearty welcome. When this poor hungry wretch saw that I was in such great esteem, and that I obtained a living so easily, then the fellow began to entreat me that I would allow him to learn this method of me. So I bade him become my follower—if he could. As the disciples of the philosophers take their names from the philosophers themselves, so, too, the Parasites ought to be called Gnathonites.—Eunuchus.

At the beginning of the Christian Era, Roman Literature writers had begun to come into their own, and the first century A.D. saw many of the greatest Romans of them all in the paths of Literature.

Catullus, the blithe poet who left us some hundred or so of his poems, frequently wrote lines more lyrical than chaste. Yet he himself bids us remember that if a poet’s life be chaste, his lines need not necessarily be so, too.

As Herrick later put it, “Jocund his muse was, but his life was chaste.”

But the self-revelations of Catullus are probably no more improper to read than those of many later and lesser poets.

Of Horace it is difficult to say anything without saying too much.

In this Outline there is no space for discussion, informative or discursive, of the writers, it is our province but to name them and to give examples of their humor.

Horace was not a comedian but in his Satires, as well as in some of his other works, the comic muse is discernible.

The humorist feels a sense of personal grievance against the Roman writers for that they wrote so wisely and so well, yet gave us so little that can be used as Humor for Humor’s sake.

Petronius wrote engagingly, but with such indecency that he can scarce be quoted for polite society.

His Trimalchio’s Dinner offers this:

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AN INGENIOUS COOK

We little thought, as the saying is, that after so many dainties we had another hill to climb; for the table being uncovered to a flourish of music, three muzzled white hogs were brought in, with bells hanging on their necks. The man leading them said one was two years old, the other three, and the last full grown. For my part, I took them for acrobats, and imagined the hogs were to perform some of the surprising feats practised at the circus. But Trimalchio broke in upon our expectation by asking us, “Which of these will you have dressed for supper? Cocks and pheasants are country fare, but my cooks have pans in which a calf can be roasted whole.” And immediately commanding a cook to be called, Trimalchio, without waiting for our choice, bade him kill the largest. He then inquired of the cook how he came by him saying, “Were you bought, or were you born in my house?” “Neither,” replied the cook, “but left you by Pansa’s testament.” “Then see to it,” answered Trimalchio, “that this beast is prepared quickly, or I shall make you serve my footmen.” ...

While our host was talking on, an overgrown hog was brought to table. We all wondered at the expedition which had been used, swearing a capon could not have been dressed in that time; and what increased our surprise was that this hog seemed larger than the boar which had been set before us. Trimalchio, after gazing steadfastly upon him, exclaimed, “What! have his entrails not been taken out? No, by Hercules, they have not! Bring in that rogue of a cook!” The cook, being dragged in before us, hung his head, excusing himself that he had forgotten. “Forgotten!” roared his master. “Strip the rascal! Strip him!” The poor man was stripped forthwith, and placed between two tormentors. We all interceded for him, alleging that such an error might occasionally happen, and therefore desired his pardon, protesting we would never speak for him if he repeated the same offense.

I thought he richly deserved his fate, and could not forbear whispering to Agamemnon, “This must certainly be a most careless rascal. How could any one forget to disembowel a[103] hog? I would not have forgiven him, by Hercules, had he thus served up a dish for me!” Our host, resuming a pleasant look, said, “Come, now, you with the short memory, let us see if you can disembowel the animal before us.” Upon which the cook, having put his garments on again, took his knife, and with a trembling hand slashed the hog on both sides of the belly, when out tumbled a load of hog’s-puddings and sausages....

The dessert consisted of a blackbird pie, dried grapes, and candied nuts. There were also quinces, stuck so full of spices that they looked like so many hedgehogs. Yet all this might have been endured, had not the next dish been so monstrous and disgusting that we would rather have perished of hunger than touched it; for, it being placed upon the table, and, as we imagined, a good fat goose, with fish and all kinds of fowl round it, Trimalchio cried, “Whatever you see here is all made out of one body!” I, being a cunning spark, took a guess at what it might really be, and, turning to Agamemnon, “I wonder,” said I, “whether all this is not made of loam? I once remember seeing such an imaginary dish in the Saturnalia at Rome.” Scarce had I ended, when Trimalchio began to praise his cook:

“There is no cleverer fellow in the world. Out of the belly he’ll make you a dish of fish; a plover out of a piece of fat bacon; a turtle out of leg of pork; and a hen out of the intestines. And therefore, in my opinion, he has a very suitable name, for we call him Dædalus. Because he is such an ingenious fellow, a friend of his brought him a present of knives from Rome, of German steel; and immediately he called for them, and, turning them over, gave us the liberty to try the edges on his cheeks.”

Just then in rushed two servants in high dispute, as if they were quarreling about a yoke, from which hung two earthen jars. And when Trimalchio had judged between them, neither of them stood to the sentence, but each fell to club law, and broke the other’s jar. Amazed at the insolence of these drunken rascals, all our eyes were fixed on their conflict, when we perceived oysters and other shell-fish to fall from the broken[104] jars, a boy collecting them in a charger and handing them about among the guests.

Nor was the cook’s ingenuity in the least unworthy of this extraordinary magnificence; for he brought us snails upon a silver gridiron, and with a shrill, unpleasant voice sang us a song.... We were almost pushed off our couches by the crowd of servants who rushed into the hall; and who should be seated above me but the ingenious cook, that had made a goose from a piece of pork, all reeking of pickles and kitchen slops. Not content with being seated at table, he began to act Thespis the Tragedian; and soon after he challenged his master to contend with him for the laurel wreath at the next chariot-races.

—Trimalchio’s Banquet.

Persius, who died at twenty-eight, left us six satires. Though an imperfect imitator of Horace, his work is characterized by earnestness and a true sense of satire.

In Martial we find a humorist after our own heart. As Homer was the father of poetry and Herodotus the father of prose, so to Martial must be ascribed the paternity of the epigram.

Epigrams, so-called, had been made before, but in Martial’s work they rose to a new height, took on a new meaning.

Before Martial, epigram meant merely inscription,—any short poem that might conveniently be cut on stone.

Martial’s epigrams have keen wit and sharp point, such as appeal to the mind and appreciation of the reader.

Fourteen hundred and fifty is his legacy of epigrams to us, and most of them properly short, as an epigram should be.

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About the last of the great Latin Satirists is Juvenal, a contemporary of Martial.

His lines in translation, have a modern ring, but that may be merely because the fundamental sources and themes of wit are universal.

Apuleius was the skilful teller of a long and fantastic tale called Metamorphoses, commonly known as the Golden Ass.

But a small extract may be given.

Apuleius
METAMORPHOSES

Fotis came running to me one day in great excitement and trepidation, and informed me that her mistress, having hitherto made no proficiency by other means in her present amour, intended to assume feathers like a bird, and so take flight to the object of her love, and that I must prepare myself with all due care for the sight of such a wonderful proceeding. And now, about the first watch of the night, she escorted me, on tiptoe and with noiseless steps, to that same upper chamber, and bade me peep through a chink in the door, which I did accordingly.

In the first place, Pamphile divested herself of all her garments, and having unlocked a certain cabinet, took out of it several little boxes. Taking the lid off one of them, and pouring some ointment therefrom, she rubbed herself for a considerable time with her hands, smearing herself all over from the tips of her toes to the crown of her head. Then, after she had muttered a long while in a low voice over a lamp, she shook her limbs with tremulous jerks, then gently waved them to and fro, until soft feathers burst forth, strong wings displayed[113] themselves, the nose was hardened and curved into a beak, the nails were compressed and made crooked. Thus did Pamphile become an owl. Then, uttering a querulous scream, she made trial of her powers, leaping little by little from the ground; and presently, raising herself aloft, on full wing, she flew out-of-doors. And thus was she, of her own will, changed, by her own magic arts.

But I, though not enchanted by any magic spell, still, riveted to the spot by astonishment at this performance, seemed to myself to be anything else rather than Lucius. Thus deprived of my senses, and astounded even to insanity, I was in a waking dream, and rubbed my eyes for some time to ascertain whether or not I was awake at all. At last, however, returning to consciousness of the reality of things, I took hold of the right hand of Fotis, and putting it to my eyes, “Suffer me,” said I, “I beg of you, to enjoy a great and singular proof of your affection, while the opportunity offers, and give me a little ointment from the same box. Grant this, my sweetest, I entreat you by these breasts of yours, and thus, by conferring on me an obligation that can never be repaid, bind me to you forever as your slave. Be you my Venus, and let me stand by you a winged Cupid.”

“And are you, then, sweetheart, for playing me a fox’s trick, and for causing me, of my own accord, to let fall the ax upon my legs? Must I run such risk of having my Lucius torn from me by the wolves of Thessaly? Where am I to look for him when he is changed into a bird? When shall I see him again?”

“May the celestial powers,” said I, “avert from me such a crime! Though borne aloft on the wings of the eagle itself, soaring through the midst of the heavens, as the trusty messenger, or joyous arm-bearer, of supreme Jove, would I not, after I had obtained this dignity of wing, still fly back every now and then to my nest? I swear to you, by that lovely little knot of hair with which you have enchanted my spirit, that I would prefer no other to my Fotis. And then, besides, I bethink me that as soon as I am rubbed with that ointment, and shall have been changed into a bird of this kind, I shall be[114] bound to keep at a distance from all human habitations; for what a beautiful and agreeable lover will the ladies gain in an owl! Why, do we not see that these birds of night, when they have got into any house, are eagerly seized and nailed to the doors, in order that they may atone, by their torments, for the evil destiny which they portend to the family by their inauspicious flight? But one thing I had almost forgot to inquire: what must I say, or do, in order to get rid of my wings and return to my own form as Lucius?”

“Be in no anxiety,” she said, “about all that matter; for my mistress has made me acquainted with everything that can again change such forms into the human shape. But do not suppose that this was done through any kind feeling toward me, but in order that I might assist her with the requisite remedies when she returns home. Only think with what simple and trifling herbs such a mighty result is brought about: for instance, a little anise, with some leaves of laurel infused in spring water, and used as a lotion and a draft.”

Having assured me of this over and over again, she stole into her mistress’s chamber with the greatest trepidation, and took a little box out of the casket. Having first hugged and kissed it, and offered up a prayer that it would favor me with a prosperous flight, I hastily divested myself of all my garments, then greedily dipping my fingers into the box, and taking thence a considerable quantity of the ointment, I rubbed it all over my body and limbs. And now, flapping my arms up and down, I anxiously awaited my change into a bird. But no down, no shooting wings appeared. Instead, my hairs became thickened into bristles, and my tender skin was hardened into a hide; my hands and feet, too, no longer furnished with distinct fingers and toes, formed into massive hoofs, and a long tail projected from the extremity of my spine. My face was now enormous, my mouth wide, my nostrils gaping, and my lips hanging down. In like manner my ears grew hairy and of immoderate length, and I found in every respect I had become enlarged. Thus, hopelessly surveying all parts of my body, I beheld myself changed—not into a bird, but an ass.

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I wished to upbraid Fotis for the deed she had done; but, now deprived both of the gesture and voice of man, I could only expostulate with her silently with my under-lip hanging down, and looking sidewise at her with tearful eyes. As for her, as soon as she beheld me thus changed she beat her face with her hands, and cried aloud, “Wretch that I am, I am undone! In my haste and flurry I mistook one box for the other, deceived by their similarity. It is fortunate, however, that a remedy for this transformation is easily to be obtained; for, by only chewing roses, you will put off the form of an ass, and in an instant will become my Lucius once again. I only wish that I had prepared as usual some garlands of roses for us last evening; for then you would not have had to suffer the delay even of a single night. But at the break of dawn the remedy shall be provided for you.”

Thus did she lament; and as for me, though I was a perfect ass, and instead of Lucius, a beast of burden, I still retained human sense. Long and deeply, in fact, did I consider with myself whether I ought not to bite and kick that most wicked woman to death. However, better thoughts recalled me from such rash designs, lest, by inflicting on Fotis the punishment of death, I should at once put an end to all chances of efficient assistance. So, bending my head low, and shaking my ears, I silently swallowed my wrongs for a time, and submitting to my most dreadful misfortune, I betook myself to the stable to the good horse which had carried me so well, and there I found another ass also, which belonged to my former host, Milo. Now it occurred to me that, if there are in dumb animals any silent and natural ties of sympathy, this horse of mine, being influenced by a certain feeling of recognition and compassion, would afford me room for a lodging and the rights of hospitality. But, oh, Jupiter Hospitalis, and all you the guardian divinities of Faith! this very excellent nag of mine and the ass put their heads together and immediately plotted schemes for my destruction; and as soon as they beheld me approaching the manger, laying back their ears and quite frantic with rage, they furiously attacked me with their heels, fearing I had design upon their food. Consequently, I was[116] driven away into the farthest corner from that very barley which the evening before I had placed, with my own hands, before that most grateful servant of mine.

Thus harshly treated and sent into banishment, I betook myself to a corner of the stable. And while I reflected on the insolence of my companions, and formed plans of vengeance against the perfidious steed, for the next day, when I should have become Lucius once more by the aid of the roses, I beheld against the central square pillar which supported the beams of the stable, a statue of the goddess Hippona, standing within a shrine, and nicely adorned with garlands of roses, and those, too, recently gathered. Inspired with hope, the moment I espied the salutary remedy I boldly mounted as far as ever my forelegs could stretch; and then, with neck at full length, and extending my lips as much as I possibly could, I endeavored to catch hold of the garlands. But by a most unlucky chance, just as I was endeavoring to accomplish this, my servant lad, who had the constant charge of my horse, suddenly espied me, sprang to his feet in a great rage, and exclaimed, “How long are we to put up with this vile hack, which but a few moments ago was for making an attack upon the food of the cattle, and is now doing the same even to the statues of the gods? But if I don’t this very instant cause this sacrilegious beast to be both sore and crippled”—and searching for something with which to strike me, he stumbled upon a bundle of sticks that lay there, and, picking out a knotted cudgel, the largest he could find among them all, he did not cease to belabor my poor sides, until a loud thumping and banging at the outer gates, and an uproar of the neighbors shouting “Thieves!” struck him with terror, and he took to his heels.

—The Golden Ass.

VICISSITUDES OF A DONKEY

When the keeper of the horses had taken me to the country, I found there none of the pleasure or the liberty I expected; for his wife, an avaricious, bad woman, immediately yoked me[117] to the mill, and frequently striking me with a green stick, prepared bread for herself and her family at the expense of my hide. And not content to make me drudge for her own food only, she also ground corn for her neighbors, and so made money by my toil. Nor, after all my weary labors, did she even afford me the food which had been ordered for me; for she sold my barley to the neighboring husbandmen, after it had been bruised and ground in that very mill by my own roundabout drudgery; but to me, who had worked during the whole of the day at that laborious machine, she only gave, toward evening, some dirty, unsifted, and very gritty bran. I was brought low enough by these miseries; but cruel fortune exposed me to fresh torments, in order, I suppose, that I might boast of my brave deeds, both in peace and war, as the saying is. For that excellent equerry, complying, rather late, indeed, with his master’s orders, for a short time permitted me to associate with the herds of horses.

At length a free ass, I capered for joy, and softly ambling up to the mares, chose out such as I thought would be the fittest for my concubines. But here my joyful hopes gave place to extreme danger. For the stallions, who were terribly strong creatures, more than a match for any ass, regarding me with suspicion, furiously pursued me as their rival, without respect for the laws of hospitable Jupiter. One of them, with his head and neck and ample chest aloft, struck at me like a pugilist with his forefeet; another, turning his brawny back, let fly at me with his hind feet; and another, with a vicious neigh, his ears thrown back, and showing his white teeth, sharp as spears, bit me all over. It was like what I have read in history of the King of Thrace, who exposed his unhappy guests to be lacerated and devoured by wild horses; for so sparing was that powerful tyrant of his barley, that he appeased the hunger of his voracious horses by casting human bodies to them for food. In fact, I was so worried and distracted by the continual attacks of the horses, that I wished myself back again at the mill-round.

Fortune, however, would not be satisfied with my torments, and soon after visited me with another calamity; for I[118] was employed to bring home wood from a mountain, and a boy, the most villainous of all boys, was appointed to drive me. It was not only that I was wearied by toiling up and down the steep and lofty mountain, nor that I wore away my hoofs by running on sharp stones, but I was cudgeled without end, so that all my bones ached to the very marrow. Moreover, by continually striking me on the off-haunch, and always in the same place, till the skin was broken, he occasioned a great ulcerous cavity, gaping like a trench or a window; yet he never ceased to hit me on the raw. He likewise laid such a load of wood on my back that you might have thought it was a burden prepared for an elephant, and not for a donkey. And whenever the ill-balanced load inclined to one side, instead of taking away some of the fagots from the heavier side, and thus easing me by somewhat lightening, or at least equalizing the pressure, he always remedied the inequality of the weight by the addition of stones. Nor yet, after so many miseries which I had endured, was he content with the immoderate weight of my burden; but when it happened that we had to pass over a river, he would leap on my back in order to keep his feet dry, as if his weight was but a trifling addition to the heavy mass. And if by any accident I happened to fall, through the weight of my burden and the slipperiness of the muddy bank, instead of giving me a helping hand, as he ought to have done, and pulling me up by the head-stall, or by my tail, or removing a part of my load, till at least I had got up again, this paragon of ass-drivers gave me no help at all, however weary I might be, but beginning from my head, or rather from my ears, he thrashed all the hair off my hide with a huge stick.

Another piece of cruelty he practised on me was this: he twisted together a bundle of the sharpest and most venomous thorns, and tied them to my tail as a pendulous torment; so that, jerking against me when I walked, they pricked and stabbed me intolerably. Hence, I was in a sore dilemma; for when I ran away from him, to escape his unmerciful drubbings, I was hurt by the more vehement pricking of the thorns; and if I stood still for a short time, in order to avoid that pain, I was compelled by blows to go on. In fact, the[119] rascally boy seemed to think of nothing else than how he might be the death of me by some means or other; and that he sometimes threatened with oaths to accomplish. And, indeed, there happened a thing by which his detestable malice was stimulated to more baneful efforts. On a certain day, when his excessive insolence had overcome my patience, I lifted up my powerful heels against him; and for this he retaliated by the following atrocity: he brought me into the road heavily laden with a bundle of coarse flax, securely bound together with cords, and placed in the middle of the burden a burning coal, which he had stolen from the neighboring village. Presently the fire spread through the slender fibers, flames burst forth, and I was ablaze all over. There appeared no refuge from immediate destruction, no hope of safety, and such a conflagration did not admit of delay or afford time for deliberation. Fortune, however, shone upon me in these cruel circumstances—perhaps for the purpose of reserving me for future dangers, but, at all events, liberating me from present and decreed death. By chance perceiving a neighboring pool muddy with the rain of the preceding day, I threw myself headlong into it; and the flame being immediately extinguished, I came out, lightened of my burden and liberated from destruction. But that audacious young rascal cast the blame of this most wicked deed of his on me, and affirmed to all the shepherds that as I was passing near the neighbors’ fires, I stumbled on purpose, and threw my load into the blaze. And he added, laughing at me, “How long shall we waste food on this fiery monster?”

—The Golden Ass.

MEDIÆVAL AGES

Shakespeare’s line,

gives no stronger or more absolute effect of darkness and blankness than the state of humorous literature during the vast deep and middle of the Mediæval Ages.

It is not possible to catalogue it with reference to time or place, for the mass of it came from the mouths of Tale-tellers or Song-singers, supplemented by the pencils or chisels of the caricaturists.

In the East, Folk Tales were abundant and they were brought to Europe as the wind scatters the seeds of vegetation.

Fables, Fairy Tales, Mother Goose Jingles, Collections of Anecdotes, all hark back to these jesting stories of the ancient Orientals.

Probably the oldest and most important link in the tracing of Indo-European Folk Lore is found in the Fables of Pilpay, or Bidpai.

This is the Arabic translation of the Pahlavi translation of the Sanscrit original of the Panchatantra.

The scope of the work is advice for the conduct of princes, offered in the guise of beast fables, and perhaps containing much of the material commonly attributed to Æsop.

Little or nothing is known of Pilpay, and his era has been variously placed at different dates between 100 b.c. and 300 b.c.

Others, indeed, declare that Pilpay was not an individual[121] but the name is that of a bidbah, the court scholar of an Indian prince.

The fables, as may be seen from the following selections, inculcate the moral teachings by means of stories about animals, to whom are attributed the thoughts and impulses of men.

Kalidasa, called the greatest poet and dramatist of India, is also of uncertain origin and birth date. He probably lived early in the Christian Era, and his writings, though not strictly humorous are instinct with the spirit of satire.

Kalidasa
HUNTING WITH A KING

Mathavya, a Jester

Mathavya. Heigh-ho, what an unfortunate fellow I am, worn to a shadow by my royal friend’s sporting propensities! “Here’s a deer!” “There goes a boar!” “Yonder’s a tiger!” This is the constant subject of his remarks, while we tramp about in the heat of the day from jungle to jungle on paths where the trees give us no shade. If we are thirsty, we can get nothing to drink but some dirty water from a mountain stream full of dry leaves, tasting vilely bitter. If we are hungry, we are obliged to eat tough, flavorless game, and have to gulp it down at odd times as best we can. Even at night I have no peace. Sleeping is out of the question, with my bones all aching from trotting after my sporting friend; or, if I do contrive to doze, I am awakened at early dawn by the horrible din of a lot of rascally beaters and huntsmen, who must needs begin their deafening operations before sunrise. But these are not my only troubles; for here’s a fresh grievance, like a new boil rising upon an old one: Yesterday, while some of us were lagging behind, my royal friend went into a hermit’s enclosure after a deer, and there—worse luck—he caught sight of a beautiful girl called Sakuntala, the hermit’s daughter. From that moment not a single thought did he have of returning to town; and all night long not a wink of[122] sleep did he get for his thoughts of the girl. But see—here he comes! I will pretend to stand in the easiest attitude for resting my bruised and crippled limbs.

Enter King Dushyanta

Mathavya. Ah, my friend, my hands cannot move to greet you with the accustomed salutation! I can do no more than command my lips to wish your Majesty success.

King. Why, what has paralyzed your limbs?

Mathavya. You might as well ask me how it is my eye waters after you have poked your finger into it!

King. I don’t understand what you mean. Explain yourself.

Mathavya. My dear friend, is that straight reed you see yonder bent crooked by its own act, or by the force of the current?

King. The current of the river is the cause, I suppose.

Mathavya. Yes, just as you are the cause of my crippled limbs.

King. How so?

Mathavya. Here you are, living the life of a savage in a desolate, forlorn region, while the government of the country is taking care of itself. And poor I am no longer master of my own legs, but have to follow you about day after day in your hunting for wild beasts, till all my bones ache and get out of joint. Please, my dear friend, do let us have one day’s rest!—“Sakuntala.”

Unknown Author
THE CREATION OF WOMAN

In the beginning, when Twashtri came to the creation of women, he found that he had exhausted his materials in the making of man, and that no solid elements were left. In this dilemma, after profound meditation, he did as follows:

He took the rotundity of the moon, and the curves of creepers and the clinging of tendrils, and the trembling of[123] grass, and the slenderness of the reed, and the bloom of flowers, and the lightness of leaves, and the tapering of the elephant’s trunk, and the glances of deer, and the joyous gaiety of sunbeams, and the weeping of clouds, and the fickleness of the winds, and the timidity of the hare, and the vanity of the peacock, and the softness of the parrot’s bosom, and the hardness of adamant, and the cruelty of the tiger, and the hot glow of fire, and the coldness of snow, and the chattering of jays, and the cooing of the dove, and the hypocrisy of the crane, and the fidelity of the drake. Compounding all these together, he made woman, and gave her to man.

But after a week man came to him, and said:

“Lord, this creature that you have given me makes my life miserable. She chatters incessantly, and teases me beyond endurance, never leaving me alone. She requires attention every moment, takes up all my time, weeps about nothing, and is always idle. So I have come to give her back again, as I cannot live with her.”

Then Twashtri said, “Very well,” and took her back.

After another week man came to him again, saying:

“Lord, I find that my life is lonely since I surrendered that creature. I remember how she used to dance and sing to me, and look at me out of the corner of her eye, and play with me, and cling to me. Her laughter was music; she was beautiful to look at, and soft to touch. Pray give her back to me again.”

And Twashtri said, “Very well,” and returned woman to man.

But after only three days had passed, man appeared once more before the Creator, to whom he said:

“Lord, I know not how it is, but, after all, I have come to the conclusion that she is more trouble than pleasure to me. Therefore I beg that you take her back again.”

Twashtri, however, replied:

“Out upon you! Be off! I will have no more of this. You must manage how you can.”

Then quoth man:

[124]

“But I cannot live with her!”

To which Twashtri answered:

“Neither could you live without her.” And he turned his back on man, and went on with his work.

Then said man:

“Alas, what is to be done? For I cannot live either with or without her!”—The Churning of the Ocean of Time (Sansara-sagara-manthanam).

The Talmud is far from a humorous work, but it embodies many bits of wise wit, and is the original source of many present day proverbs.

In its twelve folio volumes it contains the work of the ancient Jews for nearly a thousand years, and among its fine parables and interesting legends gleams of rare wit frequently occur.

EXTRACTS FROM THE TALMUD

The forest trees once asked the fruit trees: “Why is the rustling of your leaves not heard in the distance?” The fruit trees replied: “We can dispense with the rustling to manifest our presence, our fruits testify for us.” The fruit trees then inquired of the forest trees: “Why do your leaves rustle almost continually?” “We are forced to call the attention of man to our existence.”

Too many captains sink the ship.

Birds of a feather flock together; and so with men—like to like.

He laid his money on the horns of a deer.

Keep partners with him whom the hour favors.

Attend no auctions if thou hast no money.

Poverty comes from God, but not dirt.

[125]

Ignorance and conceit go hand in hand.

Better eat onions all thy life than dine upon geese and chickens once and then long in vain for more ever after.

Go to sleep without supper, but rise without debt.

Do not live near a pious fool.

If thy friends agree in calling thee an ass, go and get a halter around thee.

Love your wife truly and faithfully, and do not compel her to hard work.

When our conjugal love was strong, the width of the threshold offered sufficient accommodation for both of us; but now that it has cooled down, a couch sixty yards wide is too narrow.

Man is generally led the way which he is inclined to go.

If the thief has no opportunity, he thinks himself honorable.

Were it not for the existence of passions, no one would build a house, marry a wife, beget children, or do any work.

What should man do in order to live? Deaden his passions. What should man do in order to die? Give himself entirely to life.

He who hardens his heart with pride softens his brain with the same.

Do not reveal thy secret to the apes.

[126]

Use thy best vase to-day, for to-morrow it may, perchance, be broken.

The world is only saved by the breath of the school-children.

“Repeat,” “repeat,” that is the best medicine for memory.

A woman schemes while plying the spindle.

Alas! for one thing that goes and never returns. What is it? Youth.

Rab Safra had a jewel for which he asked the price of ten pieces of gold. Several dealers saw the jewel and offered five gold pieces. Rab Safra declined, and the merchants left him. After a second consideration, he, however, resolved upon selling the jewel for five pieces. The next day, just as Rab Safra was at prayers, the merchants unexpectedly returned: “Sir,” said they to him, “we come to you again to do business after all. Do you wish to part with the jewel for the price we offered you?” But Rab Safra made no reply. “Well, well; be not angered; we will add another two pieces.” Rab Safra still remained silent. “Well, then, be it as you say; we will give you ten pieces, the price you asked.” By this time Rab Safra had ended his prayer, and said: “Sirs, I was at prayers, and could not hear you. As for the jewel, I have already resolved upon selling it at the price you offered me yesterday. If you then pay me five pieces of gold, I shall be satisfied.”

Chief of the Arabian collections of tales is, of course, The Arabian Nights’ Entertainment, or The Thousand And One Nights.

Many of these tales are of very ancient origin, others have been added as the centuries went by.

Though the stories show their Persian, Indian and Arabian origin, the collection as it stands at present was compiled in Egypt not more than five or six centuries ago.

As is well known, the stories were told night after night,[127] by Scheherazade, to preserve her life so long as the king’s interest might be held. Most of the tales show little or no humor, many are long and wearisome, many more too broad to quote, but several are given that may be considered as representative of Oriental wit.

THE SIMPLETON AND THE SHARPER

A certain simple fellow was once going along, haling his ass after him by the halter, when a couple of sharpers saw him and one said to his fellow, “I will take that ass from yonder man.” “How wilt thou do that?” asked the other. “Follow me and I will show thee,” replied the first. So he went up to the ass and loosing it from the halter, gave the beast to his fellow; then clapped the halter on his own head and followed the simpleton, till he knew that the other had got clean off with the ass when he stood still. The man pulled at the halter, but the thief stirred not; so he turned and seeing the halter on a man’s neck, said to him, “Who art thou?” Quoth the sharper, “I am thine ass and my story is a strange one. Know that I have a pious old mother and came in to her one day, drunk; and she said to me, “O my son, repent to God the Most High of these thy transgressions.” But I took the cudgel and beat her, whereupon she cursed me and God the Most High changed me into an ass and caused me fall into thy hands, where I have remained till now. However, today, my mother called me to mind and her heart relented towards me; so she prayed for me, and God restored me to my former shape of a man.” “There is no power and no virtue but in God the Most High, the Supreme!” cried the simpleton. “O my brother, I conjure thee by Allah acquit me of what I have done with thee in the way of riding and so forth.”

Then he let the sharper go and returned home, drunken with chagrin and concern. His wife asked him, “What ails thee and where is the ass?” And he answered, “Thou knowest not what was this ass; but I will tell thee.” So he told her the story, and she exclaimed, “Woe worth us for God the Most High! How could we have used a man as a beast of[128] burden, all this while?” And she gave alms and asked pardon of God. Then the man abode awhile at home, idle, till she said to him, “How long wilt thou sit at home, idle? Go to the market and buy us an ass and do thy business with it.” Accordingly, he went to the market and stopping by the ass-stand, saw his own ass for sale. So he went up to it and clapping his mouth to its ear, said to it, “Out on thee, thou good-for-nought! Doubtless thou hast been getting drunk again and beating thy mother! But, by Allah, I will never buy thee more!” And he left it and went away.

THE THIEF TURNED MERCHANT AND THE OTHER THIEF

There was once a thief who repented to God the Most High and making good his repentance, opened himself a shop for the sale of stuffs, where he continued to trade awhile. One day, he locked his shop and went home; and in the night there came to the bazaar a cunning thief disguised in the habit of the merchant, and pulling out keys from his sleeve, said to the watchman of the market, “Light me this candle.” So the watchman took the candle and went to get a light, whilst the thief opened the shop and lit another candle he had with him. When the watchman came back, he found him seated in the shop, looking over the account books and reckoning with his fingers; nor did he leave to do thus till point of day, when he said to the man, “Fetch me a camel-driver and his camel, to carry some goods for me.” So the man fetched him a camel, and the thief took four bales of stuffs and gave them to the camel-driver, who loaded them on his beast. Then he gave the watchman two dirhems and went away after the camel-driver, the watchman the while believing him to be the owner of the shop.

Next morning, the merchant came and the watchman greeted him with blessings, because of the two dirhems, much to the surprise of the former, who knew not what he meant. When he opened his shop, he saw the droppings of the wax and the account-book lying on the floor, and looking round, found four bales of stuffs missing. So he asked the watchman what[129] had happened and he told him what had passed in the night, whereupon the merchant bade him fetch the camel-driver and said to the latter, “Whither didst thou carry the stuffs?” “To such a wharf,” answered the driver; “and I stowed them on board such a vessel.” “Come with me thither,” said the merchant. So the camel-driver carried him to the wharf and showed him the barque and her owner. Quoth the merchant to the latter, “Whither didst thou carry the merchant and the stuff?” “To such a place,” answered the master, “where he fetched a camel-driver and setting the bales on the camel, went I know not whither.” “Fetch me the camel-driver,” said the merchant; so he fetched him and the merchant said to him, “Whither didst thou carry the bales of stuffs from the ship?” “To such a khan,” answered he. “Come thither with me and show it to me,” said the merchant.

So the camel-driver went with him to a khan at a distance from the shore, where he had set down the stuffs, and showed him the mock merchant’s magazine, which he opened and found therein his four bales untouched and unopened. The thief had laid his mantle over them; so the merchant took the bales and the cloak and delivered them to the camel-driver, who laid them on his camel; after which the merchant locked the magazine and went away with the camel-driver. On the way, he met the thief who followed him, till he had shipped the bales, when he said to him “O my brother (God have thee in His keeping!), thou hast recovered thy goods, and nought of them is lost; so give me back my cloak.” The merchant laughed and giving him back his cloak, let him go unhindered.

THE IGNORANT MAN WHO SET UP FOR A SCHOOLMASTER

There was once, among the hangers-on of the collegiate mosque, a man who knew not how to read and write and got his bread by gulling the folk. One day, he bethought him to open a school and teach children; so he got him tablets and written scrolls and hung them up in a conspicuous place. Then he enlarged his turban and sat down at the door of the school. The people, who passed by and saw his turban and the tablets[130] and scrolls, thought he must be a very learned doctor; so they brought him their children; and he would say to this, “Write,” and to that, “Read”; and thus they taught one another.

One day, as he sat, as of wont, at the door of the school, he saw a woman coming up, with a letter in her hand, and said to himself, “This woman doubtless seeks me, that I may read her the letter she has in her hand. How shall I do with her seeing I cannot read writing?” And he would fain have gone down and fled from her; but, before he could do this, she overtook him and said to him, “Whither away?” Quoth he, “I purpose to pray the noontide-prayer and return.” “Noon is yet distant,” said she; “so read me this letter.” He took the letter and turning it upside down, fell to looking at it, now shaking his head and anon knitting his eyebrows and showing concern. Now the letter came from the woman’s husband, who was absent; and when she saw the schoolmaster do thus, she said, “Doubtless my husband is dead, and this learned man is ashamed to tell me so.” So she said to him, “O my lord, if he be dead, tell me.” But he shook his head and held his peace. Then said she, “Shall I tear my clothes?” “Tear,” answered he. “Shall I buffet my face,” asked she; and he said, “Buffet.” So she took the letter from his hand and returning home, fell a-weeping, she and her children.

One of her neighbours heard her weeping and asking what ailed her, was answered, “She hath gotten a letter, telling her that her husband is dead.” Quoth the man, “This is a lying saying; for I had a letter from him but yesterday, advising me that he is in good health and case and will be with her after ten days.” So he rose forthright and going in to her, said, “Where is the letter thou hast received?” She brought it to him, and he took it and read it; and it ran as follows, after the usual salutation, “I am well and in good health and case and will be with thee after ten days. Meanwhile, I send thee a quilt and an extinguisher.”[1] So she took the letter and returning with it to the schoolmaster, said to him, “What moved thee to deal thus with me?” And she repeated to him what her neighbour had told her of his having sent her a quilt[131] and an extinguisher. “Thou art in the right,” answered he. “But excuse me, good woman; for I was, at the time, troubled and absent-minded and seeing the extinguisher wrapped in the quilt, thought that he was dead and they had shrouded him.” The woman, not smoking the cheat, said, “Thou art excused,” and taking the letter, went away.

THE HUSBAND AND THE PARROT

There lived once a good man who had a beautiful wife, of whom he was so passionately fond that he could scarcely bear to have her out of his sight. One day, when some particular business obliged him to leave her, he went to a place where they sold all sorts of birds. Here he purchased a parrot, which was not only highly accomplished in the art of talking, but also possessed the rare gift of telling everything that was done in its presence. The husband took it home in a cage to his wife, and begged of her to keep it in her chamber, and take great care of it during his absence. After this he set out on his journey.

On his return he did not fail to interrogate the parrot on what had passed while he was away; and the bird very expertly related a few circumstances which occasioned the husband to reprimand his wife. She supposed that some of her slaves had betrayed her, but they all assured her they were faithful, and agreed in charging the parrot with the crime. Desirous of being convinced of the truth of this matter, the wife devised a method of quieting the suspicions of her husband, and at the same time of revenging herself on the parrot, if he were the culprit. The next time the husband was absent she ordered one of her slaves during the night to turn a handmill under the bird’s cage, another to throw water over it like rain, and a third to wave a looking-glass before the parrot by the light of a candle. The slaves were employed the greater part of the night in doing what their mistress had ordered them, and succeeded to her satisfaction.

The following day, when the husband returned, he again applied to the parrot to be informed of what had taken[132] place. The bird replied, “My dear master, the lightning, the thunder, and the rain have so disturbed me the whole night, that, I cannot tell you how much I have suffered.”

The husband, who knew there had been no storm that night, became convinced that the parrot did not always relate facts, and that having told an untruth in this particular, he had also deceived him with respect to his wife. Being therefore extremely enraged with it, he took the bird out of the cage and, dashing it on the floor, killed it. He, however, afterward learned from his neighbors that the poor parrot had told no falsehood in reference to his wife’s conduct, which made him repent of having destroyed it.

BAKBARAH’S VISIT TO THE HAREM

Bakbarah the Toothless, my second brother, walking one day through the city, met an old woman in a retired street. She thus accosted him: “I have,” said she, “a word to say to you, if you will stay a moment.” He immediately stopped, and asked her what she wished. “If you have time to go with me,” she replied, “I will take you to a most magnificent palace, where you shall see a lady more beautiful than the day. She will receive you with a great deal of pleasure, and will treat you with a collation and excellent wine. I have no occasion, I believe, to say any more.” “But is what you tell me,” replied my brother, “true?” “I am not given to lying,” replied the old woman; “I propose nothing to you but what is the fact. You must, however, pay attention to what I require of you. You must be prudent, speak little, and must comply with everything.”

Bakbarah having agreed to the conditions, she walked on before, and he followed her. They arrived at the gate of a large palace, where there were a great number of officers and servants. Some of them wished to stop my brother, but the old woman no sooner spoke to them, than they let him pass. She then turned to my brother, and said, “Remember that the young lady to whose house I have brought you is fond of mildness and modesty; nor does she like being contradicted.[133] If you satisfy her in this, there is no doubt you will obtain whatever you wish.” Bakbarah thanked her for this advice, and promised to profit by it.

She then took him into a very beautiful apartment, which formed part of a square building. It corresponded with the magnificence of the palace; there was a gallery all round it, and in the midst of it a very fine garden. The old woman made him sit down on a sofa that was handsomely furnished, and desired him to wait there a moment, till she went to inform the young lady of his arrival.

As my brother had never before been in so superb a place, he immediately began to observe all the beautiful things that were in sight; and judging of his good fortune by the magnificence he beheld, he could hardly contain his joy. He almost immediately heard a great noise, which came from a long troop of slaves who were enjoying themselves, and came toward him, bursting out at the same time into violent fits of laughter. In the midst of them he perceived a young lady of most extraordinary beauty, whom he easily discovered to be their mistress, by the attention they paid her. Bakbarah, who expected merely a private conversation with the lady, was very much surprised at the arrival of so large a company. In the meantime the slaves, putting on a serious air, approached him; and when the young lady was near the sofa, my brother, who had risen up, made a most profound reverence. She took the seat of honor, and then, having requested him to resume his, she said to him, in a smiling manner, “I am delighted to see you, and wish you everything you can yourself desire.” “Madam,” replied Bakbarah, “I cannot wish a greater honor than that of appearing before you.” “You seem to me,” she replied, “of so good-humored a disposition, that we shall pass our time very agreeably together.”

She immediately ordered a collation to be served up, and they covered the table with baskets of various fruits and sweetmeats. She then sat down at the table along with my brother and the slaves. As it happened that he was placed directly opposite to her, she observed, as soon as he opened his mouth to eat, he had no teeth; she remarked this to her[134] slaves, and they all laughed immoderately at it. Bakbarah, who from time to time raised his head to look at the lady and saw that she was laughing, imagined it was from the pleasure she felt at being in his company, and flattered himself, therefore, that she would soon order the slaves to retire, and that he should enjoy her conversation in private. The lady easily guessed his thoughts, and took a pleasure in continuing a delusion which seemed so agreeable to him: she said a thousand soft, tender things, and presented the best of everything to him with her own hand.

When the collation was finished, she arose from table; ten slaves instantly took some musical instruments and began to play and sing, the others to dance. In order to make himself the more agreeable, my brother also began dancing, and the young lady herself partook of the amusement. After they had danced for some time, they all sat down to take breath. The lady ordered him to bring her a glass of wine, then cast a smile at my brother, to intimate that she was going to drink to his health. He instantly rose up, and stood while she drank. As soon as she had finished, instead of returning the glass, she had it filled again, and presented it to my brother, that he might pledge her.

Bakbarah took the glass, and in receiving it from the young lady he kissed her hand, then drank to her, standing the whole time, to show his gratitude for the favor she had done him. After this the young lady made him sit down by her side, and began to give him signs of affection. She put her arm round his neck, and frequently gave him gentle pats with her hand. Delighted with these favors, he thought himself the happiest man in the world; he also was tempted to begin to play in the same manner with this charming creature, but he durst not take this liberty before the slaves, who had their eyes upon him, and who continued to laugh at this trifling. The young lady still kept giving him such gentle taps, till at last she began to apply them so forcibly that he grew angry at it. He reddened, and got up to sit farther from so rude a playfellow. At this moment the old woman, who had brought my brother there, looked at him[135] in such a way as to make him understand that he was wrong, and had forgotten the advice she had before given him. He acknowledged his fault, and, to repair it, he again approached the young lady, pretending that he had not gone to a distance through anger. She then took hold of him by the arm, and drew him toward her, making him again sit down close by her, and continuing to bestow a thousand pretended caresses on him. Her slaves, whose only aim was to divert her, began to take a part in the sport. One of them gave poor Bakbarah a fillip on the nose with all her strength, another pulled his ears almost off, while the rest kept giving him slaps, which passed the limits of raillery and fun.

My brother bore all this with the most exemplary patience; he even affected an air of gaiety, and looked at the old woman with a forced smile. “You were right,” said he, “when you said that I should find a very fine, agreeable, and charming young lady. How much am I obliged to you for it!” “Oh, this is nothing yet,” replied the old woman; “let her alone, and you will see very different things by and by.” The young lady then spoke. “You are a fine man,” said she to my brother, “and I am delighted at finding in you so much kindness and complaisance toward all my little fooleries, and that you possess a disposition so conformable to mine.” “Madam,” replied Bakbarah, ravished with this speech, “I am no longer myself, but am entirely at your disposal; you have full power to do with me as you please.” “You afford me the greatest delight,” added the lady, “by showing so much submission to my inclination. I am perfectly satisfied with you, and I wish that you should be equally so with me. Bring,” cried she to the attendants, “perfumes and rose-water!” At these words two slaves went out and instantly returned, one with a silver vase, in which there was exquisite aloe-wood, with which she perfumed him, and the other with rose-water, which she sprinkled over his face and hands. My brother could not contain himself for joy at seeing himself so handsomely and honorably treated.

When this ceremony was finished, the young lady commanded[136] the slaves who had before sung and played to recommence their concert. They obeyed; and while this was going on, the lady called another slave, and ordered her to take my brother with her saying, “You know what to do; and when you have finished, return with him to me.” Bakbarah, who heard this order given, immediately got up, and going toward the old woman, who had also risen to accompany the slave, he requested her to tell him what they wished him to do. “Our mistress,” replied she, in a whisper, “is extremely curious, and she wishes to see how you would look disguised as a female; this slave, therefore, has orders to take you with her, to paint your eyebrows, shave your mustachios, and dress you like a woman.” “You may paint my eyebrows,” said my brother, “as much as you please; to that I readily agree, because I can wash them again; but as to shaving me, that, mind you, I will by no means suffer. How do you think I dare appear without my mustachios?” “Take care,” answered the woman, “how you oppose anything that is required of you. You will quite spoil your fortune, which is going on as prosperously as possible. She loves you, and wishes to make you happy. Will you, for the sake of a paltry mustachio, forego the most delicious favors any man can possibly enjoy?”

Bakbarah at length yielded to the old woman’s arguments, and without saying another word, he suffered the slave to conduct him to an apartment, where they painted his eyebrows red. They shaved his mustachios, and were absolutely going to shave his beard. But the easiness of my brother’s tempter did not carry him quite so far as to suffer that. “Not a single stroke,” he exclaimed, “shall you take at my beard!” The slave represented to him that it was of no use to have cut off his mustachios if he would not also agree to lose his beard; that a hairy countenance did not at all coincide with the dress of a woman; and that she was astonished that a man, who was on the very point of possessing the most beautiful woman in Bagdad, should care for his beard. The old woman also joined with the slave, and added fresh reasons; she threatened my brother[137] with being quite in disgrace with her mistress. In short, she said so much that he at last permitted them to do what they wished.

As soon as they had dressed him like a woman, they brought him back to the young lady, who burst into so violent a fit of laughter at the sight of him, that she fell down on the sofa on which she was sitting. The slaves all began to clap their hands, so that my brother was put quite out of countenance. The young lady then got up, and continuing to laugh all the time, said, “After the complaisance you have shown to me, I should be guilty of a crime not to bestow my whole heart upon you; but it is necessary that you should do one thing more for love of me: it is only to dance before me as you are.” He obeyed; and the young lady and the slaves danced with him, laughing all the while as if they were crazy. After they had danced for some time, they all threw themselves upon the poor wretch, and gave him so many blows, both with their hands and feet, that he fell down almost fainting. The old woman came to his assistance, and without giving him time to be angry at such ill treatment, she whispered in his ear, “Console yourself, for you are now arrived at the conclusion of your sufferings, and are about to receive the reward for them. You have only one thing more to do,” added she, “and that is a mere trifle. You must know that my mistress makes it her custom, whenever she has drunk a little, as she has done to-day, not to suffer anyone she loves to come near her, unless they are stripped to their shirt. When they are in this situation, she takes advantage of a short distance, and begins running before them through the gallery, and from room to room, till they have caught her. This is one of her fancies. Now, at whatever distance from you she may start, you, who are so light and active, can easily overtake her. Undress yourself quickly, therefore, and remain in your shirt, and do not make any difficulty about it.”

My brother had already carried his complying humor too far to stop at this. The young lady at the same time took off her outer robe, in order to run with greater ease. When they were both ready to begin the race, the lady took the[138] advantage of about twenty paces, and then started with wonderful celerity. My brother followed her with all his strength, but not without exciting the risibility of the slaves, who kept clapping their hands all the time. The young lady, instead of losing any of the advantage she had first taken, kept continually gaining ground of my brother. She ran round the gallery two or three times, then turned off down a long dark passage, where she saved herself by a turn of which my brother was ignorant. Bakbarah, who kept constantly following her, lost sight of her in this passage, and he was also obliged to run much slower, because it was so dark. He at last perceived a light, toward which he made all possible haste; he went out through a door which was instantly shut upon him.

You may easily imagine what was his astonishment at finding himself in the middle of a street inhabited by curriers. Nor were they less surprised at seeing him in his shirt, his eyebrows painted red, and without either beard or mustachios. They began to clap their hands, to hoot at him; and some even ran after him, and kept lashing him with strips of their leather. They then stopped him, and set him on an ass, which they accidentally met with, and led him through the city, exposed to the laughter and shouts of the mob.

To complete his misfortune, they led him through the street where the judge of the police court lived, and this magistrate immediately sent to inquire the cause of the uproar. The curriers informed him that they saw my brother, exactly in the state he then was, come out of the gate leading to the apartments of the women belonging to the grand vizier, which opened into their street. The judge then ordered the unfortunate Bakbarah, upon the spot, to receive a hundred strokes on the soles of his feet, to be conducted without the city, and forbade him ever to enter it again.—History of the Barber’s Second Brother.

Persian Wit and humor is best known to us through the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam.

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While their interest lies partly in the adept translation, the wit of the original is clearly self evident.

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Firdausi, the greatest Epic poet of Persia, gives us this witty epigram.

Sadi, one of the greatest of Persian poets, was also a great scholar, and wrote in both Persian and Arabian, beside being, it is said, the first poet to write in Hindustani.

His works are numerous and beautiful, both in verse and prose, and show a graceful wit.

DISCOMFORT BETTER THAN DROWNING

A king was embarked along with a Persian boy slave on board a ship. The boy had never been at sea nor experienced the inconvenience of a ship. He set up a weeping and wailing, and all his limbs were in a state of trepidation; and however much they soothed him, he was not to be pacified. The king’s pleasure-party was disconcerted by him; but there was no help for it. On board that ship there was a physician. He said to the king, “If you will order it, I can manage to silence him.” The king replied, “It will be an act of great favor.”

The physician so directed that they threw the boy into the sea, and after he had plunged repeatedly, they seized him by the hair of the head and drew him close to the ship, when he clung with both hands to the rudder, and, scrambling upon the deck, slunk into a corner and sat down quiet. The king, pleased with what he saw, said, “What art is there in this?” The boy replied that originally he had not experienced the danger of being drowned, and undervalued the safety of being in a ship. In like manner, a person is aware[143] of the preciousness of health when he is overtaken with the calamity of sickness.

A barley loaf of bread has, oh, epicure, no relish for thee.

To the houris, or nymphs of paradise, purgatory would be a hell. Ask the inmates of hell whether purgatory is not paradise.

There is a distinction between the man that folds his mistress in his arms and him whose two eyes are fixed on the door expecting her.—The Rose Garden (Gulistan).

THE STRICT SCHOOLMASTER AND THE MILD

In the west of Africa I saw a schoolmaster of a sour aspect and bitter speech, crabbed, misanthropic, and intemperate, insomuch that the sight of him would derange the ecstasies of the orthodox, and his manner of reading the Koran cast a gloom over the minds of the pious. A number of handsome boys and lovely virgins were subject to his despotic sway; they had neither the permission of a smile nor the option of a word, for this moment he would smite the silver cheek of one of them with his hand, and the next put the crystalline legs of another in the stocks. In short, their parents, I heard, were made aware of a part of his angry violence, and beat and drove him from his charge.

They made over his school to a peaceable creature, so pious, meek, simple, and good-natured that he never spoke till forced to do so, nor would he utter a word that could offend anybody. The children forgot that awe in which they had held their first master, and remarking the angelic disposition of their second master, they became one after another as wicked as devils. Relying on his clemency, they would so neglect their studies as to pass most part of their time at play, and break the tablets of their unfinished tasks over each other’s heads.

When the schoolmaster relaxes in his discipline, the children will stop to play at marbles in the market-place.

A fortnight after I passed by the gate of that mosque, and saw the first schoolmaster, with whom they had been obliged to make friends and to restore him to his place. I was in truth offended, and calling on God to witness, asked,[144] saying, “Why have they again made a devil the preceptor of angels?”

A facetious old gentleman, who had seen much of life, listened to me, and replied, “A king sent his son to school, and hung a tablet of silver round his neck. On the face of that tablet he had written in golden letters, ‘The severity of the master is more useful than the indulgence of the father.’”—The Rose Garden (Gulistan).

HATEFULNESS OF OLD HUSBANDS

An old man married a young virgin. He adorned the bridal chamber with flowers, seated himself with her in private, and riveted his heart and eyes upon her. Many a long night he would lie awake and indulge in pleasantries and jests, in order to remove any coyness on her part, and encourage familiarity. One of those nights he addressed her thus:

“Lofty fortune was your friend, and the eye of your prosperity broad awake, when you fell into the society of such an old gentleman as I am, being of mature judgment, well-bred, worldly experienced, inured to the vicissitudes of heat and cold, and practised in the goods and evils of life, who can appreciate the rights of good-fellowship, and fulfil the duties of loving attachment and is kind and affable, sweet-spoken, and cheerful. I will treat you with affection, as far as I can, and if you deal with me unkindly, I will not be unkind in return. If, like a parrot, thy food be sugar, I will devote my sweet life for thy nourishment. And you did not become the victim of a rude, conceited, rash, and headstrong youth, who one moment gratifies his lust, and the next has a fresh object; who every night shifts his abode, and every day changes his mistress. Young men are lively and handsome, but they keep good faith with nobody. Expect not constancy from nightingales, who will every moment serenade a fresh rose. Whereas my class of seniors regulate their lives by good breeding and sense, and are not deluded by youthful ignorance.”

Court the society of a superior, and make much of the opportunity![145] for in the company of an equal thy good fortune must decline.

The old man spoke a great deal in this style, and thought that he had caught her heart in his snare, and made sure of her as his prey, when she suddenly drew a cold sigh from the bottom of a much-afflicted bosom, and answered:

“All this speech which you have delivered has not, in the scale of my judgment, the weight of that one sentence which I have heard of my nurse, that it were better to plant a spear in a young maiden’s side than to lay her by an old man in bed. Much contention and strife will arise in that house where the wife shall get dissatisfied with her husband.”

Unable to rise without the help of a staff, how can an old man stir the staff of life?

In short, there being no prospect of concord, they agreed to separate. After lapse of the period prescribed by the law, she united in wedlock with a young man of an ill-tempered and sullen disposition, and in very narrow circumstances, so that she endured much tyranny and violence, penury and hardship. Yet she was thus offering up thanksgivings for the Almighty’s goodness, and saying:

“Praised be God that I have escaped from such hell-torment, and secured a blessing so permanent. With all this violence and impetuosity of temper, I bear with his caprice, because he is handsome. It were better for me to burn with him in hellfire than to dwell in paradise with the other.”

The smell of an onion from the mouth of the lovely is sweeter than that of a rose in the hand of the ugly.

—The Rose Garden (Gulistan).

1. Locman the wise being asked, “Whence did you learn wisdom?” answered, From the blind, who try the path with a stick before they tread on it....

4. Hormus the tyrant, being asked, why he had put his father’s courtiers in prison, answered, Because they feared me; and the wise say, Fear him who fears thee, though he be a fly, and thou an elephant.

5. A religious was famous at Bagdad for his powerful[146] prayers. Hoschas Joseph, king of Persia, begged him to pray for him. The religious said, O God, take away this man’s life! for no better prayer can I make either for him or his subjects.

6. An infamous king asked a Dervise, “Of all pious offices, which is the chief?” The Dervise answered, For thee, the chief is a long sleep at noon, that thou mayest, for a short time, cease to injure mankind.

7. A courtier being deprived of his place, became a religious. After some time, the king wished to restore him to his station; but he said, Experience has now taught me to prefer ease to dignity.

7. A slave of Omer, the viceroy, fled from his service, but was retaken, and brought before the king; who, at Omer’s instigation, condemned him to death. The slave upon this said, O king, I am an innocent man; and, if I die by thy command, my blood will be required. Permit me then to incur guilt before I meet my sentence. Let me kill this Omer, my master, and I shall die contented. It is for thy sake only I desire this. The king, laughing at this new mode of clearing his own justice, acquitted the wretch.

9. A master had taught a youth to wrestle; who, proud of his acquired skill, and possest of more strength than his master, wished to acquire fame at his expence, and challenged him to wrestle before the court. The master, by one trick, which he had not taught the youth, threw him at once: and, the youth complaining that he had not taught him all his art, the master said, No. I always provide against ingratitude.

10. A religious sitting by the highway, the king passed by; but the religious took no notice of him. A courtier saying “Do not you see the king?” was answered, I want nothing of him. Kings are made for subjects, not subjects for kings. Why then should I respect him who is the publick servant? This anecdote from Sadi differs much from present Eastern despotism.

11. A courtier went to his master, Suelnun, king of Egypt, and begged permission to retire; saying, “Though I am night and day anxious in thy service; yet the fear of once displeasing thee makes me wretched.” Suelnun, in tears, exclaimed,[147] Ah, did I serve God, as thou thy king, I should be one of the just.

12. A king condemned an innocent man to death, who said, O king, thy anger rages against me, but will injure thyself. “How?” rejoined the king. Because my pain lasts but for a moment; but thine for ever. Pardon followed.

13. The courtiers of king Nourshivan consulting with him on important business, when the king had spoken, one of them assented to his opinion, against the rest. Being asked the cause, he said, Human affairs depend on chance, not on wisdom: and, if we err with the king, who shall condemn us? ...

17. A king saying to a Dervise, “Do you never think on me?” was answered, Yes: but it is when I forget God.

18. A Dervise, in a dream, saw a king in paradise, but a religious in hell, and thought that, upon enquiring the cause, he was told, The king used to keep company with Dervises; and the Dervise with kings.

19. Locman, the sage, being asked, where he learned virtue, he answered, Of the vicious, for they taught me what to shun.

20. Abu Hurura used often to visit Mustapha, who one day said to him, O Abu Hurura, visiting seldom feeds love and friendship.

21. Sadi, being taken prisoner by the Franks, or Christians, was redeemed for ten pieces of gold, by one, who also gave him his daughter in marriage, with one hundred pieces of gold as a dower. The lady, being a termagant, once reproached him with this; and he said, Yes, I was redeemed for ten pieces, and made a slave for a hundred.

22. Some wicked men using a religious very ill, he went to an old dervise, and complained much. The elder told him, Son, our habit is that of patience. Why do you wear it, if it does not fit you?

23. A sage seeing a strong man in a passion, asked the cause, and being told that it was on account of an affronting word, he exclaimed, O strong man, with a weak mind! who could bear an elephant’s load, yet cannot bear a word.

24. A lawyer gave his daughter, who was very deformed[148] in marriage to a blind man. A celebrated oculist coming to the place, the lawyer was asked why he did not employ him for his son-in-law? To which he answered, Why should I endeavour to procure the divorce of my daughter?

25. Ardeschir enquiring of a physician, how much food was necessary for a day? was answered, eight ounces. Ardeschir said, “How can so little support a man?” The physician replied, That will support him; if he takes more, he must support it....

27. A robber said to a beggar, “Art thou not ashamed to stretch out thy hand to all for a piece of copper?” The beggar answered, It is better to stretch it out for a piece of copper, than have it cut off for a piece of gold.

29. Sadi being about to purchase a house, a Jew came up and said, “I am an old neighbour, and know the house to be good and sufficient. Buy it by all means.” Sadi answered, The house must be bad if thou art a neighbour....

31. An old man being asked, why he did not take a wife, answered, I do not like old women: and a young woman, I judge from that, can never like me.

32. A courtier sent a foolish son to be educated by a sage. He made no progress, and some time after the sage brought him back, saying, This boy will never be wiser; and he has even made me foolish in teaching him.

33. A king sent his son to an instructor, desiring him to educate the boy, as he did his own sons. The preceptor laboured in vain to teach the young prince, though his own sons made great progress. The king sending for him and reproaching him for this; he answered, O king, the education was the same, but the capacity differed. We find gold in the soil! yet gold is not found in every soil.

34. A man having sore eyes went to a mule-doctor, who gave him an ointment that struck him blind. The man brought his doctor before the cadi, who acquitted him; saying to the patient, If you had not been an ass, you would not have applied to a mule-doctor.

35. Sadi saw two boys, one the son of a rich man, the other of a poor, sitting in a cemetery. The former said “My father’s[149] tomb is marble, marked with letters of gold: but what is your father’s? two turfs and a handful of dust spread over them.” The poor boy answered, Be silent. Before your father shall have moved his marble! mine shall be already in paradise.

36. Muhammed, the learned priest of Gasala, being asked, how he had acquired so much science? answered, I never was ashamed to ask and learn what I did not know....

Jalal uddin Rumi was another Persian who wrote a series of stories conveying moral maxims.

THE SICK SCHOOLMASTER

The boys of a certain school were tired of their teacher, as he was very strict in the exaction of diligence; so they consulted together for the best means of getting rid of him for a time. Said they, “Why does he not fall ill, so that he may be obliged to be away from school, and we be released from confinement and work? Alas! he stands as firm as a rock.” One of them, who was wiser than the rest, suggested this plan: “I shall go to the teacher, and ask him why he looks so pale, saying, ‘May it turn out well! But your face has not its usual color. Is it due to the weather, or to fever?’ This will create some alarm in his mind. Then you, brother,” he continued, turning to another boy, “must assist me by using similar words. When you come into the schoolroom you must say to the teacher, ‘I hope, sir, you are well.’ This will tend to increase his apprehension, even though in a slight degree; and you know that even slight doubts are often enough to drive a man mad. Then a third, a fourth, and a fifth boy must one after another express his sympathy in similar words, till at last, when thirty boys successively have given expression to words of like nature, the teacher’s apprehension will be confirmed.”

The boys praised his ingenuity, and wished each other success; and they bound themselves by solemn promises not to shirk doing what was expected of them. Then the first boy bade them take oaths of secrecy, lest some telltale should let the matter out.

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Next morning the boys came to school in a cheerful mood, having resolved on adopting the foregoing plan. They all stood outside the schoolhouse, waiting for the arrival of the friend who had helped them in the time of need—since it was he who had originated the plan: it is the head that is the governor of the legs. The first boy arrived, entered the schoolroom, and greeted the teacher with “I hope you are well, sir, but the color of your face is very pale.”

“Nonsense!” said the teacher; “there is nothing the matter with me. Go and take your seat.” But inwardly he was somewhat apprehensive. Another boy came in, and in similar words greeted the teacher, whose misgivings were thereby somewhat increased. And so on, one boy after another greeted him, till his worst apprehensions seemed to be confirmed, and he was in great anxiety regarding the state of his health.

He got enraged at his wife. “Her love for me is waning,” he thought. “I am in this bad state of health, and she did not even ask what was the matter with me. She did not draw my attention to the color of my face. Perhaps she is not unwilling that I should die.”

Full of such thoughts, he came to his home, followed by the boys, and flung open the door. His wife exclaimed, “I hope nothing is the matter with you! Why have you returned so soon?”

“Are you blind?” he answered. “Look at the color of my face, and at my condition! Even strangers show sympathetic alarm about my health.”

“Well, I see nothing wrong,” said the wife. “You must be laboring under some senseless delusion.”

“Woman,” he rejoined impatiently, “you are most obstinate! Can you not perceive the altered hue of my face and the shivering of my body? Go and get my bed made, that I may lie down, for my head is dizzy.”

The bed was prepared, and the teacher lay down on it, giving vent to sighs and groans. The boys he ordered to sit there and read the lessons, which they did with much vexation. They said to themselves, “We did so much to be[151] free, and still we are in confinement. The foundation was not well laid; we are bad architects. Some other plan must now be adopted, so that we may be rid of this annoyance.”

The clever boy who had instigated the first plot advised the others to read their lessons very loudly; and when they did so, he said, in a tone to be overheard by the teacher, “Boys, your voices disturb our teacher. Loud voices will only increase his headache. Is it proper that he should be made to suffer pain for the sake of the trifling fees he gets from us?”

The teacher said, “He is right. Boys, you may go. My headache has increased. Be off with you!” And the boys scampered away home as eagerly as birds fly toward a spot where they see grain.

The mothers of the boys, on seeing them return, got angry, and thus challenged them, “This is the time for you to learn writing, and you are engaged in play. This is the time for acquiring knowledge, and you fly from your books and your teacher.”

The boys urged that it was no fault of theirs, and that they were in no way to blame, for, by the decree of fate, their teacher had become very ill.

The mothers, disbelieving, said, “This is all deceit and falsehood. You would not scruple to tell a hundred lies to get a little quantity of buttermilk. To-morrow morning we shall go to the teacher’s house, and shall ascertain what truth there is in your assertions.”

So the next morning the mothers went to visit the teacher, whom they found lying in bed like a very sick person. He had perspired freely, owing to his having covered himself with blankets. His head was bandaged, and his face was covered with a kerchief. He was groaning in a feeble voice.

The ladies expressed their sympathy, hoped his headache was getting less, and swore by his soul that they had been unaware until quite lately that he was so ill.

“I, too,” said the teacher, “was unaware of my illness. It was through those little bastards that I learned of it.”

—Stories in Rime (Masnavi).

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THE INVALID AND HIS DEAF VISITOR

A deaf man was informed that an neighbor of his was ill, so he resolved upon going to see him. “But,” said he to himself, “owing to my deafness I shall not be able to catch the words of the sick man, whose voice must be very feeble at this time. However, go I must. When I see his lips moving I shall be able to make a reasonably good conjecture of what he is saying. When I ask him, ‘How are you, oh, my afflicted friend?’ he will probably reply, ‘I am well,’ or ‘I am better.’ I shall then say, ‘Thanks be to God! Tell me, what have you taken for food?’ He will probably mention some liquid food or gruel. I shall then wish that the food may agree with him, and shall ask him the name of the physician under whose treatment he is. On his naming the man, I shall say, ‘He is a skilful leech. Since it is he who is attending upon you, you will soon be well. I have had experience of him. Wherever he goes, his patients very soon recover.”

So the deaf man, having prepared himself for the visit, went to the invalid’s bedside, and sat down near the pillow. Then, rubbing his hands together with assumed cheerfulness, he inquired, “How are you?” “I am dying,” replied the patient. “Thanks be to God!” rejoined the deaf man.

The sick man was troubled in his heart, and said to himself, “What kind of thanksgiving is this? Surely he must be an enemy of mine!”—little thinking that his visitor’s remark was but the result of wrong conjecture.

“What have you been eating?” was the next question; to which the reply was, “Poison!” “May it agree with you,” was the wish expressed by the deaf man which only increased the other’s vexation.

“And pray, who is your physician?” again asked the visitor, “Azrael, the Angel of Death. And now, be-gone with you!” growled the invalid. “Oh, is he?” pursued the deaf man. “Then you ought to rejoice, for he is a man of auspicious footsteps. I saw him only just[153] now, and asked him to devote to you his best possible attention.”

With these words he bade the sick man good-by, and withdrew, rejoicing that he had satisfactorily performed a neighborly duty. Meanwhile, the other man was angrily muttering to himself, “This fellow is an implacable foe of mine. I did not know his heart was so full of malignity.”

—Stories in Rime (Masnavi).

OLD AGE—DIALOGUE

Old Man. I am in sore trouble owing to my brain.

Physician. The weakness of the brain is due to old age.

Old Man. Dark spots are floating before my eyes.

Physician. That, too, comes from old age, oh, venerable sheikh!

Old Man. My back aches very much.

Physician. The result of old age, oh, lean sheikh!

Old Man. No food that I take agrees with me.

Physician. The failure of the digestive organs is also due to old age.

Old Man. I am afflicted with hard breathing.

Physician. Yes, the breathing ought to be affected in that manner. When old age comes, it brings a hundred complaints in its train.

Old Man. My legs are getting feeble, and I am unable to walk much.

Physician. It is nothing but old age which obliges you to sit in a corner.

Old Man. My back has become bent like a bow.

Physician. This trouble is merely the consequence of old age.

Old Man. My eyesight is quite dim, oh, sage physician!

Physician. Nothing but old age, oh, wise man!

Old Man. Oh, you idiot, always harping on the same theme! Is this all you know of the science of medicine? Fool, does not your reason tell you that God has assigned a remedy to every ailment? You are a stupid ass, and with[154] your paltry stock of learning are still fumbling in the mire!

Physician. Oh, you dotard past sixty, know, then, that even this rage and fury is due to old age!

From Abu Ishak we glean this delightful bit of parody on Hafiz.

Do-Pyazah
THESE DEFINITIONS

Angel. A hidden telltale.

King. The idlest man in the country.

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Minister of State. The target for the arrows of the sighs of the oppressed.

Flatterer. One who drives a profitable trade.

Lawyer. One ready to tell any lie.

Fool. An official, for instance, who is honest.

Physician. The herald of death.

Widow. A woman in the habit of praising her husband when he is gone.

Poet. A proud beggar.

Mirror. One that laughs at you to your face.

Bribe. The resource of him who knows he has a bad cause.

National Calamity. A ruler who cares for nothing but the pleasures of the harem.

Salutation. A polite hint to others to get up and greet you with respect.

Priest Calling to Prayers. A disturber of the indolent.

Faithful Friend. Money.

Truthful Man. One who is regarded as an enemy by every one.

Silence. Half consent.

Service. Selling one’s independence.

Hunting. The occupation of those who have no work to do.

Mother-in-Law. A spy domiciled in your house.

Debtor. An ass in a quagmire.

Liar. A person making frequent use of the expression, “I swear to God it is true!”

Guest. One in your house who is impatient to hear the dishes clatter.

Poverty. The consequence of marriage.

Hunger. Something which falls to the lot of those out of employment.

Soporific. Reading the verses of a dull poet.

Druggist. One who wishes everybody to be ill.

Learned Man. One who does not know how to earn his livelihood.

Miser’s Eye. A vessel which is never full.

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DIVING FOR AN EGG—ANECDOTE

The Emperor Akbar was one day sitting with his attendants in the garden of the palace, close to a large cistern full of water. At the suggestion of a courtier, the emperor commanded some of the men present to procure an egg each, and to place it in the cistern in such a manner that it could easily be found when searched for.

Soon after the order had been obeyed, the Mollah Do-pyazah came to this spot. Akbar then turned to his attendants, saying he had dreamed the night before that there were eggs in the cistern, and that all who were his faithful servants had dived in, and brought out an egg. Whereupon the attendants one by one dived into the water, each one issuing forth with an egg in his hand. Do-pyazah, not disposed himself to enter the water, the emperor asked why he alone held aloof. The mollah, thus pressed, divested himself of his outer garments and plunged in.

He searched for a long time, but could not find a single egg. At length he emerged from the cistern, and, moving his arms in the manner of a cock flapping his wings, he cried aloud, “Cock-a-doodle-doo!”

“What,” asked Akbar, “is the meaning of this?”

“Your Majesty,” came the reply, “those who brought you the eggs were hens, but I am a cock, and you must not expect an egg from me.”

At which Akbar laughed heartily, and had Do-pyazah well rewarded.

The Chinese are more noted for their wit that is wisdom, than for their humor.

Confucius, doubtless the greatest of their philosophers, born 551 B.C., left many sayings which became proverbs, yet which embodied only the elementary morality of all ages and races.

These are some of the sayings from The Analects of Confucius.

“While a man’s father is alive, look at the bent of his will; when his father is dead, look at his conduct.”

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“An accomplished scholar is not a cooking-pot.”

“When good order prevailed in his country, Ning Wu acted the part of a wise man; when his country was in disorder, he acted the part of a fool. Others may equal his wisdom, but they cannot equal his folly.”

“How can one know about death, when one does not understand life?”

“Four horses cannot overtake the tongue.”

“If you were not covetous, you could not even bribe a man to steal from you.”

“When their betters love the Rules [of Propriety], then the folk are easy tools.”

“Why use an ox-knife to kill a hen?”

“There are two classes that never change: the supremely wise and the profoundly stupid.”

“If a man is disliked at forty, he always will be.”

“When driving with a woman, hold the reins in one hand and keep the other behind your back.”

Chwang Tze, another ancient, wrote much of life, death and immortality, but showed little sense of humor therein.

One of his anecdotes, in lighter vein, follows.

THE PLEASURE OF FISHES—ANECDOTE

Chwang Tze and a friend had strolled on to a bridge over the Hao, when the former observed, “Look how the minnows are darting about! That is the pleasure of fishes.”

“Not being a fish yourself,” objected the friend, “how can you possibly know in what the pleasure of fishes consists?”

“And you not being I,” retorted Chwang Tze, “how can you know that I do not know?”

To which the friend replied, “If I, not being you, cannot know what you know, it follows that you, not being a fish, cannot know in what the pleasure of fishes consists.”

“Let us go back,” rejoined Chwang Tze, “to your original question. You ask me how I know in what the pleasure[158] of fishes consists. Well, I know that I am enjoying myself over the Hao, and from this I infer that the fishes are enjoying themselves in it.”—Autumn Floods.

Sung Yu gives us this satirical outburst about

Yuan Mei, however, possessed a satiric humor so keen as to place him among the true wits.

His letter to a friend might have been written today and his Cookery Notes are such as are found in our current comics.

A STANZA FOR A TOBACCO-POUCH

Dear Friend:

I have received your letter of congratulation, and am much obliged. At the end of the letter, however, you mention that[159] you have a tobacco-pouch for me, which will be forwarded upon the receipt of a stanza. But such an exchange would seem to establish a curious precedent. If for a tobacco pouch you expect in return a stanza, for a hat or a pair of boots you would demand a whole poem; while your brother might bestow a cloak or coat upon me, and believe himself entitled to an epic. At this rate, dear friend, your congratulations would become rather costly to me.

Let me instruct you, on the other hand, that a man once gave a thousand yards of silk for a phrase, and another man a beautiful girl for a stanza—which makes your tobacco-pouch look like a slight inducement, does it not?

Mencius forbids the taking advantage of people on the ground of one’s rank or merits. How much worse, therefore, to do so by virtue of a mere tobacco-pouch! Elegant as a tobacco-pouch may be, it is only the work of a sempstress; but my poetry, poor as it may be, is the work of my brain. The exchange would evidently be complimentary to the sempstress, and the reverse to me.

Now, if you had taken needle and thread and made the pouch yourself—ah, then what a difference! Then, indeed, a dozen stanzas would not have been too great a return. But it would hardly be proper to ask a famous warrior like yourself to lay down sword and shield for needle and thread. Nor, dear friend, am I likely to get the pouch at all, if you take offense at these little jokes of mine. What I advise you to do is, to bear with me patiently, send the tobacco-pouch, and wait for the stanza until it comes.

—Letters.

RECIPES

Birds’ nests and water-slugs have no particular flavor of their own, and are therefore not worth eating.

The best cook cannot prepare artistically more than five or six different dishes in one day. A host of mine once had forty courses served at a meal, and as soon as I got home I called for a bowl of rice to still my hunger.

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In order to enjoy the pleasures of the palate to the fullest degree, you must be sober. If you are drunk, you cannot tell one flavor from another.

The ingredients of a dish should always harmonize with one another—like two people in marriage.

Some cooks use the flesh of chickens and pigs for one soup, and as chickens and pigs have souls, they will hold those cooks to account, in the next world, for their treatment of them in this.

Bamboo-shoots ought never to be cut with a knife which has just been used on onions.

While cooking, do not allow ashes from your pipe, perspiration from your face, soot from the fuel, or beetles from the ceiling to drop into the saucepan: the guests would be likely to pass the dish by.—Cookery Book

The following proverbs are generally attributed to the Chinese, some of them being the wisdom of Confucius.

PROVERBS

An avaricious man, who can never get enough, is like a snake trying to swallow an elephant.

To draw the picture of a tiger, and make a dog out of it, is to imitate a masterpiece and spoil it.

Human pleasures are like the flittings of sparrows.

A narrow-minded man resembles a frog in a well.

Do not pull up your stockings in a melon-patch, or straighten your hat in a peach orchard; any one seeing you may think you are stealing.

To talk much and arrive nowhere is the same as climbing a tree to catch a fish.

One thread does not make a rope.

The tiger does not walk with the hind.

You can neither buy wood in the forest nor fish by the lake.

If a blind man leads another blind man, they will both fall into a hole.

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No maker of idols worships the gods; he knows their composition too well.

A man with a purple nose may be very temperate in drink, only no one will believe it.

Money makes the blind man see.

We admire our own writings, but other men’s wives.

If you are afraid of being found out, leave it alone.

Bend your neck if the eaves are low.

It’s not the wine that makes a man drunk; it’s the man himself.

A whisper on earth sounds like thunder in heaven.

To get a favor granted is harder than to kill a tiger.

Sweep the snow from your own door.

If there were no error there could be no truth.

A needle never pricks with both ends.

Don’t put two saddles on one horse.

Trust nature rather than a bad doctor.

The Japanese offer little that can be quoted. Their comedies are long and not very funny, their wit is heavy and bitterly satirical.

One specimen is given from The Land of Dreams by Kiokutei Bakin.

ON CLOTHES AND COMFORTS

However much money you have, you will not keep it long; it will leave you, just like a traveler who has stayed overnight at an inn. The only substantial things in life are food and drink. Any little house you can just crawl into is large enough. The only difference between an emperor’s palace and a straw hut is in their size and their situation, one being in town and the other in the country. A single room, with a mat long enough for you to stretch out your whole body, is quite sufficient lodging. As for the clothes which you dress your carcass in, the richest brocades and the commonest sackcloth differ only in being clean or dirty. After you are dead, no one can tell, from looking at your naked body,[162] what sort of clothes you wore while alive. If these facts were to become recognized, our clothes would be patched with any sort of material or color. Now, however, a man will buy new, expensive garments which he does not really want, owe the money for them, strut about in these borrowed plumes, and finally pawn them.

—The Land of Dreams.

COLLECTIONS

Apologues and stories, now common to all the world, had their origin in remote antiquity. Eastern narratives were for the most part brought to Europe orally, but some were later translated from the Oriental writings.

Since at first, Religion and Learning went hand in hand, these stories were of a moral and instructive nature. Their wit was the wit of wisdom, the pithiness of graphic representation of truth.

But with the development of the wit of amusement, the rise of ribald laughter and the supremacy of priests and monks, the stories took on a mirthful character which may or may not have added to their efficacy as cautionary teachings.

Humor, then, as now, was founded on the feeling of superiority which comes from knowledge. The stories were invariably of the discomfiture of some foolish person, and thereby, either definitely or tacitly advised against that particular foolishness.

Narrative fiction was entirely in parables or apologues, the latter term having come to be used exclusively for the tales in which animals are invested with human traits.

Fables, also, is a term usually restricted to moral lessons taught by anecdotes of beasts in human conditions.

As usual in the matter of legendary literature various countries contend for the honor of producing the first fables.

The bestowal of the palm rests between the Hindus and the Hebrews, but the decision may never be made.

A plausible assumption for the necessity of fables lies in the fact that it was not the part of wisdom openly to administer reproof or advice to the Asiatic potentates, wherefore it was[163] done by the device of speaking through the mouths of the fictitious characters.

And, through the ages, this plan has been found to work with intractables of less celebrity.

But the question of the origin of these stories is outside our Outline,—we may merely state that before, during and after the Crusades, the flood of stories and tales from the Orient into Europe was continuous.

Which accounts for the fact that among the oldest stories of the various countries, duplicates are always found, and the ancient jests of the Far East have raised and will raise appreciative laughter as they are translated into all European tongues, including the Scandinavian.

As religion gave rise to laughter, so religion was the medium for disseminating mirth.

The preachers of the mediæval ages used many amusing stories in their sermons and the monks often preserved these, with additions of their own, in enduring literature.

But literature then was not in the form of circulating libraries, so the tales traveled from mouth to mouth, gaining sometimes in interest and sometimes losing charm or worth.

Perhaps about the tenth century translations began to be grouped into collections, in Europe, and among the first was the Greek version of the Fables of Pilpay. Soon after came the Book of Sindibad, which would seem to be the original form of the story of Scheherazade.

But in most cases the monks were the go-between.

Their zeal and indefatigability produced masses of material, primarily designed for the use of preachers, but easily adopted by the laymen.

The Sermones of Jacques de Vitry, Crusader and prelate, and the Liber de Donis of Etienne de Bourbon are both remarkable collections that predated and later gave material to the Gesta Romanorum.

As an instance of the ubiquity of stories, it may be mentioned here that in both the books above noticed, occurs the old tale of the husband who had two wives, the younger one of whom plucked out all his gray-white hairs, the older one[164] plucked out all his black hairs, leaving the poor chap entirely bald. This story is also in the Talmud, in Chinese Jestbooks and in innumerable others.

So with many of the ancient tales. They come down through the Fabliaux, Gesta Romanorum, the Heptameron, the Decameron and on to our own dinner tables, where many of the “latest” are merely rehashed witticisms of the ancient monks and priests.

Nor are the stories fastened on to celebrities often authentic. Many of Sydney Smith’s witticisms hark back to the Eastern Tales, most of Joe Miller’s jests have similar paternity.

Hierocles made a famous collection of old stories translated into Greek. Others followed rapidly even before the invention of printing.

After that achievement, collections of stories flooded the book mart even as they do today.

Selections from various collections follow.

Perhaps the oldest collection of tales in the world is that known as the Fables of Bidpai or Pilpay. Both author and date of production are unknown, but tradition tells us that they were written in Sanscrit and were the work of one Vishnu Sarma, who wrote them for the advice and edification of certain princes. The book is enormously long and though not of humorous intent shows much of the native wit of the country.

Fables
THE GREEDY AND AMBITIOUS CAT

There was formerly an old Woman in a village, extremely thin, half-starved, and meager. She lived in a little cottage as dark and gloomy as a fool’s heart, and withal as close shut up as a miser’s hand. This miserable creature had for the companion of her wretched retirements a Cat meager and lean as herself; the poor creature never saw bread, nor beheld the face of a stranger, and was forced to be contented with only smelling the mice in their holes, or seeing the prints of their feet in the dust. If by some extraordinary lucky chance this[165] miserable animal happened to catch a mouse, she was like a beggar that discovers a treasure; her visage and her eyes were inflamed with joy, and that booty served her for a whole week; and out of the excess of her admiration, and distrust of her own happiness, she would cry out to herself, “Heavens! Is this a dream, or is it real?” One day, however, ready to die for hunger, she got upon the ridge of her enchanted castle, which had long been the mansion of famine for cats, and spied from thence another Cat, that was stalking upon a neighbour’s wall like a Lion, walking along as if she had been counting her steps, and so fat that she could hardly go. The old Woman’s Cat, astonished to see a creature of her own species so plump and so large, with a loud voice, cries out to her pursy neighbour, “In the name of pity, speak to me, thou happiest of the Cat kind! why, you look as if you came from one of the Khan of Kathai’s feasts; I conjure ye, to tell me how, or in what region it is that you get your skin so well stuffed?” “Where?” replied the fat one; “why, where should one feed well but at a King’s table? I go to the house,” continued she, “every day about dinner-time, and there I lay my paws upon some delicious morsel or other, which serves me till the next, and then leave enough for an army of mice, which under me live in peace and tranquillity; for why should I commit murder for a piece of tough and skinny mouse flesh, when I can live on venison at a much easier rate?” The lean Cat, on this, eagerly inquired the way to this house of plenty, and entreated her plump neighbour to carry her one day along with her. “Most willingly,” said the fat Puss; “for thou seest I am naturally charitable, and thou art so lean that I heartily pity thy condition.” On this promise they parted; and the lean Cat returned to the old Woman’s chamber, where she told her dame the story of what had befallen her. The old Woman prudently endeavoured to dissuade her Cat from prosecuting her design, admonishing her withal to have a care of being deceived. “For, believe me,” said she, “the desires of the ambitious are never to be satiated, but when their mouths are stuffed with the dirt of their graves. Sobriety and temperance are the only things that truly enrich people. I must tell[166] thee, poor silly Cat, that they who travel to satisfy their ambition, have no knowledge of the good things they possess, nor are they truly thankful to Heaven for what they enjoy, who are not contented with their fortune.”

The poor starved Cat, however, had conceived so fair an idea of the King’s table, that the old Woman’s good morals and judicious remonstrances entered in at one ear and went out at the other; in short, she departed the next day with the fat Puss to go to the King’s house; but alas! before she got thither, her destiny had laid a snare for her. For being a house of good cheer, it was so haunted with cats, that the servants had, just at this time, orders to kill all the cats that came near it, by reason of a great robbery committed the night before in the King’s larder by several grimalkins. The old Woman’s Cat, however, pushed on by hunger, entered the house, and no sooner saw a dish of meat unobserved by the cooks, but she made a seizure of it, and was doing what for many years she had not done before, that is, heartily filling her belly; but as she was enjoying herself under the dresser-board, and feeding heartily upon her stolen morsels, one of the testy officers of the kitchen, missing his breakfast, and seeing where the poor Cat was solacing herself with it, threw his knife at her with such an unlucky hand, that he stuck her full in the breast. However, as it has been the providence of Nature to give his creature nine lives instead of one, poor Puss made a shift to crawl away, after she had for some time shammed dead: but, in her flight, observing the blood come streaming from her wound; “Well,” said she, “let me but escape this accident, and if ever I quit my old hold and my own mice for all the rarities in the King’s kitchen, may I lose all my nine lives at once.”

A RAVEN, A FOX, AND A SERPENT

A Raven had once built her nest for many seasons together in a convenient cleft of a mountain, but however pleasing the place was to her, she had always reason enough to resolve to lay there no more; for every time she hatched, a Serpent came[167] and devoured her young ones. The Raven complaining to a Fox that was one of her friends, said to him, “Pray tell me, what would you advise me to do to be rid of this Serpent?” “What do you think to do?” answered the Fox. “Why, my present intent is,” replied the Raven, “to go and peck out his eyes when he is asleep, that so he may no longer find the way to my nest.” The Fox disapproved this design, and told the Raven, that it became a prudent person to manage his revenge in such a manner, that no mischief might befall himself in taking it: “Never run yourself,” says he, “into the misfortune that once befell the Crane, of which I will tell you the Fable.”

THE CRANE AND THE CRAY-FISH

A Crane had once settled her habitation by the side of a broad and deep lake, and lived upon such fish as she could catch in it; these she got in plenty enough for many years; but at length being become old and feeble, she could fish no longer. In this afflicting circumstance she began to reflect, with sorrow, on the carelessness of her past years; “I did ill,” said she to herself, “in not making in my youth necessary provision to support me in my old age; but, as it is, I must now make the best of a bad market, and use cunning to get a livelihood as I can”: with this resolution she placed herself by the waterside, and began to sigh and look mighty melancholy. A Cray-fish, perceiving her at a distance, accosted her, and asked her why she appeared so sad? “Alas,” said she, “how can I otherwise choose but grieve, seeing my daily nourishment is like to be taken from me? for I just now heard this talk between two fishermen passing this way: said the one to the other, Here is great store of fish, what think you of clearing this pond? to whom his companion answered, no; there is more in such a lake: let us go thither first, and then come hither the day afterwards. This they will certainly perform; and then,” added the Crane, “I must soon prepare for death.”

The Cray-fish, on this, went to the fish, and told them what she had heard: upon which the poor fish, in great perplexity,[168] swam immediately to the Crane, and addressing themselves to her, told her what they had heard, and added, “We are now in so great a consternation, that we are come to desire your protection. Though you are our enemy, yet the wise tell us, that they who make their enemy their sanctuary, may be assured of being well received: you know full well that we are your daily food; and if we are destroyed, you, who are now too old to travel in search of food, must also perish; we pray you, therefore, for your own sake, as well as ours, to consider, and tell us what you think is the best course for us to take.” To which the Crane replied, “That which you acquaint me with, I heard myself from the mouths of the fishermen; we have no power sufficient to withstand them; nor do I know any other way to secure you, but this: it will be many months before they can clear the other pond they are to go about first: and, in the mean time, I can at times, and as my strength will permit me, remove you one after another into a little pond here hard by, where there is very good water, and where the fishermen can never catch you, by reason of the extraordinary depth.” The fish approved this counsel, and desired the Crane to carry them one by one into this pond. Nor did she fail to fish up three or four every morning, but she carried them no farther than to the top of a small hill, where she eat them: and thus she feasted herself for a while.

But one day, the Cray-fish, having a desire to see this delicate pond, made known her curiosity to the Crane, who, bethinking herself that the Cray-fish was her most mortal enemy, resolved to get rid of her at once, and murder her as she had done the rest; with this design she flung the Cray-fish upon her neck, and flew towards the hill. But when they came near the place, the Cray-fish, spying at a distance the small bones of her slaughtered companions, mistrusted the Crane’s intention, and laying hold of a fair opportunity, got her neck in her claw, and grasped it so hard, that she fairly saved herself, and strangled the Crane.

“This example,” says the Fox, “shows you, that crafty tricking people often become victims to their own cunning.”[169] The Raven, returning thanks to the Fox for his good advice, said, “I shall not by any means neglect your wholesome instructions; but what shall I do?” “Why,” replied the Fox, “you must snatch up something that belongs to some stout man or other, and let him see what you do, to the end he may follow you. Which that he may easily do, do you fly slowly; and when you are just over the Serpent’s hole, let fall the thing that you hold in your beak or talons whatever it be, for then the person that follows you, seeing the Serpent come forth, will not fail to knock him on the head.” The Raven did as the Fox advised him, and by that means was delivered from the Serpent.

THE MERCHANT AND HIS FRIEND

A Certain Merchant, said Kalila, pursuing her discourse, had once a great desire to make a long journey. Now in regard that he was not very wealthy, it is requisite, said he to himself, that before my departure I should leave some part of my estate in the city, to the end that if I meet with ill luck in my travels, I may have wherewithal to keep me at my return. To this purpose he delivered a great number of bars of iron, which were a principal part of his wealth, in trust to one of his friends, desiring him to keep them during his absence; and then taking his leave, away he went. Some time after, having had but ill luck in his travels, he returned home; and the first thing he did was to go to his Friend, and demand his iron: but his Friend, who owed several sums of money, having sold the iron to pay his own debts, made him this answer: “Truly friend,” said he, “I put your iron into a room that was close locked, imagining it would have been there as secure as my own gold; but an accident has happened which nobody could have suspected, for there was a rat in the room eat it all up.” The Merchant, pretending ignorance, replied, “It is a terrible misfortune to me indeed; but I know of old that rats love iron extremely; I have suffered by them many times before in the same manner, and therefore can the better bear my present affliction.” This answer extremely[170] pleased the Friend, who was glad to hear the Merchant so well inclined to believe that the rats had eaten his iron; and to remove all suspicions, desired him to dine with him the next day. The Merchant promised he would, but in the mean time he met in the middle of the city one of his Friend’s children; the child he carried home, and locked up in a room. The next day he went to his Friend, who seemed to be in great affliction, which he asked him the cause of, as if he had been perfectly ignorant of what had happened. “Oh, my dear friend,” answered the other, “I beg you to excuse me, if you do not see me so cheerful as otherwise I would be; I have lost one of my children; I have had him cried by sound of trumpet, but I know not what is become of him.” “Oh!” replied the Merchant, “I am grieved to hear this; for yesterday in the evening, as I parted from hence, I saw an owl in the air with a child in his claws; but whether it were yours I cannot tell.” “Why, you most foolish and absurd creature!” replied the Friend, “are you not ashamed to tell such an egregious lie? An owl, that weighs at most not above two or three pounds, can he carry a boy that weighs above fifty?” “Why,” replied the merchant, “do you make such a wonder at that? as if in a country where one rat can eat an hundred ton weight of iron, it were such a wonder for an owl to carry a child that weighs not above fifty pounds in all.” The Friend, upon this, found that the Merchant was no such fool as he took him to be, begged his pardon for the cheat which he designed to have put upon him, restored him the value of his iron, and so had his son again.

Other and very ancient Hindoo stories follow.

THE MAID, THE MONKEY, AND THE MENDICANT

On the banks of the Ganges there was once a city named Makandi. And in a temple, not far from the river, there lived a religious mendicant with a large number of disciples. He was a great rogue, but to impress the minds of the credulous people of the neighbourhood, he affected to be perfectly indifferent to all worldly affairs, and even went so far as to have[171] taken a vow of perpetual silence. Now, in this city there resided a wealthy merchant, who believed in the mendicant, and was one of his devoted followers. The merchant had a beautiful daughter, who had just come of age, and who, entertaining a tender feeling for a handsome prince who lived in the neighbourhood, had begun to communicate with him by means of a confidential servant. One day the mendicant came on a begging excursion to the house of the merchant, and his daughter, beautifully dressed, came out with a silver cup in her hand to give him alms. The beggar as soon as he saw her forgot his vow of perpetual silence, and exclaimed, “Oh! what a sight!” but immediately afterwards he was ashamed of the words which he had uttered, and hastened home to the temple. The merchant, who had heard these words, thought that there was something unusual in them, and followed the mendicant to his abode. The latter, on seeing him, said with tears in his eyes, “Friend, I know that you are greatly devoted to me, and I grieve to say that a great misfortune will come upon you. The marks upon the body of your beautiful daughter foretell the ruin of your family, and the loss of your wealth as soon as she is married.” These words frightened the merchant almost out of his wits, and he implored the hypocritical mendicant to tell him if there were any means of averting the catastrophe. “There is one remedy,” he replied, “but you will find it hard to practise. You must make a box with holes in the lid, in the form of a boat, and having administered a narcotic to your daughter, place her in it, and closing the box, put it into the Ganges with a lamp burning on it. The waters of the river will carry her to some distant country, where doubtless she will be married, but her marriage there will not affect your fortune here.” Pleased with this apparently disinterested advice, the silly merchant returned home, and did as he was told. Fortunately, however, for the girl, her confidential servant heard what was going to be done, and immediately informed the young prince, the girl’s lover, of the intentions of her father. At night he accordingly watched by the river, and as soon as the box was left there he got hold of it, and brought it home, and taking the sleeping girl out, put into[172] her place a large and ferocious monkey, and, having closed the lid, sent it back to the river upon whose broad stream it was floated once more. In the meantime the mendicant was enjoying golden dreams about the future. Thinking to secure the girl for himself, he sent some of his disciples to the river side, and told them to get hold of the box as it came floating down the stream. He further enjoined them not to pay any attention to anything they might hear inside the box, but to bring it directly to him as soon as they found it. On the box being brought, he had it carried to his cell, and then told his disciples to remain at a distance, and not to disturb him, as he had to perform some religious ceremonies in connection with it. The disciples then retired, and the mendicant began to open the box with the most pleasing anticipations. But alas, the retribution of sin is often too near. The ferocious monkey, exasperated by his confinement, jumped out at once, and began to bite, scratch, and tear the poor mendicant in every way. The latter bawled out as loud as he could, but his disciples thinking that he was performing religious ceremonies, or fighting with the devil, did not come to his assistance. At last he succeeded in opening the door of his room, and got away with the loss of his nose and an ear. The monkey also bolted through the door, and disappeared into the jungle. The good people of Nakandi were much amused with the incident, and drove the mendicant out of the town. The merchant’s daughter was delighted to find herself with her lover, while her father, covered with shame, consoled himself with the idea that she had got a good husband.

ABOUT A WOMAN’S PROMISE

In the city of Madanpur there reigned a king, named Birbar. In the same city there lived a trader, called Hermyadutt, who had a daughter, by name Madansena. One day, in the season of spring, she went with her female friends to a garden, and when there met a young man, named Somdatt, the son of the merchant Dharmdatt. This young man fell violently in love with her at first sight, and involuntarily went up to her, and,[173] taking hold of her hand, began to say, “If thou wilt not love me, I shall abandon my life on thy account.” The girl said, “You must not do so, for in doing this you will commit a great sin.” Somdatt replied, “Excessive love has pierced my heart. The fear of separation has burnt up my body. From the pain all my memory and intellect are lost, and at present, through my excess of love, I have no regard for virtue or sin. If you will give me a promise, I shall hope to live.” Madansena said, “On the fifth day from this I am going to be married, then I shall first meet you, and after that I shall go with my husband.” Having given this promise, and affirming it by oath, she went home.

On the fifth day after this she was married, and her husband took her to his house. After several days her sisters-in-law forcibly took her to her husband at night, but she would have nothing to do with him; and, when he wished to embrace her, she jerked him with her hand, and told the story of her promise to the merchant’s son. Hearing this, her husband said, “If thou truly wishest to go with him, then go.”

Having thus obtained her husband’s consent, she put on her best clothes and jewels, and started for the merchant’s house. On her way she met a thief, who asked her where she was going alone at that midnight hour so adorned. She replied, “That she was going to meet her lover.” On hearing this, the thief said, “Who is your protector here?” She replied, “Kama, the god of love, with his weapons is my protector.” She then told the whole story to the thief, and said, “Do not spoil my attire. I promise you that, on my return, I will give you up all my jewels.”

The thief let her go, and she proceeded to the place where Somdatt was lying asleep. Awaking him suddenly, he arose bewildered, and asked her who she was, and why she had come. She replied, “I am the daughter of the merchant Hermyadutt. Do you not remember that you forcibly took my hand in the garden, and insisted on my giving you my oath, and I swore, at your bidding, that I would leave the man I was married to, and come to you. I have come accordingly; do to me whatever thou pleasest.”

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Somdatt asked her if she had told the story to her husband, and she said that she had told him all, and that he had allowed her to come. The youth said: “This affair is like jewels without apparel; or food without clarified butter; or singing out of tune; all these things are alike. In the same way, dirty garments take away beauty, bad food saps the strength, a wicked wife takes away life, a bad son ruins the family. What a woman does not do is of little moment, for she does not give utterance to the thoughts of her mind; and what is at the tip of her tongue she does not reveal, and what she does, she does not tell of. God has created a woman in the world as a wonder.”

After uttering these words, the merchant’s son said: “I will have nothing to do with the wife of a stranger.” Hearing this, she returned homeward. On her way she met the thief, and told him the whole story. He applauded her highly, and let her go, and she went to her husband and related to him the whole circumstance. Her husband, however, evinced no affection for her, but said, “The beauty of the cuckoo consists in its note alone; the beauty of a woman consists in her fidelity to her husband; the beauty of an ugly man is his knowledge; the beauty of a devotee is his patient suffering.”

Having related so much, the sprite said, “O king! whose is the highest merit of these three?” Vickram replied: “The thief’s merit is the greatest.” “How,” asked the sprite? The king answered: “Seeing that her heart was set on another man, the husband let her go; through fear of the king, Somdatt let her alone; whereas there was no reason for the thief leaving her unmolested; therefore the thief is superior.”

OF A QUEER RELATIONSHIP

There is a city in the south named Dhurumpoor, the king of which was named Mahabal. Once upon a time another king of the same region led an army against him, and invested his capital. After much fighting Mahabal was defeated, and, taking his wife and daughter with him, he fled by night into the jungle. After travelling several miles the day broke,[175] and a village came in view. Leaving the queen and princess seated beneath a tree, he himself went to the village to get something to eat, and in the meantime a band of Bhils, or hill robbers, came and surrounded him, and told him to throw down his arms.

The king, on hearing this, commenced discharging arrows at them, and the Bhils did the same from their side. After fighting for some time, an arrow struck the king’s forehead with such force that he reeled and fell, and one of the Bhils came up and cut off his head. When the queen and the princess saw that the king was dead, they went back into the jungle weeping and beating their breasts. After going some distance they became tired and sat down, and began to be troubled with anxiety.

Now, it happened that a king named Chandrasen, together with his son, while pursuing game, came into that very jungle, and the king, noticing the footprints of the two women, said to his son, “How have the footprints of human feet come into this vast forest?” The prince replied, “These are women’s footprints, a man’s foot is not so small.” The king said, “Come let us look for them, and if we find them I will give her whose foot is the largest to thee, and I will take the other for myself.” Having entered into this mutual compact, they went forward, and soon perceived the two women seated on the ground. They were delighted at finding them, and seating them on their horses in the manner agreed upon, they brought them home. The prince took possession of the queen, as her feet were the largest, and the king took the princess, and they were married accordingly.

Having related so much the sprite said, “Your majesty, what relationship will there be between the children of these two?” On hearing this, the king held his tongue through ignorance, being unable to describe the relationship.

Hierocles’ collection of jests is mostly short anecdotes of pedants who are shown up as simpletons or noodles.

This principle of humor which is, of course, the rock bottom[176] theory of the feeling of superiority induced by the discomfiture of the other man, often pins the jest on the pedant or scholar by way of emphasizing the point.

Hierocles was an Alexandrian Neoplatonic philosopher who lived in the Fifth Century A.D.

With authorship of the usual legendary haziness the collection may not have been made by him at all, but it passes for his work.

The stories themselves came into popular knowledge among the churchmen of the Middle Ages, and in their existing form probably date about the ninth century.

As will be seen from the following examples, many of the jests are still being used as the basis of Twentieth century after dinner stories and Comic Weekly jokes.

Jests of Hierocles

A scholar meeting a physician, said, I beg your pardon for never being sick, though you are one of my best friends.

A scholar wishing to catch a mouse that eats his books, baited and set a trap, and sat by it to watch.

A scholar wishing to teach his horse to eat little, gave him no food at all; and the horse dying, How unlucky, said he; as soon as I had taught him to live without food he died!

A scholar meaning to sell a house, carried about a stone of it as a specimen.

A scholar desiring to see if sleep became him, shut both his eyes, and went to the mirror.

A scholar having bought a house, looked out of the window, and asked the passengers, If the house became him?

A scholar dreaming he hit his foot on a nail, felt it pain him when he waked, and bound it up. Another scholar coming to see him, asked him, Why he went to bed without shoes.

[177]

A scholar being told the river had carried off a great part of his ground, answered, What shall I say?

A scholar sealed a wine vessel he had, but his man bored the bottom and stole the liquor. He was astonished at the liquor’s diminishing, though the seal was entire; and another saying, “Perhaps it is taken out at the bottom.” The scholar answered, Most foolish of men, it is not the under part, but the upper that is deficient.

A scholar meeting a person, said to him, “I heard you were dead.” To which the other answered, “You see I am alive.” The scholar replied, Perhaps so, but he who told me the contrary was a man of much more credit than you.

A scholar hearing that crows lived two hundred years, bought one, saying, I wish to make the experiment.

A scholar being on board a ship in a tempest, when the rest seized upon different articles to swim ashore on, he laid hold of the anchor.

A scholar hearing one of two twins was dead, when he met the other, asked, Which of you was it that died? You or your brother?

A scholar coming to a ferry, went into the boat on horseback. Being asked the reason, he said, I am in great haste.

A scholar wanting money sold his books, and wrote to his father, Rejoice with me, for now my books maintain me.

A scholar sending his son to war, the youth said, “I shall bring you back an enemy’s head.” To which the scholar replied, If you even lose your own head, I shall be happy to see you return in good health.

A scholar in Greece receiving a letter from a friend, desiring him to buy some books there, neglected the business. But[178] the friend arriving some time after, the scholar said, I am sorry I did not receive your letter about the books.

A scholar, a bald man, and a barber, travelling together, agreed each to watch four hours at night, in turn, for the sake of security. The barber’s lot came first, who shaved the scholar’s head when asleep, then waked him when his turn came. The scholar scratching his head, and feeling it bald, exclaimed, You wretch of a barber, you have waked the bald man instead of me.

Pope Alexander VII. asking the celebrated Greek, Leo Allatius, why he did not enter into orders? he answered, Because I desire to have it in my power to marry if I chuse. The pope adding, And why do you not marry? Leo replied, Because I desire to have it in my power to enter into orders if I chuse.

Erasmus, himself a Satirist, collected thousands of the jests of the Greeks and Romans. These more often noted the wit than the witlessness of the speakers and include all degrees of wit from mere whimsicality to sharpest satire.

Some of the best ones follow.

GREEK

A friend asking him how great glory was procured, Agesilaus answered, By contempt of death.

Being asked the boundaries of the Spartan state, he answered, The points of our spears.

One asking him why Sparta had no walls, he shewed him armed citizens, saying, These are the walls of Sparta.

Being very fond of his children, he would sometimes ride about on a cane among them. A friend catching him at this sport, Agesilaus said, Tell nobody till you are yourself a father.

[179]

King Demaratus being asked in company whether he was silent through folly, or wisdom, answered, A fool cannot be silent.

Cleomenes the son of Cleombrotus, when presented with some game-cocks, by a person who, enhancing the gift, said they were of a breed who would die before they yielded; answered, Give me rather some of the breed that kill them.

Pausanias, when a physician told him “You look well,” answered, Yes, you are not my physician.

When the same was blamed by a friend, for speaking ill of a physician, whom he had never tried, he replied, If I had tried him, I should not have lived to speak ill of him.

Charillus, being angry with his slave, said to him, Were I not in a passion, I would kill thee.

A dancer saying to a Spartan, “You cannot stand so long on one leg as I can.” True, answered the Spartan, but any goose can.

Another Spartan mother giving her son his shield, when going to battle, said Son, either this, or upon this.

Another to her son who complained that his sword was short, said Do you add a step to it.

One objecting to him his luxurious feeding, he showed him some dear-bought dish, and said, “Would not you buy this, if it were sold for a penny?” “Surely,” said the other. Then, said Aristippus, I only give to luxury what you give to avarice.

Diogenes the Cynic, being in the house of Plato, strode over the carpets with his dirty feet, saying I trample the pride of Plato. True, said Plato, but with a greater pride.

[180]

Seeing a very unskilful archer shoot, he seated himself by the mark. The reason was That he may not hit me.

Going to the town of Myndus, and seeing the gates very large, and the town small, he called out Men of Myndus! shut your gates least the town should escape.

Being asked of what beast the bite is most dangerous, he answered Of wild beasts, that of a slanderer: of tame, that of a flatterer.

Entering a dirty bath he said Where are those washed who wash here?

Being asked what wine he liked best, he said Another’s.

Crates the Cynic of Thebes, being asked a remedy for love, said Hunger is one remedy. Time is a better. The best is a rope.

Theophrastus to one who was silent in company said If you are a fool you do wisely! if you are wise you do foolishly.

Empedocles saying to Xenophanes the philosopher “That a wise man could not be found.” True, answered Xenophanes, for it must be a wise man who knows him.

Archelaus, to a prating barber, who asked how he would please to be shaved? answered, In silence.

One asking Demosthenes what is the first point in eloquence, he answered, Acting. And the second? Acting. And the third? Acting still.

An Athenian who wanted eloquence, but was very brave, when another had, in a long and brilliant speech, promised great affairs, got up and said, Men of Athens, all that he has said, I will do.

[181]

Zeuxis entered into a contest of art with Parrhasius. The former painted grapes so truly that birds came and pecked at them. The latter delineated a cloth so exactly, that Zeuxis coming in, said, “Take away the cloth that we may see this piece.” And finding his error, said, Parrhasius, thou hast conquered. I deceived but birds, thou an artist.

Zeuxis painted a boy carrying grapes: the birds came again and pecked. Some applauding, Zeuxis flew to the picture in a passion, saying, My boy must be very ill painted.

Gnathena the courtesan, when a very small bottle of wine was brought in, with the praise that it was very old, answered, It is very little for its age.

Philip of Macedon, sitting in judgment after dinner, an old woman receiving an unjust sentence, exclaimed, “I appeal.” “To whom!” said Philip. To Philip, when sober, answered the matron. The king took the lesson.

ROMAN

A soldier boasting of a scar in his face, from a wound in battle, Augustus said, Yes, you will look back when you run away.

Fabia Dollabella saying, she was thirty years of age; Cicero answered, It must be true, for I have heard it these twenty years.

Seeing Lentulus, his son-in-law, a man of very small stature, walking up, with a long sword at his side, he called out, Who has tied my son-in-law to that sword?

One finding his shoes eaten with mice, in the morning when he rose, asked Cato, in great agitation, the meaning of the portent; who answered, It is no prodigy that mice should eat shoes! had the shoes eaten the mice, it would have been indeed a prodigy.

[182]

When Brutus was dissuaded from his last battle, as the jeopardy was great, he only said, To-day all will be well, or I shall not care.

A large bull being produced in the amphitheatre, the hunter struck ten times, and missed. Gallienus, the emperor, who was present, sent the hunter a wreath: and all wondering, he said, It is extremely difficult to miss such a mark so often.

One saying, that in Sicily he had bought a lamprey five feet long, for a trifle; Galba, the orator, to reprove the lye, said, No wonder. They are found there so long, that the fishers constantly use them for cables.

Scipio Nasica going to visit Ennius the poet, was told by his maid-servant, that he was not at home, though he knew he was. A few days after Ennius came to see Nasica, who hearing his voice, called out, that he was not within. Then said Ennius, “What! Do not I hear your voice?” To which Nasica replied, You are an impudent fellow. I believed your maid! and you will not believe myself.

Sulpitius Galba the orator, pretended to sleep once, while Mecenas made love to his wife, but seeing, at the same time, a slave stealing wine from the side-board, he cried, Friend, I do not sleep for all.

From the collection of Poggio we get other Italian stories.

Some clowns going to Arezzo, to buy a crucifix for their church, the carver seeing them very stupid, said, Do you want a living or a dead crucifix? They requiring time to consider: after much deliberation, returned, saying, Make us a living one! for if our neighbours be not pleased with that, we can easily kill it.

An inhabitant of a maritime town, looking out at a window, and seeing the ocean in a violent storm, and many vessels[183] tossing about, said to a friend who was with him, “I wonder so many people go to sea, when so many die there.” Do not you wonder, answered the friend, why so many people go to bed, when so many die there?

Bardella da Mantoua, being led to execution, a priest, who was with him, said, “Be of good cheer, for to-night you will sup with the Virgin Mary, and with the apostles.” Bardella answered, It will be a favour if you will go for me, for this is a fast-day with me.

Marcello da Scopeto, consulting Coccheto da Trievi, the physician, he wrote a receipt, and said, “Here, take this at three times; one every morning.” Marcello cut the paper in three; and made a shift to swallow it in three mornings.

Tosetto one day putting the physician Zerboico in a violent passion; he said, “Peace, rogue. Do not I know that your father was a bricklayer?” Tosetto answered, Nobody knew this, save your father, who used to carry him lime.

The following are from Il Cortegiano, by Castiglione.

An Italian Doctor of Law, seeing a criminal, who was whipped, walking very slowly during the operation, asked him why he did not hasten, that he might have fewer stripes; adding many arguments to shew that the slower he went, the more he must suffer. To which, the criminal, standing still, and looking him full in the face, replied with great gravity, When you are whipped through the streets, walk as you please, and pray allow me to enjoy the same liberty.

Duke Frederic of Modena, having built a palace, was at a loss what to do with the rubbish. An abbot, standing by, told him to cause a pit to be digged large enough to contain it. “And what,” said Frederic, laughing, “shall I do with the earth which is dug out of the pit?” To which the abbot, with great wisdom, replied, Make the pit so large as to hold all.

[184]

Ponzio of Sila seeing a rustic who had two capons to sell, and agreeing on the price, begged him also to carry them to his lodging, where he was going, and he would pay him for his pains. Ponzio led him to a round bell-tower, separate from the church, near which was an alley: when standing still, Ponzio said, “I have wagered a couple of capons with a friend, that this bell-tower is not forty feet round, and have got a packthread here that we may try it.” So drawing the thread from his pocket, he gave one end to the rustic; bidding him hold it, while he went round. But when Ponzio came to the other side of the bell-tower, where the alley was, he fixed the thread with a nail, and ran down the alley with the capons. The peasant after long standing and bawling, went round, and had the nail and packthread for his capons and labour.

Not every tongue offers us collections to be translated, nor are all those that are available yet translated, but we may give a few of Spanish origin, taken from the collection of Melchior de Santa Cruz which are the flowers of Spanish Apothegms and wise or witty sayings.

Like jesters of all other nations the Spaniards saw fit to heap sarcasms on the medical profession.

We can only assume that in those days doctors had not reached the heights of sapience they have since attained.

And also, we must remember that it was the custom for the unlearned to poke fun at the scholars, hence all professions felt the satiric lash.

At the table of Pope Alexander the sixth, the company debated one day, if it were advantageous to a state to have physicians in it? The greater part held not; and alleged, as a reason, that Rome had passed her first, and best, six hundred years without them. But the pope said, he was not of that opinion, for were there no physicians, the multitude of mankind would be so great, that the world could not contain them.

A Biscayan clergyman, a follower of the cardinal Don Pedro Gonzales de Mendoza, pulled one day a pistol out of his pocket.[185] The cardinal saw him, and reproved him, saying, “That it was indecent for a clergyman to carry arms.” The Biscayan answered, “Most reverend lord, I do not carry arms to hurt any man, but to defend myself against the dogs of this country, which are remarkable for fierceness.” The cardinal said, “I can tell you a charm against dogs. You need only repeat any verse of the gospel of St. John.” The Biscayan replied, Yes, my lord, but that does not apply in every case, for many of our dogs do not understand Latin.

The same cardinal said of the monks, who, by shaving the top and under part of the head, form a crown of hair around, that they had crowns which the most ambitious would not envy.

A bishop sent a present of six capons to brother Bernaldino Palomo, but the servant who carried them stole one. Tell his lordship, said Palomo, that I kiss his hands for the five capons.—Do you kiss his hands for the other.

Juan de Ayala, lord of the town of Cabolla, slew a crane. His cook, when he dressed it, gave a leg to his mistress. When it was served up, Juan said, Where is the other leg? The cook answered, Cranes have but one leg. The day following, Juan took his cook to the chace with him, and perceiving a flock of cranes, which, as usual with that bird, all stood upon one leg, the cook said, Your worship sees the truth of what I said. Juan riding up to the birds called, Ox, Ox, Ox. The cranes being startled, put down the other leg: and Juan said, See, you knave, have they two legs or one? The cook answered, Body of me, sir, had you called Ox, Ox, to the one you dined on yesterday it would have produced its other leg too.

Perico de Ayala, the buffoon of the Marquis de Villena, came to see Don Frances, the buffoon of Charles V. when he lay on his death bed. Perico seeing him in so bad a way, said, Brother Don Frances, I request you, by the great friendship which always was between us, that when you go to[186] heaven (which I believe must be very soon, since you lived so pious a life), you will beseech God to have mercy on my soul. Frances answered, Tie a thread on this finger, that I may not forget it. These were his last words; and he instantly expired.

The servants of a Spanish lord said, in his presence, that Don Diego Deza, archbishop of Seville, was very liberal to his domestics. The lord answered, So he may, for he has his wealth but for his life. A page replied, And for how many lives has your lordship yours?

Some thieves trying one night to break into a shop, in which two servant men lay; one of them called to the robbers. Come back when we are asleep.

A rich man sent to call a physician for a slight disorder he had suffered the preceding night. The physician felt his pulse, and said, Sir, do you eat well? Yes, said the patient. Do you sleep well? I do. Then, said the physician, I shall give you something to take away all that.

A labourer intending to bind his son apprentice to a butcher, asked a gentleman of the village, his friend, to whom he should put him. The answer was, You had best bind him to the physician, for he is the best butcher I know.

A physician went to visit a young lady, daughter of a nobleman. Desiring her arm, to feel her pulse, the damsel, from pride, covered the place with the sleeve of her shift. The physician also drew down his coat sleeve, and applying it, said, A linen pulse must have a woollen physician.

A bad painter, who had never produced any thing worth, went to another place, and commenced physician. A person who knew him, meeting him there, asked the reason of this change. Because said he, if I now commit faults, the earth covers them.

[187]

To a student of a college was brought a large dish of soup, and only one pea in it. He rose, and began to strip. His companion asking what was the matter, he answered, I am going to swim after that pea.

The effects of a merchant, who was greatly in debt, being on sale, one bought a pillow, saying, That it must be good to sleep on, since he could sleep on it, who owed so much.

The same merchant being asked, how he could sleep with such debts upon him? said, The wonder is, how my creditors could sleep.

A Gallician, being at the war of Granada, received a wound in the head with an arrow. The surgeon arriving, said, upon examination, You are a dead man, the arrow has pierced your brain. The Gallician said, Look again, for that is impossible. The surgeon replied, It is so; I see it plain. It cannot be, said the Gallician: for if I had any brain, I should not have been here.

A man went to borrow an ass of a neighbour, who said the ass was from home. Meanwhile the animal chanced to bray: upon which the borrower exclaimed, How! did you not tell me the ass was abroad? The other replied, in a passion, Will you prefer the ass’s word to mine?

A passenger going to Peru, a great storm arose; and the master of the vessel ordered, that the most burdensome articles that every one had should be thrown into the sea, to lighten the vessel. Upon which this passenger ran and brought up his wife, saying, That she was the most burdensome article he had.

A squire being asked, why he had married a deaf wife? said, In hopes she was also dumb.

The German nation made small pretence to wit or humor. What we have of their early efforts is either gross or stupid.

[188]

A few specimens taken from their mediæval Jest collections will quickly prove this.

A malicious woman often beat her husband; being reproved for it, and told that her husband was her head, she answered, May not I beat my own head as I please?

Some Dutchmen conversing in a bookseller’s shop at Leyden, an unknown German came in, upon which one of them exclaimed, “Why is Saul among the prophets?” The German retorted: He is seeking his father’s asses.

A very ignorant priest saying mass, saw on the margin of his book, Salta per tria (skip three); meaning that he should find the rest of the office three leaves further on; upon which he leaped three steps forwards from the altar. The clowns about him, thinking he had suddenly gone mad, took and bound him, and carried him home.

One being asked, what made him bald? said, My hair.

A lady asking that celebrated general, prince Maurice, who was the first captain of the age? he answered, The marquis of Spinola is the second. He thereby gave to understand, that he knew himself to be the first; but did not chuse either to say so, or tell a falsehood.

Two ladies of high rank, disputing the precedence in a procession, the Emperor, Charles V. desired they would make him their arbiter. Having heard the reasons on both sides, he found no other way to end the difference, than by ordering that the most foolish should go first. After which there were as many disputes who should go last; till they agreed, that each should be foolish in her turn.

Charles V. going to see the new cloister of the Dominicans at Vienna, overtook a peasant, who was carrying a sucking pig, and whose cries were so disagreeable to the emperor, that,[189] after many expressions of impatience, he said to the peasant, “My friend, do not you know how to silence a sucking pig?” The poor man said modestly, that he really did not, and should be happy to learn. “Take it by the tail,” said the Emperor. The peasant finding this succeed upon trial, turned to the Emperor, and said, Faith, friend, you must have been longer at the trade than me, for you understand it better. An answer which furnished repeated laughter to Charles and his court.

EPIGRAMS

Collections of Mediæval Epigrams are both numerous and lengthy and not infrequently their comparative value depends largely on the translator’s learning or talent.

For instance a distich of Plato’s is thus translated by Coleridge,

and is thus rendered by Shelley,

But the modernization is not just now our pursuit, so the epigrams will be given in something approaching chronological order and the translator’s name mentioned when known.

[190]

[191]

[193]

[194]

[195]

From Bhartrihari, an Indian philosopher who flourished about the ninth century, we select the following cynical paragraphs.

I believed that one woman was devoted to me, but she is now attracted by another man, and another man takes pleasure in her, while a second woman interests herself in me. Curses on them both, and on the god of love, and on the other woman, and on myself.

The fundamentally ignorant man is easily led, and the wise man still more easily; but not even the Almighty Himself can exercise any influence on the smatterer.

A man may tear the pearl from between the teeth of the crocodile; he may steer his ship over the roughest seas; he may twine a serpent round his brow like a laurel; but he cannot convince a foolish and stubborn opponent.

A man may squeeze oil from sand; he may slake his thirst from the well in a mirage; he may even obtain possession of a hare’s horn; but he cannot convince a foolish and stubborn opponent.

A dog will eat with delight the most noisome and decaying bones, and will pay no attention even if the ruler of the gods stands before him—and in like manner a mean man takes no heed of the worthlessness of his belongings.

Our nobility of birth may pass away; our virtues may fall into decay: our moral character may perish as if thrown over a precipice: our family may be burnt to ashes, and a thunderbolt may dash away our power like an enemy: let us keep a firm grip on our money, for without this the whole assembly of virtues are but as blades of glass.

Let a man be wealthy, and he shall be quite wise, learned in the sacred writings and of good birth; virtuous, handsome and eloquent. Gold attracts all the virtues to itself.

[196]

The same portion of the sky that forms a circle round the moon by night also forms a circle round the sun by day How great is the labour of both!

A sour heart; a face hardened with inward pride and a nature as difficult to penetrate as the narrowest of mountain passes—these things are known to be characteristic of women: their mind is known by the wise to be as changeable as the drop of dew on the lotus leaf. Faults develop in a woman as she grows up, exactly as poisonous branches sprout from the creeper.

The beautiful features of a woman are praised by the poets—her breasts are compared to pots of gold: her face to the shining moon, and her hips to the forehead of an elephant: nevertheless the beauty of a woman merits no praise.

From The Baharistan, the work of Jami, a Persian poet and philosopher.

Bahlúl being asked to count the fools of Basrah, replied: “They are without the confines of computation. If you ask me, I will count the wise men, for they are no more than a limited few.”

A learned man being annoyed while writing a letter to one of his confidential friends, at the conduct of a person who, seated at his side, glanced out of the corner of his eye at his writing, wrote: “Had not a hireling thief been seated at my side and engaged in reading my letter I should have written to thee all my secrets.” The man said: “By God, my lord, I have neither read nor even looked at thy letter.” “Fool!” exclaimed the other; “how then canst thou say what thou now sayest?”

A mendicant once coming to beg something at the door of a house, the master of it called out to him from the interior:[197] “Pray excuse me: the women of the house are not here.” The beggar retorted: “I wish for a morsel of bread, not to embrace the women of the house.”

A certain person made a claim of ten dirams on Júhí. The judge enquired: “Hast thou any testimony to offer?” On the answer being in the negative he continued: “Shall I put him on his oath?” “Of what value is his oath?” said the man in reply. “O judge of the Faithful,” then proposed Júhí in his turn, “there lives in my quarter of the town an Imám, temperate, truthful and beneficent, send for him and put him on his oath instead of me, that this man’s mind may be easy.”

Jáhiz relates: “I never experienced so much shame as this event occasioned me. One day a woman took my hand and led me to the shop of a master metal founder, saying to him: ‘Be it thus formed.’ I being puzzled to know what this conduct signified, questioned the master, who in reply said: ‘She had ordered me to make her a figure in the form of Satan. When I told her that I did not know in what semblance to make it, she brought thee, as thou knowest, and said: ‘Make it in this semblance.’”

The same learned man, too, gives us this relation: “As I was once standing in the street, in conversation with a friend, a woman came and standing opposite me, gazed in my face. When her staring had exceeded all bounds, I said to my slave: ‘Go to that woman and ask her what she seeks.’ The slave returning to me thus reported her answer: ‘I wished to inflict some punishment on my eyes which had committed a great fault, and could find none more severe for them than the sight of thy ugly face.’”

[198]

A person who perceived an ugly man asking pardon for his sins, and praying for deliverance from the fire of hell, said to him: “Wherefore, O friend, with such a countenance as thou hast, would’st thou cheat hell, and give such a face reluctantly to the fire?”

An assembly of people being seated together, and engaged in discussing the merits and defects of men, one of them observed: “Whoever has not two seeing eyes is but half a man; and whoever has not in his house a beautiful bride is but half a man; finally he who cannot swim in the sea is but half a man.” A blind man in the company who had no wife, and could not swim, called out to him: “O my dear friend, thou hast laid down an extraordinary principle, and cast me so far out of the circle of manhood, that still half a man is required before I can take the name of one who is no man.”

A Beduin having lost a camel, made an oath that when he found it he would sell it for one diram. When however he found it, repenting of his oath, he tied a cat to its neck, and called out: “Who will buy the camel for one diram and the cat for a hundred dirams; but both together, as I will not part them.” “How cheap,” said a person who had arrived there, “would be this camel, had it not this collar attached to its neck!”

A Beduin who had lost a camel, proclaimed: “Whoever brings me my camel shall have two camels as a reward.” “Out, man!” said they to him; “what kind of business is this? Is the whole ass load of less value than a small additional bundle laid upon it?” “You have this excuse for your words,” replied he, “that you have never tasted the pleasure of finding, and the sweetness of recovering what has been lost.”

A Khalíf was partaking of food with an Arab from the desert. During the repast as his glance fell upon the Arab’s portion he saw in it a hair, and said: “O Arab, take that[199] hair out of thy food.” The Arab exclaimed: “It is impossible to eat at the table of one who looks so at his guest’s portion as to perceive a hair in it.” Then withdrawing his hand he swore never again to partake of food at his table.

A weaver left a deposit in the house of a learned man. After a few days had elapsed, finding some necessity for it, he paid him a visit and found him seated at the door of his house giving instruction to a number of pupils who were standing in a row before him. “O Professor,” said the man, “I am in want of the deposit which I left.” “Be seated a moment,” replied the other, “until I have finished the lesson.” The weaver sat down, but the lesson lasted a long time and he was pressed for time. Now that learned man had a habit when giving lessons, of wagging his head, and the weaver seeing this, and fancying that to give a lesson was merely to wag the head, said: “Rise up, O Professor, and make me thy deputy till thy return: let me wag my head in place of thee, and do thou bring out my deposit, for I am in a hurry.” The learned man, hearing this, laughed and said:

From a collection called The Pleasantries of Cogia Nasr Eddin Effendi, the typical noodle of the Turks.

Cogia Effendi one day went into a garden, pulled up some carrots and turnips and other kinds of vegetables, which he found, putting some into a sack and some into his bosom; suddenly the gardener coming up, laid hold of him, and said, “What are you seeking here?” The Cogia, being in great consternation, not finding any other reply, answered, “For some days past a great wind has been blowing, and that wind blew me hither.” “But who pulled up these vegetables,”[200] said the gardener? “As the wind blew very violently,” replied the Cogia, “it cast me here and there, and whatever I laid hold of in the hope of saving myself remained in my hands.” “Ah,” said the gardener, “but who filled the sack with them?” “Well,” said the Cogia, “that is the very question I was about to ask myself when you came up.”

One day Cogia Nasr Eddin Effendi said, “O Mussulmen, give thanks to God Most High that He did not give the camel wings; for, had He given them, they would have perched upon your houses and chimneys, and have caused them to tumble upon your heads.”

One day the, Cogia saw a great many ducks playing on the top of a fountain. The Cogia, running towards them, said, “I’ll catch you”; whereupon they all rose up and took to flight. The Cogia, taking a little bread in his hand, sat down on the side of the fountain, and crumbling the bread in the fountain, fell to eating. A person coming up, said, “What are you eating?” “Duck broth,” replied the Cogia.

One day the Cogia went with Cheragh Ahmed to the den of a wolf, in order to see the cubs. Said the Cogia to Ahmed: “Do you go in.” Ahmed did so. The old wolf was abroad, but presently returning, tried to get into the cave to its young. When it was about half way in the Cogia seized hard hold of it by the tail. The wolf in its struggles cast a quantity of dust into the eyes of Ahmed. “Hallo, Cogia,” he cried, “What does this dust mean.” “If the wolf’s tail breaks,” said the Cogia, “You’ll soon see what the dust means.”

One day a thief got into the Cogia’s house. Cries his wife, “O Cogia, there is a thief in the house.” “Don’t make any disturbance,” says the Cogia. “I wish to God that he may find something, so that I may take it from him.”

Cogia Effendi, every time he returned to his house, was in the habit of bringing a piece of liver, which his wife always[201] gave to a common woman, placing before the Cogia leavened patties to eat when he came home in the evening. One day the Cogia said, “O wife, every day I bring home a liver: where do they all go to?” “The cat runs away with all of them,” replied the wife. Therefore the Cogia getting up, put his hatchet in the trunk and locked it up. Says his wife to the Cogia, “For fear of whom do you lock up the hatchet?” “For fear of the cat,” replied the Cogia. “What should the cat do with the hatchet?” said the wife. “Why,” replied the Cogia, “as he takes a fancy to the liver, which costs two aspres, is it not likely that he will take a fancy to the hatchet, which costs four?”

One day the Cogia, being out on a journey, encamped along with a caravan, and tied up his horse along with the others. When it was morning the Cogia could not find his horse amongst the rest, not knowing how to distinguish it; forthwith taking a bow and arrow in his hand, he said, “Men, men, I have lost my horse.” Every one laughing, took his own horse; and the Cogia looking, saw a horse which he instantly knew to be his own. Forthwith placing his right foot in the stirrup, he mounted the horse, so that his face looked to the horse’s tail. “O Cogia,” said they, “why do you mount the horse the wrong way?” “It is not my fault,” said he, “but the horse’s, for the horse is left-handed.”

One day as the Cogia was travelling in the Derbend he met a shepherd. Said the shepherd to the Cogia. “Art thou a faquir?” “Yes,” said the Cogia. Said the shepherd, “See these seven men who are lying here, they were men like you whom I killed because they could not answer questions which I asked. Now, in the first place let us come to an understanding; if you can answer my questions let us hold discourse, if not, let us say nothing.” Says the Cogia, “What may your questions be?” Said the shepherd, “The moon, when it is new, is small, afterwards it increases, until it looks like a wheel; after the fifteenth, it diminishes, and does not remain; then again, there is a little one, of the size of Hilal,[202] which does remain. Now what becomes of the old moons?” Says the Cogia. “How is it that you don’t know a thing like that? They take those old moons and make lightning of them, have you not seen them when the heaven thunders, glittering like so many swords?” “Bravo, Fakeer,” said the shepherd. “Well art thou acquainted with the matter, I had come to the same conclusion myself.”

One day the Cogia’s wife, in order to plague the Cogia, boiled some broth exceedingly hot, brought it into the room and placed it on the table. The wife then, forgetting that it was hot, took a spoon and put some into her mouth, and, scalding herself, began to shed tears. “O, wife,” said the Cogia, “what is the matter with you; is the broth hot?” “Dear Efendy,” said the wife, “my mother, who is now dead loved broth very much; I thought of that, and wept on her account.” The Cogia thinking that what she said was truth, took a spoonful of the broth and burning his mouth began to cry and bellow. “What is the matter with you,” said his wife; “why do you cry?” Said the Cogia, “You cry because your mother is gone, but I cry because her daughter is here.”

One day a man came to the house of the Cogia and asked him to lend him his ass. “He is not at home,” replied the Cogia. But it so happened that the ass began to bray within. “O Cogia Efendy,” said the man, “you say that the ass is not at home, and there he is braying within.” “What a strange fellow you are!” said the Cogia. “You believe the ass, but will not believe a grey bearded man like me.”

One day the Cogia roasted a goose, and set out in order to carry it to the Emperor. On the way, feeling very hungry, he cut off one leg and ate it. Coming into the presence of the Emperor, he placed the goose before him. On seeing it, Tamerlank said to himself, “The Cogia is making game of me,” and was very angry, and demanded, “How happens it that this goose has but one foot?” Said the Cogia, “In our country all the geese have only one foot. If you disbelieve[203] me, look at the geese by the side of that fountain.” Now at that time there was a flock of geese by the rim of the fountain, all of whom were standing on one leg. Timour instantly ordered that all the drummers should at once play up; the drummers began to strike with their sticks, and forthwith all the geese stood on both legs. On Timour saying, “Don’t you see that they have two legs?” the Cogia replied, “If you keep up that drumming you yourself will presently have four.”

One day the Cogia’s wife, having washed the Cogia’s kaftan, hung it upon a tree to dry; the Cogia going out saw, as he supposed, a man standing in the tree with his arms stretched out. Says the Cogia to his wife, “O wife, go and fetch me my bow and arrow.” His wife fetched and brought them to him; the Cogia taking an arrow, shot it and pierced the kaftan and stretched it on the ground; then returning, he made fast his door and lay down to sleep. Going out in the morning he saw that what he had shot was his own kaftan; thereupon, sitting down, he cried aloud, “O God, be thanked; if I had been in it I should have certainly been killed.”

One day as the Cogia was going to his house, he met a number of students, and said to them, “Gentlemen, pray this night come to our house and taste a sup of the old father’s broth.” “Very good,” said the students, and following the Cogia, came to the house. “Pray enter,” said he, and brought them into the house, then going up to where his wife was, “O wife,” said he, “I have brought some travellers that we may give them a cup of broth.” “O master,” said his wife, “is there oil in the house or rice, or have you brought any that you wish to have broth?” “Bless me,” said the Cogia, “give me the broth pan,” and snatching it up, he forthwith ran to where the students were, and exclaimed, “Pray, pardon me gentlemen, but had there been oil or rice in our house, this is the pan in which I would have served the broth up to you.”

[204]

One day the Cogia going into a person’s garden climbed up into an apricot tree and began to eat the apricots. The master coming said, “Cogia, what are you doing here?” “Dear me,” said the Cogia, “don’t you see that I am a nightingale sitting in the apricot tree?” Said the gardener, “Let me hear you sing.” The Cogia began to warble. Whereupon the other fell to laughing, and said: “Do you call that singing?” “I am a Persian nightingale,” said the Cogia, “and Persian nightingales sing in this manner.”

From The Book of Laughable Stories, collected by Gregory Bar Hebræus in the thirteenth century. The collection includes some seven hundred stories taken from the literary products of all the Oriental countries available at that time.

Bazarjamhir said, “When thou dost not know which of two things is the better for thee [to do], take counsel with thy wife and do the opposite of that which she saith, for she will only counsel [thee to do] the things which are injurious to thee.”

A certain woman saw Socrates as they were carrying him along to crucify him, and she wept and said, “Woe is me, for they are about to slay thee without having committed any offence.” And Socrates made answer unto her, saying, “O foolish woman, wouldst thou have me also commit some crime that I might be punished like a criminal?”

Alexander [the Great] saw among the soldiers of his army a man called Alexander who continually took to flight in the time of war, and he said to him, “It is said that upon the ring of Pythagoras there was written, ‘The evil which is not perpetual is better than the good which is not perpetual.’”

It is said that upon the ring of Pythagoras there was written, “The evil which is not perpetual is better than the good which is not perpetual.”

[205]

It was said to Socrates, “Which of the irrational animals is not beautiful?” And he replied, “Woman,” referring to her folly.

Another of the sages said, “The members of a man’s household are the moth of his money.”

A certain man who had once been a painter left off painting and became a physician. And when it was said to him, “Why hast thou done this?” he replied, “The errors [made] in painting [all] eyes see and scrutinize; but the mistakes of the healing art the ground covereth.”

Another king was asked by his sages, “To what limit hath thine understanding reached?” And he replied, “To the extent that I believe no man, neither do I put any confidence in any man whatsoever.”

Another king said, “If men only knew how pleasant to me it is to forgive faults there is not one of them who would not commit them.”

A poet said unto a certain avaricious man, “Why dost thou never bid me to a feast with thee?” He replied to him, “Because thou eatest very heartily indeed, besides thou swallowest so hurriedly; and whilst thou art still eating one morsel thou art getting ready for the next.” The poet said to him, “What wouldst thou have then? Wouldst thou have me whilst I am eating one morsel to stand up and bow the knee, and then take another?”

Another sage said, “I hold every man who saith that he hateth riches to be a liar until he establisheth a sure proof thereof from what he hath gathered together, and having established his belief it is, at the same time, quite certain that he is a fool!”

Another miser whilst quarreling violently with his neighbour was asked by a certain man, “Why art thou fighting[206] with him?” He replied to him, “I had eaten a roasted head, and I threw the bones outside my door, so that my friends might rejoice and mine enemies be sorry when they saw in what a luxurious manner I was living; and this fellow rose up and took the bones and threw them before his own door.”

Another poet was questioned by a man concerning a certain miser, saying, “Who eateth with him at his table?” and the poet replied, “Flies.”

To a certain comedian it was said, “When a cock riseth up in the early morning hours, why doth he hold one foot in the air?” He replied, “If he should lift up both feet together he would fall down.”

Another actor went into his house and found a sieve laid upon his couch, and he went and hung himself up on the peg in the wall. His wife said to him, “What is this? Art thou possessed of a devil?” And he said to her, “Nay, but when I saw the sieve in my place, I went to its place.”

Another fool had two hunting dogs, one black and the other white. And the governor said to him, “Give me one of them.” The man said to him, “Which of them dost thou want?” and the governor said, “The black one.” The man said, “The black one I love more than the white,” and the governor replied, “Then give me the white one.” And the foolish man said to him, “The white one I love more than both put together.”

Another fool said, “My father went twice to Jerusalem, and there did he die and was buried, but I do not know which time he died, whether it was during the first visit or the last.”

When another fool was told, “Thy ass is stolen,” he said, “Blessed be God that I was not upon him.”

[207]

Another silly man buried some zûzê coins in the plain, and made a fragment of a cloud a mark of the place where it was. And some days after he came to carry away the money, but could not find the place to do so, and he said, “Consider now; the zûzê were in the ground, and they must have been carried away by some people. For who can steal the cloud which is in the sky? And what arm could reach there unto? This matter is one worthy to be wondered at.”

Another simpleton was asked, “How many days’ journey is it between Aleppo and Damascus?” and he replied, “Twelve; six to go and six to come back.”

Another silly man having gone on a journey to carry on his trade wrote to his father, saying, “I have been ill with a very grievous sickness, and if any one else had been in my place he would not have been able to live.” And his father made him answer, saying, “Believe me, my son, if thou hadst died thou wouldst have grieved me sadly, and I would never have spoken to thee again in the whole course of my life.”

A certain lunatic put on a skin cloak with the hairy side outwards, and when people asked him why he did so, he replied, “If God had known that it was better to have the hairy side of the skin cloak inwards, He would not have created the wool on the outside of the sheep.”

Another fool owned a house together with some other folk, and he said one day, “I want to sell the half of it which is my share and buy the other half, so that the whole building may be mine.”

From earliest times the stupid or blundering fellow has been the butt of his comrades’ shafts of wit or sarcasm.

The feeling of superiority, so delightful to the human mind, found easy expression in jeering at the discomfiture of the noodle.

[208]

More often than not, noodle stories are told of residents of some particular locality or district, whose people are looked upon as simpletons. Doubtless this originally meant merely country people, who were provincial or outlandish compared to the city bred.

But as the Greeks chose Bœotia for their noodle colony and the Persians guyed the people of Emessa, so each country has had a location or a community for its laughing stock down to the Gothamites of the English.

As a rule the same noodle stories are found in many languages, and only an exhaustive study of comparative folk lore can adequately consider the various tales.

As an instance, there is the story, of Eastern origin, that may be found in the booby tales of all nations. It has come down in late years in the form of a play, called in a German version, “Der Tisch Ist Gedeckt” and in an English form, “The Obstinate Family.”

In the Arabian tale,

A blockhead, having married his pretty cousin, gave the customary feast to their relations and friends. When the festivities were over, he conducted his guests to the door, and from absence of mind neglected to shut it before returning to his wife. “Dear cousin,” said his wife to him when they were alone, “go and shut the street door.” “It would be strange indeed,” he replied, “if I did such a thing. Am I just made a bridegroom, clothed in silk, wearing a shawl and a dagger set with diamonds, and am I to go and shut the door? Why, my dear, you are crazy. Go and shut it yourself.” “Oh, indeed!” exclaimed the wife. “Am I, young, robed in a dress, with lace and precious stones—am I to go and shut the street door? No, indeed! It is you who are become crazy, and not I. Come, let us make a bargain,” she continued; “and let the first who speaks go and fasten the door.” “Agreed,” said the husband, and immediately he became mute, and the wife too was silent, while they both sat down, dressed as they were in their nuptial attire, looking at each other and seated on opposite sofas. Thus they remained[209] for two hours. Some thieves happened to pass by, and seeing the door open, entered and laid hold of whatever came to their hands. The silent couple heard footsteps in the house, but opened not their mouths. The thieves came into the room and saw them seated motionless and apparently indifferent to all that might take place. They continued their pillage, therefore, collecting together everything valuable, and even dragging away the carpets from beneath them; they laid hands on the noodle and his wife, taking from their persons every article of jewellery, while they, in fear of losing the wager, said not a word. Having thus cleared the house, the thieves departed quietly, but the pair continued to sit, uttering not a syllable. Towards morning a police officer came past on his tour of inspection, and seeing the door open, walked in. After searching all the rooms and finding no person, he entered their apartment, and inquired the meaning of what he saw. Neither of them would condescend to reply. The officer became angry, and ordered their heads to be cut off. The executioner’s sword was about to perform its office, when the wife cried out, “Sir, he is my husband. Do not kill him!” “Oh, oh,” exclaimed the husband, overjoyed and clapping his hands, “you have lost the wager; go and shut the door.” He then explained the whole affair to the police officer, who shrugged his shoulders and went away.

Another story, known in a score of variants is found in a collection of tales of the Kabaïl, Algeria, to this effect:

The mother of a youth of the Beni Jennad clan gave him a hundred reals to buy a mule; so he went to market, and on his way met a man carrying a water melon for sale. “How much for the melon?” he asks. “What will you give?” says the man. “I have only got a hundred reals,” answered the booby; “had I more, you should have it.” “Well,” rejoined the man, “I’ll take them.” Then the youth took the melon and handed over the money. “But tell me,” says he, “will its young one be as green as it is?” “Doubtless,” answered[210] the man, “it will be green.” As the booby was going home, he allowed the melon to roll down a slope before him. It burst on its way, when up started a frightened hare. “Go to my house, young one,” he shouted. “Surely a green animal has come out of it.” And when he got home, he inquired of his mother if the young one had arrived.

Other stories of boobies or simpletons follow, taken here and there from the enormous mass of humorous literature on this theme.

Yet noodles are not always witless fools.

The principle of the humor in such tales is merely and only the superiority complex, that loves to laugh good naturedly or with a contemptuous tolerance at the speech or actions of those less clever than itself. It is the attitude of the cognoscenti toward,

as W. S. Gilbert puts it.

One day some men were walking by the riverside, and came to a place where the contrary currents caused the water to boil as in a whirlpool. “See how the water boils!” says one. “If we had plenty of oatmeal,” says another, “we might make enough porridge to serve all the village for a month.” So it was resolved that part of them should go to the village and fetch their oatmeal, which was soon brought and thrown into the river. But there presently arose the question of how they were to know when the porridge was ready. This difficulty was overcome by the offer of one of the company to jump in, and it was agreed that if he found it ready for use, he should signify the same to his companions. The man jumped in, and found the water deeper than he expected. Thrice he rose to the surface, but said nothing. The others, impatient at his remaining so long silent, and seeing him smack his lips, took this for an avowal that the[211] porridge was good, and so they all jumped in after him and were drowned.

A poor old woman used to beg her food by day and cook it at night. Half of the food she would eat in the morning, and the other half in the evening. After a while a cat got to know of this arrangement, and came and ate the meal for her. The old woman was very patient, but at last could no longer endure the cat’s impudence, and so she laid hold of it. She argued with herself as to whether she should kill it or not. “If I slay it,” she thought, “it will be a sin; but if I keep it alive, it will be to my heavy loss.” So she determined only to punish it. She procured some cotton wool and some oil, and soaking the one in the other, tied it on to the cat’s tail and then set it on fire. Away rushed the cat across the yard, up the side of the window, and on to the roof, where its flaming tail ignited the thatch and set the whole house on fire. The flames soon spread to other houses, and the whole village was destroyed.

Not a few of the Bizarrures of the Sieur Gaulard are the prototypes of bulls and foolish sayings of the typical Irishman, which go their ceaseless rounds in popular periodicals, and are even audaciously reproduced as original in our “comic” journals. To cite some examples:

A friend one day told M. Gaulard that the Dean of Besançon was dead. “Believe it not,” said he, “for had it been so he would have told me himself, since he writes to me about everything.”

M. Gaulard asked his secretary one evening what hour it was. “Sir,” replied the secretary, “I cannot tell you by the dial, because the sun is set.” “Well,” quoth M. Gaulard, “and can you not see by the candle?”

On another occasion the Sieur called from his bed to a servant desiring him to see if it was daylight yet. “There is[212] no sign of daylight,” said the servant. “I do not wonder,” rejoined the Sieur, “that thou canst not see day, great fool as thou art. Take a candle and look with it out at the window, and thou shalt see whether it be day or not.”

In a strange house, the Sieur found the walls of his bed chamber full of great holes. “This,” exclaimed he in a rage, “is the cursedest chamber in all the world. One may see day all the night through.”

Travelling in the country, his man, to gain the fairest way, rode through a field sowed with pease, upon which M. Gaulard cried to him, “Thou knave, wilt thou burn my horse’s feet? Dost thou not know that about six weeks ago I burned my mouth with eating pease, they were so hot?”

A poor man complained to him that he had had a horse stolen from him. “Why did you not mark his visage,” asked M. Gaulard, “and the clothes he wore?” “Sir,” said the man, “I was not there when he was stolen.” Quoth the Sieur, “You should have left somebody to ask him his name, and in what place he resided.”

M. Gaulard felt the sun so hot in the midst of a field at noontide in August that he asked of those about him, “What means the sun to be so hot? How should it not keep its heat till winter, when it is cold weather?”

A proctor, discoursing with M. Gaulard, told him that a dumb, deaf, or blind man could not make a will but with certain additional forms. “I pray you,” said the Sieur, “give me that in writing, that I may send it to a cousin of mine who is lame.”

One day a friend visited the Sieur and found him asleep in his chair. “I slept,” said he, “only to avoid idleness; for I must always be doing something.”

[213]

The Abbé of Poupet complained to him that the moles had spoiled a fine meadow, and he could find no remedy for them. “Why, cousin,” said M. Gaulard, “it is but paving your meadow, and the moles will no more trouble you.”

M. Gaulard had a lackey belonging to Auvergne, who robbed him of twelve crowns and ran away, at which he was very angry, and said he would have nothing that came from that country. So he ordered all that was from Auvergne to be cast out of the house, even his mule; and to make the animal more ashamed, he caused his servants to take off its shoes and its saddle and bridle.

Among the cases decided by a Turkish Kází, two men came before him one of whom complained that the other had almost bit his ear off. The accused denied this, and declared that the fellow had bit his own ear. After pondering the matter for some time, the judge told them to come again two hours later. Then he went into his private room, and attempted to bring his ear and his mouth together; but all he did was to fall backwards and break his head. Wrapping a cloth round his head, he returned to court, and the two men coming in again presently, he thus decided the question: “No man can bite his own ear, but in trying to do so he may fall down and break his head.”

The typical noodle of the Turks, the Khoja Nasru ’d-Dín, quoted above as Cogia Nasr Eddin Effendi, is said to have been a subject of the independent prince of Karaman, at whose capital, Konya, he resided, and he is represented as a contemporary of Timúr (Tamerlane), in the middle of the fourteenth century. The pleasantries which are ascribed to him are for the most part common to all countries, but some are probably of genuine Turkish origin. To cite a few specimens: The Khoja’s wife said to him one day, “Make me a present of a kerchief of red Yemen silk, to put on my head.” The Khoja stretched out his arms and said, “Like that? Is that large enough?” On her replying in the affirmative he[214] ran off to the bazaar, with his arms still stretched out, and meeting a man on the road, he bawled to him, “Look where you are going, O man, or you will cause me to lose my measure!”

One evening the Khoja went to the well to draw water, and seeing the moon reflected in the water, he exclaimed, “The moon has fallen into the well; I must pull it out.” So he let down the rope and hook, and the hook became fastened to a stone, whereupon he exerted all his strength, and the rope broke, and he fell upon his back. Looking into the sky, he saw the moon, and cried out joyfully, “Praise be to Allah! I am sorely bruised, but the moon has got into its place again.”

The Chinese have a story of a lady who had been recently married, and on the third day saw her husband returning home, so she slipped quietly behind him and gave him a hearty kiss. The husband was annoyed, and said she offended all propriety. “Pardon! pardon!” said she. “I did not know it was you.”

Indian fiction abounds in stories of simpletons, and probably the oldest extant drolleries of the Gothamite type are found in the J[.a]takas, or Buddhist Birth stories. Assuredly they were own brothers to our mad men of Gotham, the Indian villagers who, being pestered by mosquitoes when at work in the forest, bravely resolved, according to J[.a]taka 44, to take their bows and arrows and other weapons and make war upon the troublesome insects until they had shot dead or cut in pieces every one; but in trying to shoot the mosquitoes they only shot, struck, and injured one another. And nothing more foolish is recorded of the Schildburgers than Somadeva relates, in his Kathá Sarit Ságara, of the simpletons who cut down the palm-trees: Being required to furnish the king with a certain quantity of dates, and perceiving that it was very easy to gather the dates of a palm which had fallen down of itself, they set to work and cut down all the date-palms in their village, and having gathered from them their[215] whole crop of dates, they raised them up and planted them again, thinking they would grow.

In Málava there were two Bráham brothers, and the wealth inherited from their father was left jointly between them. And while they were dividing that wealth they quarrelled about one having too little and the other having too much, and they made a teacher learned in the Vedas arbitrator, and he said to them, “You must divide everything your father left into two halves, so that you may not quarrel about the inequality of the division.” When the two fools heard this, they divided every single thing into two equal parts—house, beds, in fact, all their property, including their cattle.

Henry Stephens (Henri Estienne), in the Introduction to his Apology for Herodotus, relates some very amusing noodle-stories, such as of him who, burning his shins before the fire, and not having wit enough to go back from it, sent for masons to remove the chimney; of the fool who ate the doctor’s prescription, because he was told to “take it”; of another wittol who, having seen one spit upon iron to try whether it was hot, did likewise with his porridge; and, best of all, he tells of a fellow who was hit on the back with a stone as he rode upon his mule, and cursed the animal for kicking him. This last exquisite jest has its analogue in that of the Irishman who was riding on an ass one fine day, when the beast, by kicking at the flies that annoyed him, got one of its hind feet entangled in the stirrup, whereupon the rider dismounted, saying, “Faith, if you’re going to get up, it’s time I was getting down.”

The poet Ovid alludes to the story of Ino persuading the women of the country to roast the wheat before it was sown, which may have come to India through the Greeks, since we are told in the Kathá Sarit S[.a]gara of a foolish villager who one day roasted some sesame seeds, and finding them nice to eat, he sowed a large quantity of roasted seeds, hoping that[216] similar ones would come up. The story also occurs in Coelho’s Contes Portuguezes, and is probably of Buddhistic origin. An analogous story is told of an Irishman who gave his hens hot water, in order that they should lay boiled eggs!

Few folk-tales are more widely diffused than that of the man who set out in quest of as great noodles as those of his own household. The details may be varied more or less, but the fundamental outline is identical, wherever the story is found; and, whether it be an instance of the transmission of popular tales from one country to another, or one of those “primitive fictions” which are said to be the common heritage of the Aryans, its independent development by different nations and in different ages cannot be reasonably maintained.

Thus, in one Gaelic version of this diverting story—in which our old friends the Gothamites reappear on the scene to enact their unconscious drolleries—a lad marries a farmer’s daughter, and one day while they are all busily engaged in peat cutting, she is sent to the house to fetch the dinner. On entering the house, she perceives the speckled pony’s packsaddle hanging from the roof, and says to herself, “Oh, if that packsaddle were to fall and kill me, what should I do?” and here she began to cry, until her mother, wondering what could be detaining her, comes, when she tells the old woman the cause of her grief, whereupon the mother, in her turn, begins to cry, and when the old man next comes to see what is the matter with his wife and daughter, and is informed about the speckled pony’s packsaddle, he too, “mingles his tears” with theirs. At last the young husband arrives, and finding the trio of noodles thus grieving at an imaginary misfortune, he there and then leaves them, declaring his purpose not to return until he has found three as great fools as themselves. In the course of his travels he meets with some strange folks: men whose wives make them believe whatever they please—one, that he is dead; another, that he is clothed, when he is stark naked; a third, that he is not himself. He meets with the twelve fishers who always miscounted their number; the noodles who went to drown an eel in the sea; and[217] a man trying to get his cow on the roof of his house, in order that she might eat the grass growing there.

In Russian variants the old parents of a youth named Lutonya weep over the supposititious death of a potential grandchild, thinking how sad it would have been if a log which the old woman had dropped had killed that hypothetical infant. The parents’ grief appears to Lutonya so uncalled for that he leaves the house, declaring he will not return until he has met with people more foolish than they. He travels long and far, and sees several foolish doings. In one place a horse is being inserted into its collar by sheer force; in another, a woman is fetching milk from the cellar a spoonful at a time; and in a third place some carpenters are attempting to stretch a beam which is not long enough, and Lutonya earns their gratitude by showing them how to join a piece to it.

A well known English version is to this effect: There was a young man who courted a farmer’s daughter, and one evening when he came to the house she was sent to the cellar for beer. Seeing an axe stuck in a beam above her head, she thought to herself, “Suppose I were married and had a son, and he were to grow up, and be sent to this cellar for beer, and this axe were to fall and kill him—oh, dear! oh dear!” and there she sat crying and crying, while the beer flowed all over the cellar floor, until her old father and mother come in succession and blubber along with her about the hypothetical death of her imaginary grown up son. The young man goes off in quest of three bigger fools, and sees a woman hoisting a cow on to the roof of her cottage to eat the grass that grew among the thatch, and to keep the animal from falling off, she ties a rope round its neck, then goes into the kitchen, secures at her waist the rope, which she had dropped down the chimney, and presently the cow stumbles over the roof, and the woman is pulled up the flue till she sticks half way. In an inn he sees a man attempting to jump into his trousers—a favourite incident in this class of stories; and farther along he meets with a party raking the moon out of a pond.

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Another English variant relates that a young girl having been left alone in the house, her mother finds her in tears when she comes home, and asks the cause of her distress. “Oh,” says the girl, “while you were away, a brick fell down the chimney, and I thought, if it had fallen on me I might have been killed!” The only novel adventure which the girl’s betrothed meets with, in his quest of three bigger fools, is an old woman trying to drag an oven with a rope to the table where the dough lay.

There is a Sicilian version in Pitrá’s collection, called The Peasant of Larcarà, in which the bride’s mother imagines that her daughter has a son who falls into the cistern. The groom—they are not yet married—is disgusted, and sets out on his travels with no fixed purpose of returning if he finds some fools greater than his mother-in-law, as in the Venetian tale. The first fool he meets is a mother, whose child, in playing the game called nocciole, tries to get his hand out of the hole whilst his fist is full of stones. He cannot, of course, and the mother thinks they will have to cut off his hand. The traveller tells the child to drop the stones, and then he draws out his hand easily enough. Next he finds a bride who cannot enter the church because she is very tall and wears a high comb. The difficulty is settled as in the former story. After a while he comes to a woman who is spinning and drops her spindle. She calls out to the pig, whose name is Tony, to pick it up for her. The pig does nothing but grunt, and the woman in anger cries, “Well, you won’t pick it up? May your mother die!” The traveller, who had overheard all this, takes a piece of paper, which he folds up like a letter, and then knocks at the door. “Who is there?” “Open the door, for I have a letter for you from Tony’s mother, who is ill and wishes to see her son before she dies.” The woman wonders that her imprecation has taken effect so soon, and readily consents to Tony’s visit. Not only this, but she loads a mule with everything necessary for the comfort of the body and soul of the dying pig. The traveller leads away the mule with Tony, and returns home so pleased with having found that[219] the outside world contains so many fools that he marries as he had first intended.

In other Italian versions, a man is trying to jump into his stockings; another endeavours to put walnuts into a sack with a fork; and a woman dips a knotted rope into a deep well, and then having drawn it up, squeezes the water out of the knots into a pail.

Mediæval writers most frequently gave voice to short proverbs, maxims or epigrams, but a longer story is this delightful one from the old Folk tales of India.

San Shroe Bu
ENFORCED GREATNESS

Once upon a time there lived a very poor middle aged couple on the outskirts of a great and magnificent city. Early in the morning the man used to set out to the city and return home in the evening with a few odd annas earned by picking up small jobs in the warehouses of wealthy merchants. One fine morning, being lazier than usual, he remained in bed with his eyes closed though fully awake, and furtively watched the proceedings of his wife during her toilette. When she was completely satisfied with her performance the man pretended to wake up as though from a deep sleep and addressed his wife, “you know, my dear, of late I have been feeling that some strange power has been granted to me by the gracious nats who preside over our destinies. To illustrate my point, you saw just now that I was fast asleep, and yet, would you believe it, I know exactly what you were doing a little while ago from the time you rose from your bed up till the present moment,” and proceeded to tell her all she did at her toilette. As may be imagined, his wife was quite astonished at this feat, and womanlike, she began to see in this power the means to a profitable living.

Just about this time the kingdom became greatly distracted[220] by a series of daring thefts which took place both by day and night. All efforts made by the authorities to capture the culprits proved useless. At length the king became seriously alarmed for the safety of his treasures, and in order to afford better protection he redoubled the guards round the palace. But in spite of all this precaution the thieves entered the palace one night and succeeded in carrying away a large quantity of gold, silver and precious stones.

On the following morning the king issued a proclamation to the effect that a thousand gold mohurs would be given as a reward to the person who could either capture the thieves or restore the stolen property. So without consulting her husband in whom she had absolute faith, she went off to the palace and informed the king that her husband was a great astrologer and that it would be quite easy for him to find the lost treasures. The king’s heart was filled with gladness on receiving this information. He told the good woman that if her husband could do all that she promised, further honours and rewards would be heaped upon him.

When the woman returned home she joyfully related to her husband the details of her interview with the king. “What have you done, you silly fool?” shouted the man with mingled astonishment and alarm. “The other day when I spoke to you about my powers I was merely imposing upon you. I am neither an astrologer nor a diviner. It will be impossible for me to find the lost property. By your silly act you have not only brought disgrace upon us but you have also imperilled our lives. I don’t care what happens to you; I only know that I am going to commit suicide this very day.”

So saying he left the house and entered a dense forest with the intention of cutting a stout creeper with which to hang himself. After he got what he wanted he climbed up a big tree to tie one end of the creeper to a branch. But while he was engaged in this act the notorious thieves came to the foot of the very tree on which he was perched and proceeded to divide the treasures which they stole from the palace. The man on the top remained absolutely still and eagerly listened to all that was going on down below. Apparently[221] the division was not quite satisfactory to every one, and as a result a terrible dispute arose among them. For long hours they argued and abused each other without being able to come to a settlement. At length seeing that the sun was already declining they agreed to bury the treasure at the foot of the tree and to return on the morrow for a further discussion relative to their respective shares.

As soon as they left the place the poor man came down from the tree and ran home as fast as he could. “My dear wife, I know exactly where the treasures are to be found. If you make haste and come along with me I shall be able to remove the whole lot to our house.” So they hastened together with baskets on their heads and reached the spot when darkness had properly set in. They then dug up the treasures as quickly as they could and conveyed them home.

On the following day they went to the palace and restored the lost treasures to the king. Greatly overjoyed at his good fortune the king praised the man and marvelled at his rare knowledge. In addition to the reward which he received, the man was forthwith appointed the chief astrologer to the King with a handsome salary which placed him beyond the dreams of avarice.

While in the enjoyment of such honours and rewards the astrologer one day thought to himself, “So far I have been very fortunate. My luck has been phenomenally good. Everybody takes me to be a great man, though actually I am not. I wonder for how long my luck will befriend me?” From that time forward his mind became uneasy. He often sat up in bed at nights dreading the future which should bring about his exposure and disgrace. Every day he spoke to his wife about his false position and the peril that threatened him. He saw that it would be utter folly and madness to make a clean breast of everything as he had already committed himself too far. So he decided to say nothing for the present but to await a favourable opportunity of extricating himself from the awkward situation.

It so happened that one day the king received a letter from the ruler of a distant country which stated that he had[222] heard about the famous astrologer. But that somehow he did not quite believe all that was said concerning the wisdom and knowledge of the man. By way of testing his real powers would he, the king, enter into a bet? If acceptable, he said he would send him a gourd fruit by his Envoys, and if his astrologer could say how many seeds it contained, he was willing to forfeit his kingdom provided he (the former) did the same in the event of his protégé going wrong in his calculations. Having absolute faith in his astrologer the king forthwith sent a reply to the letter accepting the bet.

For many days after this the poor astrologer thought very hard how he should act in the matter. He knew that the gourd fruit usually contained thousands of seeds and that to attempt a guess would be worse than useless. Being fully convinced that the day of reckoning had at last arrived, he determined to run away and hide himself in some obscure corner rather than face the disgrace of a public exposure. So the next thing he did was to procure a boat. He then loaded it with food for many days and quietly left the shores of the city.

The following day as he was nearing the mouth of the river, a foreign vessel came sailing up under a full spread of canvas. He saw from a distance that the sailors, having nothing particular to do, sat in a group and were engaged in pleasant conversation. As he came alongside the vessel he heard a man remark to the others, “Somehow I feel quite certain that our king will lose the bet. Don’t you fellows know that this country possesses an astrologer who is infallible in his calculations? He is reputed to possess the combined sight of a thousand devas. To such a one the single seed, lying hidden within this gourd we now convey with us, will not prove an obstacle of any serious difficulty. You may therefore rest assured that he will find it out in a very short time.”

When the man heard these words he felt very glad and blessed his good luck for having freed him once again from a dangerous situation. Instead, therefore, of continuing his journey, he swung his boat round and made for home, happy in the possession of his freshly acquired knowledge. On his[223] arrival he related everything to his wife who shed tears of joy on hearing the good news.

Early next day, hearing that the king was about to grant an audience to the foreign Envoys, the royal astrologer went to the palace. The courtiers were very glad to see him turn up, for so great was their confidence in him that they felt that their country was quite safe and that the chances were in favour of their acquiring a new kingdom. When the king entered the Hall of Audience he invited the astrologer to sit on his right while the others sat in front of him with their faces almost touching the floor. Then the real proceedings began.

First of all presents were exchanged and complimentary speeches were delivered on both sides. When these ceremonies were over the Chief Envoy addressed the king in the following terms, “Oh Mighty Monarch! The real object of our journey to your most beautiful country has already formed the subject of correspondence between your Majesty and my king. I will not therefore tire you by its recital all over again. My master commands me to show you this gourd and to ask you to say how many seeds exactly it contains. If what you say be correct his kingdom passes into your possession, but on the other hand should you be wrong your kingdom becomes the property of my master.”

Hearing these words the king smiled and turning to the astrologer near him, said, “My dear saya, it is unnecessary for me to tell you what you have got to do. Consult your stars and tell us how many seeds the fruit contains. You already know how generous I have been to you in the past. And now at this crisis, if you are able to assist me in winning a kingdom, my reward to you shall be such as to make you rejoice for all the remaining days of your life.” “Your Majesty,” replied the astrologer, “everything I have, including my life, belongs to you. By your will I am able to live, and by your will I must also die. In the present case my calculations point to one answer only, and therefore I have no hesitation in saying that this gourd contains one seed only.”

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Accustomed to seeing gourds with thousands of seeds, the king turned pale when he heard the astrologer’s answer. But still having complete faith in him, with effort he restrained himself from further questioning him. The gourd was then placed upon a gold plate and was cut open in the presence of all those present. To the astonishment of everybody there was but a single seed as was said by the astrologer. The foreign Envoy congratulated the king on having won his bet and on the possession of so valuable a servant. He then returned home with a heavy heart bearing the news of his sovereign’s ruin and his country’s misfortune.

As to the astrologer his fame spread far and wide. All sorts of honours and rewards were heaped upon him. He was even granted the unique privilege of entering or leaving any part of the palace at all hours, just as his own inclinations directed him. Yet in spite of all these things he was not happy. He knew he was an imposter who stood in imminent danger of being found out. He was more than satisfied with the reputation he had made and the riches he had acquired. He did not desire any more of these things. His greatest ambition now was to find a graceful way of escape from his false position.

So he thus spoke to his wife one day, “My dear wife, so far I have had most wonderful luck. It has enabled me to escape two great dangers with honour to myself. But how long will this luck stand by me? Something tells me that I shall be found out on the third occasion. What I propose to do next is this. Listen carefully so that you may carry out my instructions without a hitch. Tomorrow while I am at the palace with the king you must set fire to our house. Being of thatch and bamboo it will not take long to be consumed. You must then come running to the palace to inform me about it and at the same time you must keep on repeating these words, ‘the Astrological Tables are gone.’ I will then do the rest.”

On the following day while the king was holding a grand Durbar in the Hall of Audience, a great commotion was heard outside the gates. On enquiry the king was informed[225] that the astrologer’s wife had come to inform her husband that their house was burnt down and that everything of value, including the most precious astrological tables by which her husband made his wonderful predictions, had been consumed by the fire. Hearing these words the astrologer pretended to be terribly affected. He struck his forehead with the palm of his hand and for a long time he remained silent and motionless with grief. Then turning to the king he said, “May it please your Majesty I am now utterly ruined. For had it been my riches alone that perished in the fire I should not have minded so much. They could have been easily replaced. But now since these precious tables are gone it is impossible to procure a similar set from anywhere else. I hope I have served your Majesty faithfully and to your satisfaction in the past; but I grieve to say that I shall not be in a position to give you the same service in the future. I beseech you therefore to release me from the present responsible position, for I shall no longer be useful to you. But in recognition of my past humble services if your Majesty, in your great goodness of heart, can see fit to grant me a small pension for the rest of my life I shall have cause to consider myself exceptionally favoured.”

The king was very sad to hear of his favourite’s misfortune. And as there was nothing else to be said or done in the matter he ordered a beautiful building to be erected on the site of the house that was burnt down. Next he filled it with a large retinue of servants and other equipments such as horses, carriages and so forth. Then the whole thing was made over to the astrologer with the command that for the rest of his life he was to draw from the Royal Treasury no less a sum than ten thousand gold mohurs a month.

As may be imagined the lucky astrologer was more than satisfied with the arrangements and inwardly congratulated himself upon his good fortune which once more enabled him to escape from a dangerous situation. Thus some men are born great, some achieve greatness; but there are also others who have greatness forced upon them, and it is to this third and last class that our hero the pretentious astrologer belongs.

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In the Middle Ages, popular sculpture and painting were but the translation of popular literature, and nothing was more common to represent, in pictures and carvings, than individual men under the forms of the animals who displayed similar characters or similar propensities. Cunning, treachery, and intrigue were the prevailing vices of the middle ages, and they were those also of the fox, who hence became a favourite character in satire. The victory of craft over force always provoked mirth. The fabulists, or, we should perhaps rather say, the satirists, soon began to extend their canvas and enlarge their picture, and, instead of single examples of fraud or injustice, they introduced a variety of characters, not only foxes, but wolves, and sheep, and bears, with birds also, as the eagle, the cock, and the crow, and mixed them up together in long narratives, which thus formed general satires on the vices of contemporary society. In this manner originated the celebrated romance of “Reynard the Fox,” which in various forms, from the twelfth century to the eighteenth, has enjoyed a popularity which was granted probably to no other book. The plot of this remarkable satire turns chiefly on the long struggle between the brute force of Isengrin the Wolf, possessed only with a small amount of intelligence, which is easily deceived—under which character is presented the powerful feudal baron—and the craftiness of Reynard the Fox, who represents the intelligent portion of society, which had to hold its ground by its wits, and these were continually abused to evil purposes. Reynard is swayed by a constant impulse to deceive and victimise everybody, whether friends or enemies, but especially his uncle Isengrin. It was somewhat the relationship between the ecclesiastical and baronial aristocracy. Reynard was educated in the schools, and intended for the clerical order; and at different times he is represented as acting under the disguise of a priest, of a monk, of a pilgrim, or even of a prelate of the church. Though frequently reduced to the greatest straits by the power of Isengrin, Reynard has generally the better of it in the end: he robs and defrauds Isengrin continually, outrages his wife, who is half in alliance with him, and draws him into all sorts[227] of dangers and sufferings, for which the latter never succeeds in obtaining justice. The old sculptors and artists appear to have preferred exhibiting Reynard in his ecclesiastical disguises, and in these he appears often in the ornamentation of mediæval architectural sculpture, in wood-carvings, in the illuminations of manuscripts, and in other objects of art. The popular feeling against the clergy was strong in the middle ages, and no caricature was received with more favour than those which exposed the immorality or dishonesty of a monk or a priest. A sculpture in the church of Christchurch, in Hampshire, represents Reynard in the pulpit preaching; behind, or rather perhaps beside him, a diminutive cock stands upon a stool—in modern times we should be inclined to say he was acting as clerk. Reynard’s costume consists merely of the ecclesiastical hood or cowl. Such subjects are frequently found on the carved seats, or misereres, in the stalls of the old cathedrals and collegiate churches. The painted glass of the great window of the north cross-aisle of St. Martin’s church in Leicester, which was destroyed in the last century, represented the fox, in the character of an ecclesiastic, preaching to a congregation of geese.

Reynard’s mediæval celebrity dates certainly from a rather early period. Montfaucon has given an alphabet of ornamental initial letters, formed chiefly of figures of men and animals, from a manuscript which he ascribes to the ninth century, among which is one representing a fox walking upon his hind legs, and carrying two small cocks, suspended at the ends of a cross staff. It is hardly necessary to say that this group forms the letter T. Long before this, the Frankish historian Fredegarius, who wrote about the middle of the seventh century, introduces a fable in which the fox figures at the court of the lion. The same fable is repeated by a monkish writer of Bavaria, named Fromond who flourished in the tenth century, and by another named Aimoinus, who lived about the year 1,000. At length, in the twelfth century, Guibert de Nogent, who died about the year 1124, and who has left us his autobiography (de Vita Sua), relates an anecdote in that work, in explanation of which he tells us that[228] the wolf was then popularly designated by the name of Isengrin; and in the fables of Odo, as we have already seen, this name is commonly given to the wolf, Reynard to the fox, Teburg to the cat, and so on with the others. This only shows that in the fables of the twelfth century the various animals were known by these names, but it does not prove that what we know as the romance of Reynard existed. Jacob Grimm argued from the derivation and forms of these names, that the fables themselves, and the romance, originated with the Teutonic peoples, and were indigenous to them; but his reasons seem more specious than conclusive, and Paulin Paris holds that the romance of Reynard was native of France, and that it was partly founded upon old Latin legends perhaps poems. Its character is altogether feudal, and it is strictly a picture of society, in France primarily, and secondly in England and the other nations of feudalism, in the twelfth century. The earliest form in which this romance is known is in the French poem—or rather poems, for it consists of several branches or continuations—and is supposed to date from about the middle of the twelfth century. It soon became so popular, that it appeared in different forms in all the languages of Western Europe, except in England, where there appears to have existed no edition of the romance of Reynard the Fox until Caxton printed his prose English version of the story. From that time it became, if possible, more popular in England than elsewhere, and that popularity had hardly diminished down to the commencement of the present century.

The popularity of the story of Reynard caused it to be imitated in a variety of shapes, and this form of satire, in which animals acted the part of men, became altogether popular.

A direct imitation of “Reynard the Fox” is found in the early French romance of “Fauvel,” the hero of which is neither a fox nor an ass, but a horse. People of all ranks and classes repair to the court of Fauvel, the horse, and furnish abundant matter for satire on the moral, political, and religious hypocrisy which pervaded the whole frame of society. At length the hero resolves to marry, and, in a finely illuminated[229] manuscript of this romance, preserved in the Imperial Library in Paris, this marriage furnishes the subject of a picture, which gives the only representation to be met with of one of the popular burlesque ceremonies which were so common in the middle ages.

Among other such ceremonies, it was customary with the populace, on the occasion of a man’s or woman’s second marriage, or an ill-sorted match, or on the espousals of people who were obnoxious to their neighbours, to assemble outside the house, and greet them with discordant music. This custom is said to have been practiced especially in France, and it was called a charivari. There is still a last remnant of it in our country in the music of marrow-bones and cleavers, with which the marriages of butchers are popularly celebrated; but the derivation of the French name appears not to be known. It occurs in old Latin documents, for it gave rise to such scandalous scenes of riot and licentiousness, that the Church did all it could, though in vain, to suppress it. The earliest mention of this custom, furnished in the Glossarium of Ducange, is contained in the synodal statutes of the church of Avignon, passed in the year 1337, from which we learn that when such marriages occurred, people forced their way into the houses of the married couple, and carried away their goods, which they were obliged to pay a ransom for before they were returned, and the money thus raised was spent in getting up what is called in the statute relating to it a Chalvaricum. It appears from this statute, that the individuals who performed the charivari accompanied the happy couple to the church, and returned with them to their residence, with coarse and indecent gestures and discordant music, and uttering scurrilous and indecent abuse, and that they ended with feasting. In the statutes of Meaux, in 1365, and in those of Hugh, bishop of Beziers, in 1368, the same practice is forbidden, under the name of Charavallium; and it is mentioned in a document of the year 1372, also quoted by Ducange, under that of Carivarium, as then existing at Nîmes. Again, in 1445, the Council of Tours made a decree, forbidding, under pain of excommunication, “the insolences, clamours,[230] sounds, and other tumults practiced at second and third nuptials, called by the vulgar a Charivarium, on account of the many and grave evils arising out of them.” It will be observed that these early allusions to the charivari are found almost solely in documents coming from the Roman towns in the south of France, so that this practice was probably one of the many popular customs derived directly from the Romans. When Cotgrave’s “Dictionary” was published (that is, in 1632) the practice of the charivari appears to have become more general in its existence, as well as its application; for he describes it as “a public defamation, or traducing of; a foule noise made, blacke santus rung, to the shame and disgrace of another; hence an infamous (or infaming) ballad sung, by an armed troupe, under the window of an old dotard, married the day before unto a young wanton, in mockerie of them both.” And, again, a charivaris de poelles is explained as “the carting of an infamous person, graced with the harmonie of stinging kettles and frying-pan musicke.” The word is now generally used in the sense of a great tumult of discordant music, produced often by a number of persons playing different tunes on different instruments at the same time.

The sermons and satires against extravagance in costume began at an early period. The Anglo-Norman ladies, in the earlier part of the twelfth century, first brought in vogue in our island this extravagance in fashion, which quickly fell under the lash of satirist and caricaturist. It was first exhibited in the robes rather than in the head-dress. These Anglo-Norman ladies are understood to have first introduced stays, in order to give an artificial appearance of slenderness to their waists; but the greatest extravagance appeared in the forms of their sleeves. The robe, or gown, instead of being loose, as among the Anglo-Saxons, was laced close around the body, and the sleeves, which fitted the arm tightly till they reached the elbows, or sometimes nearly to the wrist, then suddenly became larger, and hung down to an extravagant length, often trailing on the ground, and sometimes shortened by means of a knot. The gown, also, was itself worn very long. The clergy preached against these extravagances in fashion, and[231] at times, it is said, with effect; and they fell under the vigorous lash of the satirist. In a class of satires which became extremely popular in the twelfth century, and which produced in the thirteenth the immortal poem of Dante—the visions of purgatory and of hell—these contemporary extravagances in fashion are held up to public detestation, and are made the subject of severe punishment. They were looked upon as among the outward forms of pride. It arose, no doubt, from this taste—from the darker shade which spread over men’s minds in the twelfth century—that demons, instead of animals, were introduced to personify the evil-doers of the time. Such is the figure, seen in a very interesting manuscript in the British Museum (MS. Cotton. Nero, C iv.). The demon is here dressed in the fashionable gown with its long sleeves, of which one appears to have been usually much longer than the other. Both the gown and sleeve are shortened by means of knots, while the former is brought close round the waist by tight lacing. It is a picture of the use of stays made at the time of their first introduction.

This superfluity of length in the different parts of the dress was a subject of complaint and satire at various and very distant periods, and contemporary illuminations of a perfectly serious character show that these complaints were not without foundation.

The professional entertainers of the Middle Ages performed in the streets and public places, or in the theatres, and especially at festivals, and they were often employed at private parties, to entertain the guests at a supper.

We trace the existence of this class of performers during the earlier period of the middle ages by the expressions of hostility towards them used from time to time by the ecclesiastical writers, and the denunciations of synods and councils. Nevertheless, it is evident from many allusions to them, that they found their way into the monastic houses, and were in great favour not only among the monks, but among the nuns also; that they were introduced into the religious festivals; and that they were tolerated even in the churches. It is probable that they long continued to be known in Italy and[232] the countries near the centre of Roman influence, and where the Latin language was continued, by their old name of mimus. The Anglo-Saxon vocabularies interpret the Latin mimus by glig-mon, a gleeman. In Anglo-Saxon, glig or gliu meant mirth and game of every description, and as the Anglo-Saxon teachers who compiled the vocabularies give, as synonyms of mimus, the words scurra, jocifta, and pantomimus, it is evident that all these were included in the character of the gleeman, and that the latter was quite identical with his Roman type. It was the Roman mimus introduced into Saxon England. We have no traces of the existence of such a class of performers among the Teutonic race before they became acquainted with the civilisation of imperial Rome. We know from drawings in contemporary illuminated manuscripts that the performances of the gleeman did include music, singing, and dancing, and also the tricks of mountebanks and jugglers, such as throwing up and catching knives and balls, and performing with tamed bears, etc.

But even among the peoples who preserved the Latin language, the word mimus was gradually exchanged for others employed to signify the same thing. The word jocus had been used in the signification of a jest, playfulness, jocari signified to jest, and joculator was a word for a jester; but, in the debasement of the language, jocus was taken in the signification of everything which created mirth. It became, in the course of time the French verb jeu, and the Italian gioco, or giuoco. People introduced a form of the verb jocare, which became the French juer, to play or perform. Joculator was then used in the sense of mimus. In French the word became jogléor, or jougléor, and in its later form jougleur. I may remark that, in mediæval manuscripts, it is almost impossible to distinguish between the u and the n, and that modern writers have misread this last word as jongleur, and thus introduced into the language a word which never existed, and which ought to be abandoned. In old English, as we see in Chaucer, the usual form was jogelere. The mediæval joculator, or jougleur, embraced all the attributes of the Roman mimus, and perhaps more. In the first place he was very often a poet himself,[233] and composed the pieces which it was one of his duties to sing or recite. These were chiefly songs, or stories, the latter usually told in verse, and so many of them are preserved in manuscripts that they form a very numerous and important class of mediæval literature. The songs were commonly satirical and abusive, and they were made use of for purposes of general or personal vituperation. Out of them, indeed, grew the political songs of a later period. They carried about with them for exhibition tame bears, monkeys, and other animals, taught to perform the actions of men. As early as the thirteenth century, we find them including among their other accomplishments that of dancing upon the tight-rope. Finally, the jougleurs performed tricks of sleight of hand, and were often conjurers and magicians. As, in modern times, the jougleurs of the middle ages gradually passed away, sleight of hand appears to have become their principal accomplishment, and the name only was left in the modern word juggler. The jougleurs of the middle ages, like the mimi of antiquity, wandered about from place to place, and often from country to country, sometimes singly and at others in companies, exhibited their performances in the roads and streets, repaired to all great festivals, and were employed especially in the baronial hall, where, by their songs, stories, and other performances, they created mirth after dinner.

This class of society had become known by another name, the origin of which is not so easily explained. The primary meaning of the Latin word minister was a servant, one who ministers to another, either in his wants or in his pleasures and amusements. It was applied particularly to the cupbearer. In low Latinity, a diminutive of this word was formed, minestellus, or ministrellus, a petty servant, or minister. When we first meet with this word, which is not at a very early date, it is used as perfectly synonymous with joculator, and, as the word is certainly of Latin derivation, it is clear that it was from it the middle ages derived the French word menestrel (the modern menetrier), and the English minstrel. The mimi or jougleurs were perhaps considered as the petty ministers to the amusements of their lord, or of him who for the time[234] employed them. Until the close of the middle ages, the minstrel and the jougleur were absolutely identical. Possibly the former may have been considered the more courtly of the two names. But in England, as the middle ages disappeared, and lost their influence on society sooner than in France, the word minstrel remained attached only to the musical part of the functions of the old mimus, while, as just observed, the juggler took the sleight of hand and the mountebank tricks. In modern French, except where employed technically by the antiquity, the word menetrier means a fiddler.

The jougleurs, or minstrels, formed a very numerous and important, though a low and despised, class of mediæval society. The dulness of every-day life in a feudal castle or mansion required something more than ordinary excitement in the way of amusement, and the old family bard, who continually repeated to the Teutonic chief the praises of himself and his ancestors, was soon felt to be a wearisome companion. The mediæval knights and their ladies wanted to laugh, and to make them laugh sufficiently it required that the jokes, or tales, or comic performances, should be broad, coarse, and racy, with a good spicing of violence and of the wonderful. Hence the jougleur was always welcome to the feudal mansion, and he seldom went away dissatisfied. But the subject of the present chapter is rather the literature of the jougleur than his personal history, and, having traced his origin to the Roman mimus, we will now proceed to one class of his performances.

It has been stated that the mimus and the jougleurs told stories. Of those of the former, unfortunately, none are preserved, except, perhaps, in a few anecdotes scattered in the pages of such writers as Apuleius and Lucian, and we are obliged to guess at their character, but of the stories of the jougleurs a considerable number has been preserved. It becomes an interesting question how far these stories have been derived from the mimi, handed down traditionally from mimus to jougleur, how far they are native in our race, or how far they were derived at a later date from other sources. And in considering this question, we must not forget that the[235] mediæval jougleurs were not the only representatives of the mimi, for among the Arabs of the East also there had originated from them, modified under different circumstances, a very important class of minstrels and story-tellers, and with these the jougleurs of the west were brought into communication at the commencement of the crusades. There can be no doubt that a very large number of the stories of the jougleurs were borrowed from the East, for the evidence is furnished by the stories themselves; and there can be little doubt also that the jougleurs improved themselves, and underwent some modification, by their intercourse with Eastern performers of the same class.

The people of the middle ages, who took their word fable from the Latin fabula, which they appear to have understood as a mere term for any short narration, included under it the stories told by the mimi and jougleurs; but, in the fondness of the middle ages for diminutives, by which they intended to express familiarity and attachment, applied to them more particularly the Latin fabella, which in the old French became fablel, or, more usually, fabliau. The fabliaux of the jougleurs form a most important class of the comic literature of the middle ages. They must have been wonderfully numerous, for a very large quantity of them still remain, and these are only the small portion of what once existed, which have escaped perishing like the others by the accident of being written in manuscripts which have had the fortune to survive; while manuscripts containing others have no doubt perished, and it is probable that many were only preserved orally, and never written down at all. The recital of these fabliaux appears to have been the favourite employment of the jougleurs, and they became so popular that the mediæval preachers turned them into short stories in Latin prose, and made use of them as illustrations in their sermons. Many collections of these short Latin stories are found in manuscripts which had served as note-books to the preachers, and out of them was originally compiled that celebrated mediæval book called the “Gesta Romanorum.”

The Trouvères, or poets, who wrote the Fabliaux flourished[236] chiefly from the close of the twelfth century to the earlier part of the fourteenth. They all composed in French, which was a language then common to England and France, but some of their compositions bear internal evidence of having been composed in England. No objection appears to have been entertained to the recital of these licentious stories before the ladies of the castle or of the domestic circle, and their general popularity was so great, that the more pious clergy seem to have thought necessary to find something to take their place in the post-prandial society of the monastery, and especially of the nunnery; and religious stories were written in the same form and metre as the fabliaux. Some of these have been published under the title of Contes Devots, and, from their general dulness, it may be doubted if they answered their purpose of furnishing amusement so well as the others.

Troubadour was the Provençal name for the Trouvères, and in the twelfth century these poets flourished so luxuriantly that their influence is still felt in the poetic sentiment of today.

Yet they were in no sense humorous writers, unless their satire on the foibles and follies of the times may be so construed. They were Boudoir poets and their airs and graces were romantic rather than mirthful.

Much of their production was of the languishing, sighing order, but the Fabliaux, of a ruder narrative type were also popular.

These Fabliaux, now usually given out in expurgated editions, were extremely plain spoken, and, as so often occurred, were adopted and adapted by the monks for the real or pretended furtherance of their religious teachings.

The Troubadours did much for lyric art by their conscientious attention to form, but the humor of their productions is almost a negligible quantity. Their songs were invariably sung, and usually to the accompaniment of the blue-ribboned guitar, but oftenest the burden was of sorrowful intent.

And it was, perhaps, owing to the want of a humorous sense, that the Troubadours could carry on their lackadaisical and lovesick careers.

Yet there were some of the Troubadours’ songs which[237] showed a departure from the usual romantic wailings and a few are here given.

Doubtless the very free translation adds to their humor, but the motive is clear.

Rambaud d’Orange thus declares his policy in treatment to the fair sex.

Bernard de Ventadour is thus unromantic.

While the Monk of Montaudon, an incorrigible satirist, thus descants on the ladies.

And the same merry Monk of Montaudon voices his sentiments thus:

The Court of Love, a gay and whimsical institution, doubtless originated in the contests of the Troubadours, when the poets recited for a prize the particular style of an ode called the Tenson.

Though a fascinating subject, we may not dwell on it further than to quote the thirty-one articles of the Code of Love, this being the most available bit of humor.

•  1. Marriage is no legitimate excuse against love.
•  2. Whoever cannot conceal cannot love.
•  3. No one must have two lovers at the same time.
•  4. Love must always be increasing or diminishing.
•  5. Favours unwillingly granted have no charm.
•  6. No male must love until of full age.
•  7. Whoever of two lovers survives the other must observe a widowhood of two years.
•  8. None should be deprived of love except they lose their reason.[241]
•  9. None can love except when compelled by the stress of love.
• 10. Love is an exile from the homes of avarice.
• 11. She who is scrupulous of the marriage tie should not love.
• 12. A true lover desires no embraces save those of his lady-love.
• 13. Love divulged rarely lasts.
• 14. Easy winning makes love contemptible; difficulty renders it dear.
• 15. Every lover grows pale at the sight of his lady-love.
• 16. The heart of a lover trembles at the sudden sight of his lady-love.
• 17. A new love makes an old one depart.
• 18. Probity alone makes a man worthy to be loved.
• 19. If love diminishes it soon fails, and rarely recovers its strength.
• 20. The lover is always timid.
• 21. From true jealousy love always increases.
• 22. When suspicion is aroused about a lover, jealousy and love increase.
• 23. Filled with thoughts of love, the lover eats and drinks less [than usual].
• 24. Every act of a lover is determined by thoughts of the beloved.
• 25. A true lover thinks naught happy save what would please his beloved.
• 26. Love can deny nothing to love.
• 27. A lover cannot be satiated with the charms of the beloved.
• 28. A slight prejudice makes a lover think ill of the beloved.
• 29. He is not wont to love who is oppressed by too great abundance of pleasure.
• 30. A true lover is always without intermission filled with the image of his lady-love.
• 31. Nothing hinders one woman being loved by two men, or one man by two women.

[242]

On these rules—some nonsensical, many contradictory, and all abominable—the following decisions, among many others, were based.

The first is that of the Countess of Champagne already quoted, with its approval by Queen Eleanor. In its original verbiage it runs thus:

Question. Can true love exist between married persons?

Judgment, by the Countess of Champagne: “We say and establish, by the tenor of these presents, that love cannot extend its rights to married persons. In fact, lovers accord everything to each other mutually and gratuitously, without being constrained by motives of necessity; while married people are bound by the duty of mutually sacrificing their wills and refusing nothing the one to the other.

“Let this judgment, which we have given with extreme care, and after taking counsel of a large number of ladies, be to you a constant and irrefragable truth. Thus determined in the year 1174, the third day before the kalends of May.”

Question. Do the greater affection and livelier attachment exist between lovers or married people? [It having been already decided, let us remember, that married people could not love one another.]

Judgment, by Ermengarde, Viscountess of Narbonne: “The attachment of married people and the tender affection of lovers are sentiments of a nature and custom altogether different. There can consequently be no just comparison established between objects which have no resemblance or connection the one with the other.”

Question. A lady attached to a gentleman in an honorable love marries another. Has she the right to repel her former lover and refuse him his accustomed favours?

Judgment, by Ermengarde, Viscountess of Narbonne: “The supervenience of the marriage bond does not bar the right of the prior attachment, unless the lady utterly renounces love, and declares that she does so for ever.”

[243]

The Gesta Romanorum, one of the most important collections of moral tales, was put together during the thirteenth century by a learned Frenchman named Pierre Bercheure, who was a Benedictine Prior. He chose to lay the scenes of the stories in Rome, though this was not historically true. Gesta means merely acts or exploits, and many of the tales are descended from Oriental Folk Lore.

Not all students of ancient literature agree as to the authorship of the Gesta as it appears in its present form, but the consensus of opinion seems to point to the aforesaid Frenchman.

However, the collector’s name matters little; the work itself, while it harks back to the Fables of Æsop and Pilpay and to the Talmud, is of interest as a veritable storehouse of Mediæval stories.

Each of these has its religious application, but it is easy to think that the readers were oftener intrigued by the story than by the appended moral.

OF SLOTH

The emperor Pliny had three sons, to whom he was extremely indulgent. He wished to dispose of his kingdom, and calling the three into his presence, spoke thus—“The most slothful of you shall reign after my decease.” “Then,” answered the elder, “the kingdom must be mine; for I am so lazy, that sitting once by the fire, I burnt my legs, because I was too indolent to withdraw them.” The second son observed, “The kingdom should properly be mine, for if I had a rope round my neck, and held a sword in my hand, my idleness is such, that I should not put forth my hand to cut the rope.” “But I,” said the third son, “ought to be preferred to you both; for I outdo both in indolence. While I lay upon my bed, water dropped from above upon my eyes; and though, from the nature of the water, I was in danger of becoming blind, I neither could nor would turn my head ever so little to the right hand or to the left.” The emperor, hearing this, bequeathed the kingdom to him, thinking him the laziest of the three.

[244]

Application

My beloved, the king is the devil; and the three sons, different classes of corrupt men.

OF THE GOOD, WHO ALONE WILL ENTER THE KINGDOM OF HEAVEN

There was a wise and rich king who possessed a beloved, but not a loving wife. She had three illegitimate sons who proved ungrateful and rebellious to their reputed parent. In due time she brought forth another son, whose legitimacy was undisputed; and after arriving at a good old age, he died, and was buried in the royal sepulchre of his fathers. But the death of the old king caused great strife amongst his surviving sons, about the right of succession. All of them advanced a claim, and none would relinquish it to the other; the three first, presuming upon their priority in birth, and the last upon his legitimacy. In this strait, they agreed to refer the absolute decision of their cause to a certain honourable soldier of the late king. When this person, therefore, heard their difference, he said, “Follow my advice, and it will greatly benefit you. Draw from its sepulchre the body of the deceased monarch; prepare, each of you, a bow and single shaft, and whosoever transfixes the heart of his father, shall obtain the kingdom.” The counsel was approved, the body was taken from its repository and bound naked to a tree. The arrow of the first son wounded the king’s right hand—on which, as if the contest were determined, they proclaimed him heir to the throne. But the second arrow went nearer, and entered the mouth; so that he too considered himself the undoubted lord of the kingdom. However, the third perforated the heart itself, and consequently imagined that his claim was fully decided, and his succession sure. It now came to the turn of the fourth and last son to shoot; but instead of fixing his shaft to the bow-string, and preparing for the trial, he broke forth into a lamentable cry, and with eyes swimming in tears, said, “Oh! my poor father; have I then lived to see you the victim of an impious contest? Thine own offspring lacerate[245] thy unconscious clay?—Far, oh! far be it from me to strike thy venerated form, whether living or dead.” No sooner had he uttered these words, than the nobles of the realm, together with the whole people, unanimously elected him to the throne; and depriving the three barbarous wretches of their rank and wealth, expelled them for ever from the kingdom.

Application

My beloved, that wise and rich king is the King of kings, and Lord of lords, who joined himself to our flesh, as to a beloved wife. But going after other gods, it forgot the love due to him in return, and brought forth by an illicit connection, three sons, viz., Pagans, Jews, and Heretics. The first wounded the right hand—that is, the doctrine of Christ by persecutions. The second, the mouth—when they gave Christ vinegar and gall to drink; and the third, wounded, and continue to wound the heart,—while they strive, by every sophistical objection, to deceive the faithful. The fourth son is any good Christian.

OF THE INCARNATION OF OUR LORD

A certain king was remarkable for three qualities. Firstly, he was braver than all men; secondly, he was wiser; and lastly, more beautiful. He lived a long time unmarried; and his counsellors would persuade him to take a wife. “My friends,” said he, “it is clear to you that I am rich and powerful enough; and therefore want not wealth. Go, then, through town and country, and seek me out a beautiful and wise virgin; and if ye can find such a one, however poor she may be, I will marry her.” The command was obeyed; they proceeded on their search, until at last they discovered a lady of royal extraction with the qualifications desired. But the king was not so easily satisfied, and determined to put her wisdom to the test. He sent to the lady by a herald a piece of linen cloth, three inches square; and bade her contrive to make for him a shirt exactly fitted to his body. “Then,” added he, “she shall be my wife.” The messenger, thus commissioned, departed on his errand, and respectfully presented the cloth,[246] with the request of the king. “How can I comply with it,” exclaimed the lady, “when the cloth is but three inches square? It is impossible to make a shirt of that; but bring me a vessel in which I may work, and I promise to make the shirt long enough for the body.” The messenger returned with the reply of the virgin, and the king immediately sent a sumptuous vessel, by means of which she extended the cloth to the required size, and completed the shirt. Whereupon the wise king married her.

Application

My beloved, the king is God; the virgin, the mother of Christ; who was also the chosen vessel. By the messenger, is meant Gabriel. The cloth, is the Grace of God, which, by proper care and labour, is made sufficient for man’s salvation.

OF THE DECEITS OF THE DEVIL

There were once three friends, who agreed to make a pilgrimage together. It happened that their provisions fell short, and having but one loaf between them, they were nearly famished. “Should this loaf,” they said to each other, “be divided amongst us, there will not be enough for any one. Let us then take counsel together, and consider how the bread is to be disposed of.” “Suppose we sleep upon the way,” replied one of them; “and whosoever hath the most wonderful dream, shall possess the loaf.” The other two acquiesced, and settled themselves to sleep. But he who gave the advice, arose while they were sleeping, and eat up the bread, not leaving a single crumb for his companions. When he had finished he awoke them. “Get up quickly,” said he, “and tell us your dreams.” “My friends,” answered the first, “I have had a very marvellous vision. A golden ladder reached up to heaven, by which angels ascended and descended. They took my soul from my body, and conveyed it to that blessed place where I beheld the Holy Trinity; and where I experienced such an overflow of joy, as eye hath not seen, nor ear heard. This is my dream.” “And I,” said the second, “beheld the devils with iron instruments, by which they[247] dragged my soul from the body, and plunging it into hell flames, most grievously tormented me; saying, ‘As long as God reigns in heaven this will be your portion.’” “Now then,” said the third, who had eaten the bread, “hear my dream. It appeared as if an angel came and addressed me in the following manner, ‘My friend, would you see what is become of your companions?’ I answered, ‘Yes, Lord. We have but one loaf between us, and I fear that they have run off with it.’ ‘You are mistaken,’ he rejoined, ‘it lies beside us: follow me.’ He immediately led me to the gate of heaven, and by his command I put in my head and saw you; and I thought that you were snatched up into heaven and sat upon a throne of gold, while rich wines and delicate meats stood around you. Then said the angel, ‘Your companion, you see, has an abundance of good things, and dwells in all pleasures. There he will remain for ever; for he has entered a celestial kingdom and cannot return. Come now where your other associate is placed.’ I followed, and he led me to hell-gates, where I beheld you in torment, as you just now said. Yet they furnished you, even there, with bread and wine in abundance. I expressed my sorrow at seeing you in misery, and you replied, ‘As long as God reigns in heaven here I must remain, for I have merited it. Do you then rise up quickly, and eat all the bread, since you will see neither me nor my companion again.’ I complied with your wishes; arose, and eat the bread.”

Application

My beloved, the Saracens and Jews; the rich and powerful; and finally, the perfect among men, are typified by the three companions. The bread, represents the kingdom of heaven.

OF VIGILANCE IN OUR CALLING

A thief went one night to the house of a rich man, and scaling the roof, peeped through a hole to examine if any part of the family were yet stirring. The master of the house, suspecting something, said secretly to his wife, “Ask me in a loud voice how I acquired the property I possess; and do[248] not desist until I bid you.” The woman complied, and began to vociferate, “My dear husband, pray tell me, since you never were a merchant, how you obtained all the wealth which you have now collected.” “My love,” answered her husband, “do not ask such foolish questions.” But she persisted in her enquiries; and at length, as if overcome by her urgency, he said, “Keep what I am going to tell you a secret, and your curiosity shall be gratified.”

“Oh, trust me.”

“Well, then, you must know that I was a thief, and obtained what I now enjoy by nightly depredations.” “It is strange,” said the wife, “that you were never taken.” “Why,” replied he, “my master, who was a skilful clerk, taught me a particular word, which, when I ascended the tops of people’s houses, I pronounced, and thus escaped detection.” “Tell me, I conjure you,” returned the lady, “what that powerful word was.” “Hear, then; but never mention it again, or we shall lose all our property.” “Be sure of that;” said the lady, “it shall never be repeated.”

“It was—is there no one within hearing?—the mighty word was ‘False.’”

The lady, apparently quite satisfied, fell asleep; and her husband feigned it. He snored lustily, and the thief above, who had heard their conversation with much pleasure, aided by the light of the moon, descended, repeating seven times the cabalistic sound. But being too much occupied with the charm to mind his footing, he stepped through the window into the house; and in the fall dislocated his leg and arm, and lay half dead upon the floor. The owner of the mansion, hearing the noise, and well knowing the reason, though he pretended ignorance, asked, “What was the matter?” “Oh!” groaned the suffering thief, “False words have deceived me.” In the morning he was taken before the judge, and afterwards suspended on a cross.

Application

My beloved, the thief is the devil; the house is the human heart. The man is a good prelate, and his wife is the church.

[249]

To sum up, then, it would appear that the humorous muse in the Middle Ages concerned herself chiefly with scattering and disseminating moral lessons, which, because of the superiority of the teachers to the taught, showed up an ignorance that was laughable.

The fables and maxims that had been passed from mouth to mouth were put into writing and translated into various tongues.

The Sanscrit or Hindoo stories were undoubtedly the oldest and from them were taken the Arabic and Persian tales. These drifted into Europe and took a proper place among the literatures of the world.

Coleridge says that humor took its rise in the Middle Ages, while a present day writer contradictingly asserts that nobody smiled from the second century until the fifteenth.

It is true, that as the advent of Christianity put a full stop to all progress in the arts and sciences so it impeded the advance of learning and delayed the development of humor.

And yet, though men may not have smiled during the dark ages, they now and then laughed, at a humor that was far from subtle, but which was the foundation of the world’s merriment.

The monks and ecclesiastics who formulated the moral precepts for the people found that the lessons were better conveyed by funny stories than by serious ones, and the preachers came to use the hammer of amusement to drive home their good advices.

With the readiness of the essayists to ascribe literary paternity, Chaucer is called the Father of English Poetry.

Coleridge observes that he is the best representative in English of the Norman-French Trouvères, but even more than by the French, Chaucer was influenced by the great Italians, Dante, Petrarch and Boccaccio, as well as by Ovid and Virgil.

Father of Modern Poetry more correctly describes Chaucer, and as he was the first notable English poet who was a layman, so also, was he the first connected with the court.

Though his time, the Fourteenth Century, is practically in the Middle Ages, Chaucer is distinctly modern in viewpoint and philosophy.

Born in London, he lived his life in the company of the men and women of the circles he knew and loved. Mankind was his study and his theme.

The average reader is hampered by the difficulties of the early English diction, and the modern mind is shocked by the freedom of speech then in vogue.

But we append such bits of Chaucer’s verse as space allows.

The story of the Cock and the Fox, in the Nun’s Priest’s Tale, is allowed by judges to be the most admirable fable (in the narration) that ever was written. The description of the birds, the delightful gravity with which they are invested with intellectual endowments, are conceived in the highest taste of true poetry and natural humour.

[254]

Chaucer was called the Morning Star of Song, and his immediate followers proved to be satellites of far less magnitude.

John Skelton, an early Poet Laureate, was of a buffoon type of humor, yet thus speaks of his own verse.

One, at least, of his whimsical poems is not without charm.

The Troubadours and Minstrels were followed by a type of entertainer known as the Fool or the Court Fool, who took the place of the satirist in the great households.

Soon various jests were collected, and attributed to these domestic fools, whose garb began to take the form of the cap and bells, accompanied by the jester’s bauble.

As printing became more widespread, the jestbooks multiplied, and many collections were published in England.

Skelton seems to have been quite as much Court Jester as Poet Laureate under Henry VII and Henry VIII, and a[263] volume of Merie Tayles of Skelton is one of the earliest of the Jest Books.

Yet, since this was published some forty years after Skelton’s death it is assumed that but few of the tales are really of the poet’s origination.

Likewise, Scogin’s Jests and the stories attributed to Tarlton and Peele are considered unauthentic as to authorship and merely the work of the hack writers of the period.

These Jestbooks as well as the C. Mery Talys, or Hundred Merry Tales, which, with its companion volume, Mery Tales and Quicke Answeres, was, we are told, used by Shakespeare, are now found in many reprints, and only a few bits of their witty or humorous lore may be given here.

As an example of the sharp satire of Skelton, the following shows how he regarded the prevalent practice of obtaining letters patent of monopoly from the crown, and also is a hit at the fondness for drinking among the Welsh.

HOW THE WELSHMAN DYD DESYRE SKELTON TO AYDE HIM IN HYS SUTE TO THE KYNGE FOR A PATENT TO SELL DRYNKE

Skelton, when he was in London went to the kynge’s courte, where there dyd come to him a Welshman saying, “Syr, it is so that many dooth come upp of my country to the kynge’s court, and some doth get of the kynge by a patent a castell, and some a parke, and some a forest, and some one fee and some another, and they doe lyve lyke honest men, and I should lyve as honestly as the best, if I might have a patent for good drynke, wherefore I dooe praye you to write a fewe woords for me in a lytle byll to geve the same to the kynge’s handes, and I will geve you well for your laboure. I am contented sayde Skelton. Syte downe, then, sayd the Welshman and write. What shall I wryte? sayde Skelton. The Welshman said wryte “dryncke.” Nowe sayde the Welshman wryte “more dryncke.” What nowe? said Skelton. Wryte now “A great deale of dryncke.” Nowe sayd the Welshman putte to all thys dryncke “A littell crome of breade, and a great déale of dryncke to it,” and reade once again. Skelton dyd reade[264] “Dryncke, more dryncke, and a great deale of dryncke and a lytle crome of breade and a great deale of dryncke to it.” Then the Welshman sayde Put oute the litle crome of breade, and sette in all dryncke and no breade. And if I myght have thys sygned of the kynge, sayde the Welshman, I care for no more as long as I lyve. Well, then, sayde Skelton, when you have thys sygned of the kynge then will I labour for a patent to have bread, that you wyth your dryncke and I with the bread may fare well, and seeke our livinge with bagge and staffe.

Here Begynneth Certayne Merye Tales of Skelton, Poet Lauriat
HOW SKELTON CAME LATE HOME TO OXFORD FROM ABINGTON

Skelton was an Englysheman borne as Skogyn was, and hee was educated & broughte up in Oxfoorde: and there was he made a poete lauriat. And on a tyme he had ben at Abbington to make mery, wher that he had eate salte meates, and hee did com late home to Oxforde, and he did lye in an ine named y^e Tabere whyche is now the Angell, and hee dyd drynke, & went to bed. About midnight he was so thyrstie or drye that hee was constrained to call to the tapster for drynke, & the tapster harde him not. Then hee cryed to hys oste & hys ostes, and to the ostler, for drinke; and no man wold here hym. Alacke, sayd Skelton, I shall peryshe for lacke of drynke! what reamedye? At the last he dyd crie out and sayd: Fyer, fyer, fyer! when Skelton hard euery man bustle hymselfe upward, & some of them were naked, & some were halfe asleepe and amased, and Skelton dyd crye: Fier, fier! styll, that everye man knewe not whether to resorte. Skelton did go to bed, and the oste and ostis, & the tapster with the ostler, dyd runne to Skeltons chamber with candles lyghted in theyr handes, saying: where, where, where is the fyer? Here, here, here, said Skelton, & poynted hys fynger to hys moouth, saying: fetch me some drynke to quenche the fyer and the heate and the drinesse in my mouthe: & so they dyd. Wherfore[265] it is good for everye man to helpe hys owne selfe in tyme of neede wythe some policie or crafte, so bee it there bee no deceit nor falshed used.

The Jests of Scogin
HOW JACKE BY SOPHISTRY WOULD MAKE OF TWO EGGS THREE

Scogin on a tyme had two egs to his breakfast, and Jack his scholler should rost them; and as they were rosting, Scogin went to the fire to warme him. And as the egs were rosting, Jacke said: sir, I can by sophistry prove that here be three egs. Let me se that, said Scogin. I shall tel you, sir, said Jack. Is not here one? Yes, said Scogin. And is not here two? Yes, said Scogin; of that I am sure. Then Jack did tell the first egge againe, saying: is not this the third? O, said Scogin, Jack, thou art a good sophister; wel, said Scogin, these two eggs shall serve me for my breakfast, and take thou the third for thy labour and for the herring that thou didst give mee the last day. So one good turne doth aske another, and to deceive him that goeth about to deceive is no deceit.

This is a very common story. It is, in a slightly varied form, No. 67 of A C Mery Tales, and Johnson has introduced it into The Pleasant Conceits of Old Hobson, the Merry Londoner, 1607.

HOW SCOGIN SOLD POWDER TO KILL FLEAS

Scogin divers times did lacke money, and could not tell what shift to make. At last, he thought to play the physician, and did fill a box full of the powder of a rotten post; and on a Sunday he went to a Parish Church, and told the wives that hee had a powder to kil up all the fleas in the country, and every wife bought a pennyworth; and Scogin went his way, ere Masse was done. The wives went home, and cast the powder into their beds and in their chambers, and the fleas continued still. On a time, Scogin came to the same Church[266] on a sunday, and when the wives had espied him, the one said to the other: this is he that deceived us with the powder to kill fleas; see, said the one to the other, this is the selfe-same person. When Masse was done, the wives gathered about Scogin, and said: you be an honest man to deceive us with the powder to kill fleas. Why, said Scogin, are not your fleas all dead? We have more now (said they) than ever we had. I marvell of that, said Scogin, I am sure you did not use the medicine as you should have done. They said: wee did cast it in our beds and in our chambers. I, said he, there be a sort of fooles that will buy a thing, and will not aske what they should doe with it. I tell you all, that you should have taken every flea by the neck, and then they would gape; and then you should have cast a little of the powder into every flea’s mouth, and so you should have killed them all. Then said the wives: we have not onely lost our money, but we are mocked for our labour.

From Mery Tales of the Mad Men of Gottam
THE SECOND TALE

There was a man of Gottam did ride to the market with two bushells of wheate, and because his horse should not beare heavy, he caried his corne upon his owne necke, & did ride upon his horse, because his horse should not cary to heavy a burthen. Judge you which was the wisest, his horse or himselfe.

THE THIRD TALE

On a tyme, the men of Gottam would have pinned in the Cuckoo, whereby shee should sing all the yeere, and in the midst of ye town they made a hedge round in compasse, and they had got a Cuckoo, and had put her into it, and said: Sing here all the yeere, and thou shalt lacke neither meate nor drinke. The Cuckoo, as soone as she perceived her selfe incompassed within the hedge, flew away. A vengeance on her! said they; we made not our hedge high enough.

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From Mother Bunches Merriments
HOW MADDE COOMES, WHEN HIS WIFE WAS DROWNED, SOUGHT HER AGAINST THE STREAME

Coomes of Stapforth, hearing that his wife was drowned comming from market, went with certayne of his friends to see if they could find her in the river. He, contrary to all the rest, sought his wife against the streame; which they perceyving, sayd he lookt the wrong way. And why so? (quoth he.) Because (quoth they) you should looke downe the streame, and not against it. Nay, zounds (quoth hee), I shall never find her that way: for shee did all things so contrary in her life time, that now she is dead, I am sure she will goe against the streame.

The Pleasant Conceits of Old Hobson
HOW MAISTER HOBSON SAID HE WAS NOT AT HOME

On a time Master Hobson upon some ocation came to Master Fleetewoods house to speake with him, being then new chosen the recorder of London, and asked one of his men if he were within, and he said he was not at home. But Maister Hobson, perceving that his maister bad him say so, and that he was within (not being willing at that time to be spoken withall), for that time desembling the matter, he went his way. Within a few dayes after, it was Maister Fleetwoods chaunse to come to Maister Hobson’s, and knocking at the dore, asked if he were within. Maister Hobson, hearing and knowing how he was denyed Maister Fleetwoods speach before time, spake himselfe aloud, and said hee was not at home. Then sayd Maister Fleetwood: what, Master Hobson, thinke you that I knowe not your voyce? Whereunto Maister Hobson answered and said: now, Maister Fleetewood, am I quit with you: for when I came to speake with you, I beleeved your man that said you were not at home, and now you will not beleeve mine owne selfe; and this was the mery conference betwixt these two merry gentlemen.

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FROM CERTAINE CONCEYTS & JEASTS; AS WELL TO LAUGH DOWNE OUR HARDER UNDIGESTED MORSELLS, AS BREAKE UP WITH MYRTH OUR BOOKE AND BANQUET. COLLECTED OUT OF SCOTUS POGGIUS, AND OTHERS

A certayne Poore-man met king Phillip, & besought him for something, because he was his kinsman. The king demanded frō whence descended. Who answered: from Adam. Then the K. commaunded an Almes to be given. Hee replyed, an Almes was not the gift of a king; to whome the king answered: if I should so reward all my kindred in that kinde, I should leave but little for myselfe.

A certaine conceyted Traveller being at a Banquet, where chanced a flye to fall into his cuppe, which hee (being to drinke) tooke out for himselfe, and afterwards put in againe for his fellow: being demanded his reason, answered, that for his owne part he affected them not, but it might be some other did.

A certaine player, seeing Thieves in his house in the night, thus laughingly sayde: I knowe not what you will finde here in the dark, when I can find nothing my selfe in the light.

WIT AND MIRTH. CHARGEABLY COLLECTED OUT OF TAVERNS, ORDINARIES, INNES, BOWLING-GREENES AND ALLYES, ALEHOUSES, TOBACCO-SHOPS, HIGHWAYES, AND WATER-PASSAGES. MADE UP, AND FASHIONED INTO CLINCHES, BULLS, QUIRKES, YERKES, QUIPS, AND JERKES. APOTHEGMATICALLY BUNDLED UP AND GARBLED AT THE REQUEST OF JOHN GARRET’S GHOST

Taylor the Water-Poet was one of the favourite authors of Robert Southey, who has given an account of his life and writings in his Uneducated Poets, and has quoted him largely in his Common-Place Book.

John Garret, at the request of whose ghost the Water-Poet professes to have formed the present collection, was a jester of the period, mentioned by Bishop Corbet and others. Heylin, author of the Cosmography, speaks of “Archy’s bobs, and[269] Garrets sawcy jests.” In his dedication of the Wit and Mirth, Taylor alludes to Garret as “that old honest mirrour of mirth deceased.”

Taylor, to forestall possible cavils at his plagiarisms from others, or adoption of good sayings already published and well-known, expressly says in the dedication: “Because I had many of them [the jests] by relation and heare-say, I am in doubt that some of them may be in print in some other Authors, which I doe assure you is more than I doe know.”

One said, that hee could never have his health in Cambridge, and that if hee had lived there till this time, hee thought in his conscience that hee had dyed seven yeeres agoe.

A Judge upon the Bench did aske an old man how old he was. My Lord, said he, I am eight and fourscore. And why not fourscore and eight? said the Judge. The other repli’d: because I was eight, before I was fourescore.

A rich man told his nephew that hee had read a booke called Lucius Apuleius of the Golden Asse, and that he found there how Apuleius, after he had beene an asse many yeeres, by eating of Roses he did recover his manly shape againe, and was no more an asse: the young man replied to his uncle: Sir, if I were worthy to advise you, I would give you counsell to eate a salled of Roses once a weeke yourselfe.

A country man being demanded how such a River was called, that ranne through their Country, hee answered that they never had need to call the River, for it alwayes came without calling.

One borrowed a cloake of a Gentleman, and met one that knew him, who said: I thinke I know that cloake. It may be so, said the other, I borrowed it of such a Gentleman. The other told him that it was too short. Yea, but, quoth he that had the cloake, I will have it long enough, before I bring it home againe.

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OF THE WOMAN THAT FOLLOWED HER FOURTH HUSBANDS BERE AND WEPT

A woman there was which had had iiii husbandys. It fourtuned also that this fourth husbande dyed and was brought to chyrche upon the bere; whom this woman folowed and made great mone, and waxed very sory, in so moche that her neyghbours thought she wolde swown and dye for sorow. Wherfore one of her gosseps cam to her, and spake to her in her ere, and bad her, for Godds sake, comfort her self and refrayne that lamentacion, or ellys it wold hurt her and peraventure put her in jeopardy of her life. To whom this woman answeryd and sayd: I wys, good gosyp, I have grete cause to morne, if ye knew all. For I have beryed iii husbandes besyde this man; but I was never in the case that I am now. For there was not one of them but when that I folowed the corse to chyrch, yet I was sure of an nother husband, before the corse cam out of my house, and now I am sure of no nother husband; and therfore ye may be sure I have great cause to be sad and hevy.

By thys tale ye may se that the olde proverbe ys trew, that it is as great pyte to se a woman wepe as a gose to go barefote.

A C. Mery Talys
OF THE MERCHAUNTE OF LONDON THAT DYD PUT NOBLES IN HIS MOUTHE IN HYS DETHE BEDDE

A ryche covetous marchant there was that dwellid in London, which ever gaderyd mony and could never fynd in hys hert to spend ought upon hym selfe nor upon no man els. Whiche fell sore syke, and as he laye on hys deth bed had his purs lyenge at his beddys hede, and [he] had suche a love to his money that he put his hande in his purs, and toke out thereof x or xii li. in nobles and put them in his mouth. And because his wyfe and other perceyved hym very syke and lyke to dye, they exortyd hym to be confessyd, and brought the curate unto hym. Which when they had caused him to say[271] Benedicite, the curate bad hym crye God mercy and shewe to hym his synnes. Than this seyck man began to sey: I crey God mercy I have offendyd in the vii dedly synnes and broken the x commaundementes; but because of the gold in his mouth he muffled so in his speche, that the curate could not well understande hym: wherfore the curat askyd hym, what he had in his mouthe that letted his spech. I wys, mayster parsone, quod the syke man, muffelynge, I have nothyng in my mouthe but a lyttle money; bycause I wot not whither I shal go, I thought I wold take some spendynge money with me: for I wot not what nede I shall have therof; and incontynent after that sayeng dyed, before he was confessyd or repentant that any man coulde perceyve, and so by lyklyhod went to the devyll.

By this tale ye may se, that they that all theyr lyves wyll never do charyte to theyr neghbours, that God in tyme of theyr dethe wyll not suffre them to have grace of repentaunce.

OF THE SCOLER OF OXFORDE THAT PROVED BY SOVESTRY II CHYKENS III

A ryche Frankelyn in the contrey havynge by his wyfe but one chylde and no mo, for the great affeccyon that he had to his sayd chylde founde hym at Oxforde to schole by the space of ii or iii yere. Thys yonge scoler, in a vacacyon tyme, for his disporte came home to his father. It fortuned afterwarde on a nyght, the father, the mother and the sayd yonge scoler

5 lines wanting.

I have studyed sovestry, and by that scyence I can prove, that these ii chekyns in the dysshe be thre chekyns. Mary, sayde the father, that wolde I fayne se. The scoller toke one of the chekyns in his hande and said: lo! here is one chekyn, and incontynente he toke bothe the chekyns in his hande jointely and sayd: here is ii chekyns; and one and ii maketh iii: ergo here is iii chekyns. Than the father toke one of the chekyns to him selfe, and gave another to his wyfe, and sayd thus: lo! I wyll have one of the chekyns to my parte, and thy mother shal have a nother, and because of thy good argumente[272] thou shalte have the thyrde to thy supper: for thou gettyst no more meate here at this tyme; whyche promyse the father kepte, and so the scoller wente without his supper.

By this tale men may se, that it is great foly to put one to scole to lerne any subtyll scyence, whiche hathe no naturall wytte.

OF THE COURTEAR THAT ETE THE HOT CUSTARDE

A certayne merchaunt and a courtear, being upon a time together at dyner having a hote custerd, the courtear being somwhat homely of maner toke parte of it and put it in hys mouth, whych was so hote that made him shed teares. The merchaunt, lookyng on him, thought that he had ben weeping, and asked hym why he wept. This curtear, not wyllynge it to be known that he had brent his mouth with the hote custerd, answered and said, sir: quod he, I had a brother whych dyd a certayn offence wherfore he was hanged; and, chauncing to think now uppon his deth, it maketh me to wepe. This merchaunt thought the courtear had said trew, and anon after the merchaunt was disposid to ete of the custerd, and put a sponefull of it in his mouth, and brent his mouth also, that his eyes watered. This courtear, that percevyng, spake to the merchaunt and seyd: sir, quod he, pray why do ye wepe now? The merchaunt perseyved how he had bene deceived and said: mary, quod he, I wepe, because thou wast not hangid, when that they brother was hangyd.

OF HYM THAT SOUGHT HIS WYFE AGAYNST THE STREME

A man there was whose wyfe, as she came over a bridg, fell in to the ryver and was drowned; wherfore he wente and sought for her upward against the stream, wherat his neighboures, that wente with hym, marvayled, and sayde he dyd nought, he shulde go seke her downeward with the streme. Naye, quod he, I am sure I shall never fynde her that waye: for she was so waywarde and so contrary to every thynge, while she lyvedde, that I knowe very well nowe she is deed, she wyll go a gaynste the stream.

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OF THE FOOLE THAT THOUGHT HYM SELFE DEED

There was a felowe dwellynge at Florence, called Nigniaca, whiche was nat verye wyse, nor all a foole, but merye and jocunde. A sorte of yonge men, for to laughe and pastyme, appoynted to gether to make hym beleve that he was sycke. So, whan they were agreed howe they wolde do, one of them mette hym in the mornynge, as he came out of his house, and bad him good morowe, and than asked him, if he were nat yl at ease? No, quod the foole, I ayle nothynge, I thanke God. By my faith, ye have a sickely pale colour, quod the other, and wente his waye.

Anone after, an other of them mette hym, and asked hym if he had nat an ague: for your face and colour (quod he) sheweth that ye be very sycke. Than the foole beganne a lyttel to doubt, whether he were sycke or no: for he halfe beleved that they sayd trouth. Whan he had gone a lytel farther, the thyrde man mette hym, and sayde: Jesu! manne, what do you out of your bed? ye loke as ye wolde nat lyve an houre to an ende. Nowe he doubted greatly, and thought verily in his mynde, that he had hadde some sharpe ague; wherfore he stode styll and wolde go no further; and, as he stode, the fourth man came and sayde: Jesu! man, what dost thou here, and arte so sycke? Gette the home to thy bedde: for I parceyve thou canste nat lyve an houre to an ende. Than the foles harte beganne to feynte, and [he] prayde this laste man that came to hym to helpe hym home. Yes, quod he, I wyll do as moche for the as for myn owne brother. So home he brought hym, and layde hym in his bed, and than he fared with hym selfe, as thoughe he wolde gyve up the gooste. Forth with came the other felowes, and saide he hadde well done to lay hym in his bedde. Anone after, came one whiche toke on hym to be a phisitian; whiche, touchynge the pulse, sayde the malady was so vehement, that he coulde nat lyve an houre. So they, standynge aboute the bedde, sayde one to an other: nowe he gothe his waye: for his speche and syght fayle him; by and by he wyll yelde up the goste. Therfore lette us close his eyes, and laye his hands a crosse, and[274] cary hym forth to be buryed. And than they sayde lamentynge one to an other: O! what a losse have we of this good felowe, our frende?

The foole laye stylle, as one [that] were deade; yea, and thought in his mynde, that he was deade in dede. So they layde hym on a bere, and caryed hym through the cite. And whan any body asked them what they caryed, they sayd the corps of Nigniaca to his grave. And ever as they went, people drew about them. Among the prece ther was a taverners boy, the whiche, whan he herde that it was the cors of Nigniaca, he said to them: O! what a vile bestly knave, and what a stronge thefe is deed! by the masse, he was well worthy to have ben hanged longe ago. Whan the fole harde those wordes, he put out his heed and sayd: I wys, horeson, if I were alyve nowe, as I am deed, I wolde prove the a false lyer to thy face. They, that caryed him, began to laugh so hartilye, that they sette downe the bere, and wente theyr waye.

By this tale ye maye se, what the perswasion of many doth. Certaynly he is very wyse, that is nat inclined to foly, if he be stered thereunto by a multitude. Yet sapience is founde in fewe persones: and they be lyghtly olde sobre men.

A few further bits are added, being witty sayings from Camden, Bacon and the Jest Books and manuscripts of the period.

Queen Elizabeth seeing a gentleman in her garden, who had not felt the effect of her favours so soon as he expected, looking out of her window, said to him, in Italian, “What does a man think of, Sir Edward, when he thinks of nothing?” After a little pause, he answered, “He thinks, Madam, of a woman’s promise.” The queen shrunk in her head, but was heard to say, Well, Sir Edward, I must not confute you: Anger makes dull men witty, but it keeps them poor.

A certain nobleman sold a gentleman a horse for a good round sum, which he took upon his lordship’s word, that he had no fault. About three weeks after, he met my lord; “Why,[275] your lordship told me,” says he, “that your horse had no fault, and he is blind of an eye.” Well, Sir, says my lord, it is no fault, it is only a misfortune.

A doctor of little learning, and less modesty, having talked much at table; one, much admiring him, asked another, when the doctor was gone, if he did not think him a great scholar? The answer was, He may be learned, for aught I know, or can discover; but I never heard learning make such a noise.

Sir Drue Drury called for tobacco-pipes at a tavern. The waiter brought some, and, in laying them down on the table, broke most of them. Sir Drue swore a great oath, that they were made of the same metal with the Commandments. “Why so?” says one. Because they are so soon broken.

A rich usurer was very lame of one of his legs, and yet nothing of hurt outwardly to be seen, whereupon he sent for a surgeon for his advice; who, being more honest than ordinary, told him, “It was in vain to meddle with it, for it was only old age that was the cause.” But why then (said the usurer) should not my other leg be as lame as this, seeing that the one is no older than the other?

A gentleman disputing about religion in Button’s Coffeehouse, some of the company said, “You talk of religion! I will hold you five guineas, you cannot repeat the Lord’s prayer; Sir Richard Steele here shall hold stakes.” The money being deposited, the gentleman began, I believe in God; and so went through his Creed. Well, said the other, I own I have lost, but I did not think that you could have done it.

A gentleman calling for small-beer at another gentleman’s table, finding it very hard, gave it the servant again without drinking. “What,” said the master of the house, “do you not like the beer?” It is not to be found fault with, answered the other, for one should never speak ill of the dead.

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Some gentlemen being at a tavern together, for want of better diversion, some proposed play; but, said another of the company, “I have fourteen good reasons against gaming.” “What are those,” said another? “In the first place,” answered he, I have no Money. Oh! said the first, if you had four hundred reasons, you need not name another.

Quin used to apply a story to the then ministry. A master of a brig calls out, Who is there? A boy answered, Will, Sir.—What are you doing?—Nothing, Sir.—Is Tom there?—Yes, says Tom.—What are you doing, Tom?—Helping Will, Sir.

A gentleman, passing a woman who was skinning eels, and observing the torture of the poor animals, asked her, how she could have the heart to put them to such pain. Ah, said she, poor creatures! they be used to it.

A silly priest at Trumpington being to read that place, Eli, Eli, Lamasabachthani, began to consider with himself, that it might be ridiculous and absurd for him to read it as it stood, because he was vicar of Trumpington, and not of Ely: and therefore he read it, Trumpington, Trumpington, Lamasabachthani.

It seems impossible, right here, not to digress, chronologically, for a moment.

Every one will have noticed that these old time jests are the foundations on which many modern stories are built, but the last one quoted above is so palpably the prototype of a current Boston story that it must be told.

A small child named Halliwell, spending the night with a neighbor, Mrs. Cabot, knelt at the knee of her hostess to say her evening prayer.

“Our Father who art in Heaven,” the little visitor began devoutly, “Cabot be thy name—”

“What? What do you mean?” asked the startled lady.

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“Oh,” said the child, “of course, at home, I say ‘Halliwell be thy name,’ but here, I thought it more polite to say Cabot.”

It is held by most writers on the subject that the great influx of humor into literature took place in the latter half of the sixteenth century.

This is partly because the progressing art of printing brought about the influx of many elements into literature at that time, and also because then appeared the work of three of the greatest of the world’s humorists.

Shakespeare in England, Rabelais in France and Cervantes in Spain, gave us their immortal works.

Earlier in the century Thomas More in his Utopia and Nicholas Udall in his Ralph Royster Doyster wrote in humorously satiric vein, but these works are difficult to quote from satisfactorily.

Having reached the period when Humor began to be produced in various countries independently of one another, it becomes necessary to modify our strict chronological arrangement and consider the nations and their humorists separately.

Before this, broadly speaking, literature should be considered as a whole, but as great names began to appear in certain widely separated localities, a national division must be made.

And so, continuing in England, we come to William Shakespeare.

With Shakespeare’s greatness as a poet and dramatist we are not here concerned, but there are some critics who dispute his preeminence as a humorist.

While Hazlitt declared that in his opinion Molière was as great or greater than Shakespeare as a comic genius; Doctor Johnson, on the other hand, held that Shakespeare’s comedies are better than his tragedies.

However, few are found to support Johnson’s opinion, and Hazlitt qualifies his by saying that as Shakespeare’s imagination and poetry were the master qualities of his mind, the ludicrous was forced to take second place.

Both these worthies, however, agree on the question of Falstaff’s greatness, and Hazlitt takes this attitude.

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“I would not be understood to say that there are not scenes or whole characters in Shakespeare equal in wit and drollery to anything upon record. Falstaff alone is an instance, which, if I would, I could not get over. He is the leviathan of all the creatures of the author’s comic genius, and tumbles about his unwieldy bulk in an ocean of wit and humour. But in general it will be found (if I am not mistaken), that even in the very best of these the spirit of humanity and the fancy of the poet greatly prevail over the mere wit and satire, and that we sympathize with his characters oftener than we laugh at them. His ridicule wants the sting of ill-nature. He had hardly such a thing as spleen in his composition. Falstaff himself is so great a joke, rather from his being so huge a mass of enjoyment than of absurdity.”

While with equal perceptive judgment “Falstaff,” says Dr. Johnson, “unimitated, unimitable Falstaff, how shall I describe thee? Thou compound of sense and vice; of sense which may be admired but not esteemed; of vice which may be despised, but hardly detested! Falstaff ... is a thief and a glutton, a coward and a boaster, always ready to cheat the weak and prey upon the poor; to terrify the timorous and insult the defenceless. At once obsequious and malignant, he satirizes in their absence those whom he lives by flattering.... Yet the man thus corrupt, thus despicable, makes himself necessary to the Prince that despises him, by the most pleasing of all qualities, perpetual gaiety, by an unfailing power of exciting laughter, which is the more freely indulged, as his wit is not of the splendid or ambitious kind, but consists in easy scapes and sallies of levity, which make sport, but raise no envy.”

One of the most difficult of all poets to quote from, we can only offer detached and fugitive fragments of Shakespeare’s plays; beginning with a bit quoted by Hazlitt and accompanied by his delightful observations thereon.

“Shakespeare takes up the meanest subjects with the same tenderness that we do an insect’s wing, and would not kill[279] a fly. To give a more particular instance of what I mean, I will take the inimitable and affecting, though most absurd and ludicrous dialogue, between Shallow and Silence, on the death of old Double.”

Shallow. Come on, come on, come on; give me your hand, sir; give me your hand, sir; an early stirrer, by the rood. And how doth my good cousin Silence?

Silence. Good morrow, good cousin Shallow.

Shallow. And how doth my cousin, your bedfellow? and your fairest daughter, and mine, my god-daughter Ellen?

Silence. Alas, a black ouzel, cousin Shallow.

Shallow. By yea and nay, sir; I dare say, my cousin William is become a good scholar: he is at Oxford still, is he not?

Silence. Indeed, sir, to my cost.

Shallow. He must then to the inns of court shortly. I was once of Clement’s inn; where, I think, they will talk of mad Shallow yet.

Silence. You were called lusty Shallow then, cousin.

Shallow. I was called anything, and I would have done anything indeed, and roundly too. There was I, and little John Doit of Staffordshire, and black George Bare, and Francis Pickbone, and Will Squele, a Cotswold man, you had not four such swinge-bucklers in all the inns of court again; and, I may say to you, we knew where the bonarobas were, and had the best of them all at commandment. Then was Jack Falstaff, now Sir John, a boy, and page to Thomas Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk.

Silence. This Sir John, cousin, that comes hither anon about soldiers?

Shallow. The same Sir John, the very same: I saw him break Schoggan’s head at the court-gate, when he was a crack, not thus high; and the very same day did I fight with one Sampson Stockfish, a fruiterer, behind Gray’s-inn. O, the mad days that I have spent! and to see how many of mine old acquaintances are dead!

Silence. We shall all follow, cousin.

Shallow. Certain, ’tis certain, very sure, very sure: death[280] (as the Psalmist saith) is certain to all, all shall die.—How a good yoke of bullocks at Stamford fair?

Silence. Truly cousin, I was not there.

Shallow. Death is certain. Is old Double of your town living yet?

Silence. Dead, sir.

Shallow. Dead! see, see! he drew a good bow; and dead? he shot a fine shoot. John of Gaunt loved him well, and betted much money on his head. Dead! he would have clapped i’ th’ clout at twelve score; and carried you a forehand shaft a fourteen and a half, that it would have done a man’s heart good to see.—How a score of ewes now?

Silence. Thereafter as they be: a score of good ewes may be worth ten pounds.

Shallow. And is old Double dead?

There is not anything more characteristic than this in all Shakespeare. A finer sermon on mortality was never preached. We see the frail condition of human life, and the weakness of the human understanding in Shallow’s reflections on it; who, while the past is sliding from beneath his feet, still clings to the present. The meanest circumstances are shown through an atmosphere of abstraction that dignifies them: their very insignificance makes them more affecting, for they instantly put a check on our aspiring thoughts, and remind us that, seen through that dim perspective, the difference between the great and little, the wise and foolish, is not much. ‘One touch of nature makes the whole world kin’: and old Double, though his exploits had been greater, could but have had his day. There is a pathetic naïveté mixed up with Shallow’s commonplace reflections and impertinent digressions. The reader laughs (as well he may) in reading the passage, but he lays down the book to think. The wit, however diverting, is social and humane. But this is not the distinguishing characteristic of wit, which is generally provoked by folly, and spends its venom upon vice.

The fault, then, of Shakespeare’s comic Muse is, in my opinion, that it is too good-natured and magnanimous. It[281] mounts above its quarry. It is ‘apprehensive, quick, forgetive, full of nimble, fiery, and delectable shapes’: but it does not take the highest pleasure in making human nature look as mean, as ridiculous, and contemptible as possible. It is in this respect, chiefly, that it differs from the comedy of a later, and (what is called) a more refined period.”

FROM HENRY IV, PART I

Enter Henry Prince of Wales and Sir John Falstaff.

Falstaff. Now, Hal, what time of day is it, lad?

Prince Henry. Thou art so fat-witted with drinking of old sack, and unbuttoning thee after supper, and sleeping upon benches after noon, that thou hast forgotten to demand that truly which thou wouldst truly know. What a devil hast thou to do with the time of the day? Unless hours were cups of sack, and minutes capons, and clocks the tongues of bawds, and dials the signs of leaping-houses, and the blessed sun himself a fair hot wench in flame-colored taffata, I see no reason why thou should’st be so superfluous to demand the time of the day.

Falstaff. Indeed, you come near me now, Hal; for we that take purses, go by the moon and seven stars; and not by Phœbus—he, “that wand’ring knight so fair.” And, I pray thee, sweet wag, when thou art king, as God save thy grace (majesty I should say; for grace thou wilt have none)—

Prince Henry. What! none?

Falstaff. No, by my troth; not so much as will serve to be prologue to an egg and butter.

Prince Henry. Well, how then? come, roundly, roundly.

Falstaff. Marry, then, sweet wag, when thou art king, let not us that are squires of the night’s body, be called thieves of the day’s beauty; let us be—Diana’s foresters, gentlemen of the shade, minions of the moon: and let men say, we be men of good government; being governed, as the sea is, by our noble and chaste mistress the moon, under whose countenance we—steal.

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Prince Henry. Thou say’st well, and it holds well, too; for the fortune of us, that are the moon’s men, doth ebb and flow like the sea; being governed as the sea is, by the moon. As, for proof, now, a purse of gold most resolutely snatched on Monday night, and most dissolutely spent on Tuesday morning; got with swearing—lay by; and spent with crying—bring in; now, in as low an ebb as the foot of the ladder; and, by and by, in as high a flow as the ridge of the gallows.

Falstaff. By the Lord, thou say’st true, lad. And is not my hostess of the tavern a most sweet wench?

Prince Henry. As the honey of Hybla, my old lad of the castle. And is not a buff jerkin a most sweet robe of durance?

Falstaff. How now, how now, mad wag? what, in thy quips and thy quiddities? what a plague have I to do with a buff jerkin?

Prince Henry. Why, what a pox have I to do with my hostess of the tavern?

Falstaff. Well, thou hast called her to a reckoning many a time and oft.

Prince Henry. Did I ever call for thee to pay thy part?

Falstaff. No, I’ll give thee thy due, thou hast paid all there.

Prince Henry. Yea, and elsewhere, so far as my coin would stretch; and where it would not I have used my credit.

Falstaff. Yea, and so used it, that, were it not here apparent that thou art heir apparent,—But, I pr’ythee, sweet wag, shall there be gallows standing in England when thou art king? and resolution thus fobbed as it is, with the rusty curb of old father antic the law? Do not thou, when thou art king, hang a thief.

Prince Henry. No; thou shalt.

Falstaff. Shall I? Oh, rare! By the Lord, I’ll be a brave judge.

Prince Henry. Thou judgest false already; I mean thou shalt have the hanging of the thieves, and so become a rare hangman.

Falstaff. Well, Hal, well; and in some sort it jumps with my humor, as well as waiting in the court, I can tell you.

Prince Henry. For obtaining of suits?

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Falstaff. Yea, for obtaining of suits; whereof the hangman hath no lean wardrobe. ’Sblood, I am as melancholy as a gib-cat or a lugged bear.

Prince Henry. Or an old lion; or a lover’s lute.

Falstaff. Yea, or the drone of a Lincolnshire bagpipe.

Prince Henry. What say’st thou to a hare, or the melancholy of Moor-ditch.

Falstaff. Thou hast the most unsavory similes; and art, indeed, the most comparative, rascalliest,—sweet young prince,—But Hal, I pr’ythee trouble me no more with vanity. I would to God thou and I knew where a commodity of good names were to be bought: an old lord of the council rated me the other day in the street about you, sir; but I marked him not; and yet he talked very wisely; but I regarded him not: and yet he talked wisely, and in the street too.

Prince Henry. Thou didst well; for wisdom cries out in the streets and no man regards it.

Falstaff. Oh, thou hast damnable iteration; and art, indeed, able to corrupt a saint. Thou hast done much harm upon me, Hal,—God forgive thee for it! Before I knew thee, Hal, I knew nothing; and now am I, if a man should speak truly, little better than one of the wicked. I must give over this life, and I will give it over; by the Lord, and I do not, I am a villain; I’ll be damned for never a king’s son in Christendom.

Prince Henry. Where shall we take a purse tomorrow, Jack?

Falstaff. Zounds, where thou wilt, lad; I’ll make one; an I do not, call me villain, and baffle me.

Prince Henry. I see a good amendment of life in thee; from praying to purse-taking.

FROM MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING

Conrade, Borachio, Dogberry, Verges, Sexton, and the Watch.

Dogberry. Is our whole dissembly appeared?

Verges. Oh, a stool and a cushion for the sexton!

Sexton. Which be the malefactors?

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Dogberry. Marry, that am I and my partner.

Verges. Nay, that’s certain. We have the exhibition to examine.

Sexton. But which are the offenders that are to be examined? Let them come before master constable.

Dogberry. Yea, marry, let them come before me. What is your name, friend?

Borachio. Borachio.

Dogberry. Pray, write down—Borachio.—Yours, sirrah?

Conrade. I am a gentleman, sir, and my name is Conrade.

Dogberry. Write down—master gentleman Conrade.—Masters, do you serve God?

Conrade, Borachio. Yea, sir, we hope.

Dogberry. Write down—that they hope they serve God. And write God first; for God defend but God should go before such villains!—Masters, it is proved already that you are little better than false knaves; and it will go near to be thought so shortly. How answer you for yourselves?

Conrade. Marry, sir, we are none.

Dogberry. A marvellous witty fellow, I assure you; but I will go about with him.—Come you hither, sirrah; a word in your ear, sir; I say to you, it is thought you are false knaves.

Borachio. Sir, I say to you, we are none.

Dogberry. Well, stand aside.—’Fore God, they are both in a tale. Have you writ down, that they are none?

Sexton. Master constable, you go not the way to examine: you must call forth the watch that are their accusers.

Dogberry. Yea, marry, that’s the eftest way.—Let the watch come forth.—Masters, I charge you, in the prince’s name, accuse these men.

1st Watch. This man said, sir, that Don John, the prince’s brother, was a villain.

Dogberry. Write down—Prince John a villain. Why, this is flat perjury, to call a prince’s brother villain.

Borachio. Master constable—

Dogberry. Pray thee, fellow, peace: I do not like thy look, I promise thee.

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Sexton. What heard you him say else?

2d Watch. Marry, that he had received a thousand ducats of Don John, for accusing the Lady Hero wrongfully.

Dogberry. Flat burglary as ever was committed!

Verges. Yea, by the mass, that it is.

Sexton. What else, fellow?

1st Watch. And that Count Claudio did mean, upon his words, to disgrace Hero before the whole assembly, and not marry her.

Dogberry. O villain! thou wilt be condemned into everlasting redemption for this.

Sexton. What else?

2d Watch. This is all.

Sexton. And this is more, masters, than you can deny. Prince John is this morning secretly stolen away; Hero was in this manner accused, in this very manner refused, and, upon the grief of this, suddenly died.—Master constable, let these men be bound, and brought to Leonato’s: I will go before, and show him their examination.

(Exit.)

Dogberry. Come, let them be opinioned.

Verges. Let them be in the hands—

Conrade. Off, coxcomb!

Dogberry. God’s my life! Where’s the sexton? Let him write down—the prince’s officer, coxcomb.—Come, bind them.—Thou naughty varlet!

Conrade. Away! You are an ass! you are an ass!

Dogberry. Dost thou not suspect my place? Dost thou not suspect my years?—Oh, that he were here to write me down an ass!—But, masters, remember that I am an ass; though it be not written down, yet forget not than I am an ass.—No, thou villain, thou art full of piety, as shall be proved upon thee by good witness. I am a wise fellow; and, which is more, an officer; and, which is more, a householder; and, which is more, as pretty a piece of flesh as any in Messina; and one that knows the law, go to; and a rich fellow enough, go to; and a fellow that hath had losses; and one that hath two gowns, and everything handsome about him.—Bring him away.—Oh, that I had been writ down an ass!

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FROM THE MERCHANT OF VENICE

Launcelot. Certainly, my conscience will serve me to run this Jew my master. The fiend is at mine elbow, and tempts me, saying to me, “Gobbo, Launcelot Gobbo, good Launcelot,” or “good Gobbo,” or “good Launcelot Gobbo, use your legs, take the start, run away.” My conscience says, “No; take heed, honest Launcelot; take heed, honest Gobbo”; or, as aforesaid, “honest Launcelot Gobbo; do not run; scorn running with thy heels.” Well, the most courageous fiend bids me pack: “Via!” says the fiend; “away!” says the fiend; “for the heavens, rouse up a brave mind,” says the fiend, “and run.” Well, my conscience, hanging about the neck of my heart, says very wisely to me, “My honest friend Launcelot, being an honest man’s son,” or rather an honest woman’s son; for, indeed, my father did something smack—something grow to—he had a kind of taste—well, my conscience says, “Launcelot, budge not.” “Budge,” says the fiend. “Budge not,” says my conscience. “Conscience,” say I, “you counsel well.” “Fiend,” say I, “you counsel well.” To be ruled by my conscience, I should stay with the Jew my master, who—God bless the mark!—is a kind of devil; and to run away from the Jew, I should be ruled by the fiend, who, saving your reverence, is the devil himself. Certainly, the Jew is the very devil incarnation; and, in my conscience, my conscience is a kind of hard conscience to offer to counsel me to stay with the Jew. The fiend gives the more friendly counsel: I will run, fiend; my heels are at your commandment; I will run.

FROM HAMLET

Polonius and Hamlet, reading.

Polonius. How does my good Lord Hamlet?

Hamlet. Well, God-’a’-mercy.

Polonius. Do you know me, my lord?

Hamlet. Excellent well; you are a fishmonger

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Polonius. Not I, my lord.

Hamlet. Then I would you were so honest a man.

Polonius. Honest, my lord?

Hamlet. Ay, sir: to be honest, as this world goes, is to be one man picked out of ten thousand.

Polonius. That’s very true, my lord.

Hamlet. For if the sun breed maggots in a dead dog, being a good kissing carrion—Have you a daughter?

Polonius. I have, my lord.

Hamlet. Let her not walk i’ the sun: conception is a blessing; but not as your daughter may conceive. Friend, look to’t.

Polonius. How say you by that? (Aside.) Still harping on my daughter. Yet he knew me not at first; he said I was a fishmonger. He is far gone, far gone: and truly in my youth I suffered much extremity for love; very near this. I’ll speak to him again.—What do you read, my lord?

Hamlet. Words, words, words.

Polonius. What is the matter, my lord?

Hamlet. Between who?

Polonius. I mean the matter that you read, my lord.

Hamlet. Slanders, sir. For the satirical slave says here, that old men have gray beards; that their faces are wrinkled; their eyes purging thick amber or plum-tree gum; and that they have a plentiful lack of wit, together with weak hams. All of which, sir, though I most powerfully and potently believe, yet I hold it not honesty to have it thus set down; for you yourself, sir, shall grow old as I am: if, like a crab, you could go backward.

Polonius. (Aside.) Though this be madness, yet there is method in’t.—Will you walk out o’ the air, my lord?

Hamlet. Into my grave?

Polonius. Indeed, that is out o’ the air. (Aside.) How pregnant sometimes his replies are! A happiness that often madness hits on, which reason and sanity could not so prosperously be delivered of. I will leave him, and suddenly contrive the means of meeting between him and my daughter.—My honourable lord, I will most humbly take my leave of you.

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Hamlet. You cannot, sir, take from me anything that I will more willingly part withal: except my life, except my life, except my life.

Polonius. Fare you well, my lord.

Hamlet. These tedious old fools!

FROM AS YOU LIKE IT

Rosalind and Orlando

Rosalind. (Aside.) I will speak to him like a saucy lackey, and under that habit play the knave with him.—Do you hear, forester?

Orlando. Very well: what would you?

Rosalind. I pray you, what is’t o’clock?

Orlando. You should ask me, what time o’ day: there’s no clock in the forest.

Rosalind. Then there is no true lover in the forest; else sighing every minute, and groaning every hour, would detect the lazy foot of Time as well as a clock.

Orlando. And why not the swift foot of Time? Had not that been as proper?

Rosalind. By no means, sir. Time travels in divers paces with divers persons. I’ll tell you, who Time ambles withal, who Time trots withal, who Time gallops withal, and who he stands still withal.

Orlando. I prithee, who doth he trot withal?

Rosalind. Marry, he trots hard with a young maid, between the contract of her marriage and the day it is solemnised: if the interim be but a se’nnight, Time’s pace is so hard that it seems the length of seven years.

Orlando. Who ambles Time withal?

Rosalind. With a priest that lacks Latin, and a rich man that hath not the gout; for the one sleeps easily, because he cannot study; and the other lives merrily, because he feels no pain: the one lacking the burden of lean and wasteful learning; the other knowing no burden of heavy, tedious penury. These Time ambles withal.

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Orlando. Who doth he gallop withal?

Rosalind. With a thief to the gallows; for though he go as softly as foot can fall, he thinks himself too soon there.

Orlando. Who stays it still withal?

Rosalind. With lawyers in the vacation; for they sleep between term and term, and then they perceive not how Time moves.

Orlando. Where dwell you, pretty youth?

Rosalind. Here in the skirts of the forest, like fringe upon a petticoat.

Orlando. Are you native of this place?

Rosalind. As the cony, that you see dwell where she is kindled.

Orlando. Your accent is something finer than you could purchase in so removed a dwelling.

Rosalind. I have been told of so many: but, indeed, an old religious uncle of mine taught me to speak, who was in his youth an inland man; one that knew courtship too well, for there he fell in love. I have heard him read many lectures against it; and I thank God I am not a woman, to be touched with so many giddy offences as he hath generally taxed their whole sex withal.

Orlando. Can you remember any of the principal evils that he laid to the charge of women?

Rosalind. There were none principal: they were all like one another, as half-pence are; every one fault seeming monstrous, till its fellow fault came to match it.

Orlando. I prithee, recount some of them.

Rosalind. No; I will not cast away my physic but on those that are sick. There is a man haunts the forest, that abuses our young plants with carving Rosalind on their barks; hangs odes upon hawthorns, and elegies on brambles; all, forsooth, deifying the name of Rosalind: if I could meet that fancy-monger I would give him some good counsel, for he seems to have the quotidian of love upon him.

Orlando. I am he that is so love-shaked. I pray you, tell me your remedy.

Rosalind. There is none of my uncle’s marks upon you: he[290] taught me how to know a man in love; in which cage of rushes, I am sure, you are not prisoner.

Orlando. What were his marks?

Rosalind. A lean cheek, which you have not; a blue eye, and sunken, which you have not; an unquestionable spirit, which you have not; a beard neglected, which you have not (but I pardon you for that, for, simply, your having in beard is a younger brother’s revenue. Then, your hose shall be ungartered, your bonnet unbanded, your sleeve unbuttoned, your shoe untied, and everything about you demonstrating a careless desolation. But you are no such man; you are rather point-device in your accoutrements, as loving yourself, than seeming the lover of any other.

Orlando. Fair youth, I would I could make thee believe I love.

Rosalind. Me believe it? You may as soon make her that you love believe it; which, I warrant, she is apter to do than to confess she does. That is one of the points in the which women still give the lie to their consciences. But, in good sooth, are you he that hangs the verses on the trees, wherein Rosalind is so admired?

Orlando. I swear to thee, youth, by the white hand of Rosalind, I am that he, that unfortunate he.

Rosalind. But are you so much in love as your rhymes speak?

Orlando. Neither rhyme nor reason can express how much.

Rosalind. Love is merely a madness; and, I tell you, deserves as well a dark house and a whip as madmen do. And the reason why they are not so punished and cured is, that the lunacy is so ordinary that the whippers are in love too. Yet I profess curing it by counsel.

Orlando. Did you ever cure any so?

Rosalind. Yes, one; and in this manner. He was to imagine me his love, his mistress, and I set him every day to woo me: at which time would I, being but a moonish youth, grieve, be effeminate, changeable, longing, and liking; proud, fantastical, apish, shallow, inconstant, full of tears, full of smiles; for every passion something, and for no passion truly anything,[291] as boys and women are, for the most part, cattle of this colour: would now like him, now loathe him; then entertain him, then forswear him; now weep for him, then spit at him; that I drave my suitor from his mad humour of love, to a living humour of madness, which was, to forswear the full stream of the world, and to live in a nook merely monastic. And thus I cured him; and in this way will I take upon me to wash your liver as clean as a sound sheep’s heart, that there shall not be one spot of love in’t.

Orlando. I would not be cured, youth.

Rosalind. I would cure you, if you would but call me Rosalind, and come every day to my cote, and woo me.

Orlando. Now, by the faith of my love, I will. Tell me where it is.

Rosalind. Go with me to it, and I’ll show it you; and, by the way, you shall tell me where in the forest you live. Will you go?

Orlando. With all my heart, good youth.

Francis, Lord Bacon, gave us much wise writing, and, incidentally much of the wit of wisdom, but we look to him in vain for laughable humor.

A few epigrammatic selections from his essays are given.

All colours will agree in the dark.

This is certain, that a man that studieth revenge keepeth his own wounds green, which otherwise would heal and do well.

Whosoever esteemeth too much of an amourous affection, quitteth both riches and wisdom.

Money is like muck: not good except it be spread.

Princes are like to heavenly bodies, which cause good or evil times, and which have much veneration, and no rest.

Old men object too much, consult too long, adventure too little, repent too soon.

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To take advice of some few friends is ever honourable; for lookers-on many times see more than gamesters.

Suspicions that the mind of itself gathers are but buzzes; but suspicions that are artificially nourished and put into men’s heads by the tales and whisperings of others, have stings.

Reading maketh a full man, conference a ready man, and writing an exact man. And therefore, if man write little, he had need have a great memory; if he confer little, he had need have a present wit; and if he read little, he had need have much cunning to seem to know that which he doth not.

Sir John Harington, chiefly remembered for his translation of Orlando Furioso, wrote clever humorous verse.

Ben Jonson, next to Shakespeare as a dramatist, is a master of satiric wit. His strong, somewhat psychological comedies are difficult to quote from except in long extracts.

FROM “EVERY MAN IN HIS HUMOR”

Bobadil. I will tell you, sir, by the way of private, and under seal, I am a gentleman, and live here obscure, and to[294] myself; but were I known to her majesty and the lords (observe me), I would undertake, upon this poor head and life, for the public benefit of the state, not only to spare the entire lives of her subjects in general, but to save the one-half, nay, three parts of her yearly charge in holding war, and against what enemy soever. And how would I do it, think you?

E. Knowell. Nay, I know not, nor can I conceive.

Bobadil. Why, thus, sir. I would select nineteen more, to myself, throughout the land; gentlemen they should be of good spirit, strong and able constitution; I would choose them by an instinct, a character that I have: and I would teach these nineteen the special rules—as your punto, your reverso, your stoccata, your imbroccato, your passado, your montanto—till they could all play very near, or altogether as well as myself. This done, say the enemy were forty thousand strong, we twenty would come into the field the tenth of March, or thereabouts; and we would challenge twenty of the enemy; they could not in their honor refuse us; well, we would kill them: challenge twenty more, kill them; twenty more, kill them; twenty more, kill them too; and thus would we kill every man his twenty a day, that’s twenty score; twenty score, that’s two hundred; two hundred a day, five days a thousand; forty thousand; forty times five, five times forty, two hundred days kills them all up by computation. And this will I venture my poor gentleman-like carcass to perform, provided there be no treason practised upon us, by fair and discreet manhood; that is, civilly by the sword.

FROM “VOLPONE”

Volpone. Lady, I kiss your bounty, and for this timely grace you have done your poor Scoto, of Mantua, I will return you, over and above my oil, a secret of that high and inestimable nature which shall make you for ever enamoured on that minute, wherein your eye first descended on so mean, yet not altogether to be despised, an object. Here is a powder concealed in this paper, of which, if I should speak to the worth, nine thousand volumes were but as one page, that[295] page as a line, that line as a word; so short is this pilgrimage of man, which some call life, to the expression of it. Would I reflect on the price? Why, the whole world is but as an empire, that empire as a province, that province as a bank, that bank as a private purse to the purchase of it. I will only tell you it is the powder that made Venus a goddess, given her by Apollo, that kept her perpetually young, cleared her wrinkles, firmed her gums, filled her skin, coloured her hair, from her derived to Helen, and at the sack of Troy unfortunately lost: till now, in this our age, it was as happily recovered, by a studious antiquary, out of some ruins of Asia, who sent a moiety of it to the Court of France, but much sophisticated, wherewith the ladies there now colour their hair. The rest, at this present, remains with me, extracted to a quintessence; so that, wherever it but touches in youth it perpetually preserves, in age restores the complexion; seats your teeth, did they dance like virginal jacks, firm as a wall; makes them white as ivory, that were black as coal.

A VINTNER,

To whom Jonson was in debt, told him that he would excuse the payment, if he could give an immediate answer to the following questions: What God is best pleased with; what the devil is best pleased with: what the world is best pleased with; and what he was best pleased with. Jonson, without hesitation, replied thus:

It was the fashion to flatter in those days, and King James had abundance of such incense offered to him, though according to Ben Jonson it was impossible to flatter so perfect a monarch. The dramatist addressed the following epigram To the Ghost of Martial (Ep. 36):

[296]

A thought which has been humorously expanded by Ben Jonson (Ep. 42):

John Donne, one of the greatest preachers of the English church, was also a noted wit, poet and courtier. Like his contemporaries his wit was satirical, but in more playful vein than most.

Thomas Dekker was a prolific dramatic author of the period, and his satirical characterizations are among the wittiest of his day.

OBEDIENT HUSBANDS

There is a humour incident to a woman, which is, when a young man hath turmoiled himself so long that with much ado he hath gotten into marriage, and hath perhaps met with a wife according to his own desire, and perchance such an one that it had been better for him had he lighted on another, yet he likes her so well that he would not have missed her for any gold; for, in his opinion, there is no woman like unto her. He hath a great delight to hear her speak, is proud of his match, and is, peradventure, withal of so sheepish a nature, that he has purposed to govern himself wholly by her counsel and direction, so that if any one speak to him of a bargain, or whatsoever other business, he tells them that he will have his wife’s opinion on it, and if she be content, he will go through with it; if not, then will he give it over.

Thus he is as tame and pliable as a jackanapes to his keeper. If the Prince set forth an army, and she be unwilling that he[299] should go, who (you may think) will ask her leave, then must he stay at home, fight who will for the country. But if she be desirous at any time to have his room (which many times she likes better than his company), she wants no journey to employ him in, and he is as ready as a page to undertake them. If she chide, he answers not a word; generally, whatsoever she does, or howsoever, he thinks it well done.

Judge, now, in what a case this silly calf is! Is not he, think you, finely dressed, that is in such subjection? The honestest woman and most modest of that sex, if she wear the breeches, is so out of reason in taunting and controlling her husband—for this is their common fault—and be she never so wise, yet a woman, scarce able to govern herself, much less her husband and all his affairs; for, were it not so, God would have made her the head. Which, since it is otherwise, what can be more preposterous than that the head should be governed by the foot?

If, then, a wise and honest woman’s superiority be unseemly, and breed great inconvenience, how is he dressed, think you, if he light on a fond, wanton, and malicious dame? Then doubtless he is soundly sped. She will keep a sweetheart under his nose, yet is he so blind that he can perceive nothing. But, for more security, she will many times send him packing beyond sea, about some odd errand that she will buzz in his ears, and he will perform it at her pleasure, though she send him forth at midnight, in hail, rain, and snow, for he must be a man for all weathers.

Their children, if they have any, must be brought up, apparelled, taught, and fed according to her pleasure, and one point of their learning is always to make no account of their father. Finally, she orders all things as she thinks best herself, making no more account of him, especially if he be in years, than men do of an old horse that is put to labour. Thus is he mewed up, plunged in a sea of cares; and yet he, kind fool, deems himself most happy in his happiness, wherein he must now perforce remain while life doth last, and pity it were he should want it, since he likes it so well.—The Bachelor’s Banquet.

[300]

Horace is thus amusingly introduced as in the act of concocting an ode:

John Fletcher is believed to have composed the greater part of the plays by Beaumont and Fletcher.

The Laughing Song is attributed to Fletcher alone.

Bishop Corbet, more sociable and vivacious than many of his calling wrote rollicking verses as well as wise and serious sermons.

[302]

Perhaps this is the first known example of sheer nonsense verse.

It may be that utter nonsense was more in vogue at this time than can be definitely asserted, for such productions would, naturally, not be preserved as were the more important matters.

This anonymous bit of nonsense is said to have been written in 1617, and may be from the pen of the same worthy Bishop.

A charming lyric by Bishop Corbet is:

Bishop Corbet’s epigram on Beaumont’s early death is well known:

Sir Walter Raleigh, the graceful and brilliant courtier, is thought by most students of the subject to have written The Lie. Though it has been attributed to various authors the weight of evidence is in favor of Raleigh.

The following well-known and thoroughly characteristic verses originally appeared in Gammer Gurton’s Needle, an old English comedy, which was long supposed to be the earliest written in the language, but which now ranks as the second in point of age. It was written by John Still, afterwards Bishop of Bath and Wells.

Sir John Davies, poet and lawyer, wrote many acrostics to Queen Elizabeth, and other witty verses.

John Marston, both dramatist and divine, gives us this bit of humorous satire—

Following the example of Jest Books and collections of Merry Tales, came the Anthologies.

The most important of these was the Miscellany, which went through eight editions in thirty years, and is said to be the book of songs and sonnets that Master Slender missed so much.

This book was first published in 1557 and was followed by many less worthy collections.

In 1576 appeared The Paradise of Dainty Devices which also ran through many editions.

As a rule these collections were uninteresting and composed largely of dull and prosy numbers. Their chief charm lay in their titles, which were such as A Gorgeous Gallery of Gallant Inventions, A Handful of Pleasant Delights, and A Bouquet of Dainty Conceits.

Yet it must be remembered that this latter half of the Sixteenth Century saw the splendid flowering of lyric poetry, and in the last year appeared a famous book called England’s Helicon or The Muses’ Harmony, which was a sort of Golden Treasury of the Elizabethan age.

This was supplemented two years later by the Poetical Rhapsody, edited by Francis Davison, and from then on, the collected songs and verses of England showed poetry from the masters.

Also there were produced at this period many translations, both of the classics and of more modern works of various countries; though no important humorous work was translated until the next century, when Urquhart gave Rabelais to the English people.

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FRENCH WIT AND HUMOR

Rutebœuf, the Trouvère, of the Thirteenth Century, if not the principal author of the Fabliaux was the first to put them into rhyme.

Most of his tales are too long and rambling to quote, and we content ourselves with one.

In the Fourteenth century, Eustache Deschampes wrote more than a thousand ballades, virelais and other forms of light verse.

One of his ballades, here given in translation, is of a distinctly modern type of wit.

Olivier Basselin who flourished in the Fifteenth century, and who was a fuller by trade, is another one of the literary “Fathers,” his title being, “Le Pere Joyeux du Vaudeville.” Born at Vire, surrounded by valleys, it is held by some, while contradicted by others, that the modern term vaudeville is a corruption of Vaux de Vire.

His songs are mostly convivial and his humor broad and rollicking.

Francois Villon, born 1431, though not paternally designated, is called, and rightly, the Prince of Ballade Makers.

Two translations are here given of one of his most popular poems, and another witty Ballade is added.

From Clement Marot, a delightful French poet of the Sixteenth century, we give the following two extracts translated by Leigh Hunt.

About this time appeared the Heptameron, a series of tales of similar form and character to the Decameron of Boccaccio.[322] This work was attributed to Margaret of Navarre, and doubtless was written by the queen with the assistance of some of her people. The tales are too long to quote.

Jehan du Pontalais wrote a clever satirical skit on the love of money.

[323]

Francois Rabelais was born in or about 1495, in Chinon, Touraine. Successively, monk, physician and scientist, he is best known as a master of humor and grotesque invention. His romance of Gargantua and Pantagruel is an extravagant, satirical criticism of the follies and vices of the period, burlesquing the current abuses of government and religion.

Unable to escape a paternal label,

An able writer in the Foreign Quarterly Review speaks of Rabelais as “an author without parallel in the history of literature: an author who is the literary parent of many authors, since without him we should probably have never known a Swift, a Sterne, a Jean Paul, or, in fact, any of the irregular humorists: an author who did not appear as a steadily shining light to the human race, but as a wild, startling meteor, predicting the independence of thought, and the downfall of the authority of ages: an author who for the union of heavy learning with the most miraculous power of imagination, is perhaps without a competitor.”

The works of Rabelais abound in learning and serious intent, but the riotous humor and flashing wit are presented with an accompaniment of repulsive coarseness intolerable to the modern mind.

This phase, however, was a part of the manners and customs of his time, and to philosophers and students Rabelais will ever be a mine of deep and recondite wisdom and thought.

Indicative of his wildly extravagant fancy are the following extracts.

OF THE ECLIPSES THIS YEAR

This year there will be so many eclipses of the sun and moon, that I fear (not unjustly) our pockets will suffer inanition, be full empty, and our feeling at a loss. Saturn will be retrograde, Venus direct, Mercury as unfixed as quicksilver. And a pack of planets won’t go as you would have them.

For this reason the crabs will go side-long, and the rope-makers backward; the little stools will get upon the benches, and the spits on the racks, and the bands on the hats; fleas[324] will be generally black; bacon will run away from peas in lent; there won’t be a bean left in a twelfth cake, nor an ace in a flush; the dice won’t run as you wish, tho’ you cog them, and the chance that you desire will seldom come; brutes shall speak in several places; Shrovetide will have its day; one part of the world shall disguise itself to gull and chouse the other, and run about the streets like a parcel of addle-pated animals and mad devils; such a hurly-burly was never seen since the devil was a little boy; and there will be above seven and twenty irregular verbs made this year, if Priscian don’t hold them in. If God don’t help us, we shall have our hands and hearts full.

OF THE DISEASES THIS YEAR

This year the stone-blind shall see but very little; the deaf shall hear but scurvily; the dumb shan’t speak very plain; the rich shall be somewhat in a better case than the poor, and the healthy than the sick. Whole flocks, herds, and droves of sheep, swine and oxen; cocks and hens, ducks and drakes, geese and ganders, shall go to pot; but the mortality will not be altogether so great among apes, monkeys, baboons and dromedaries. As for old age, ’twill be incurable this year, because of the years past. Those who are sick of the pleurisy will feel a plaguy stitch in their sides; catarrhs this year shall distill from the brain on the lower parts; sore eyes will by no means help the sight; ears shall be at least as scarce and short in Gascony, and among knights of the post, as ever; and a most horrid and dreadful, virulent, malignant, catching, perverse and odious malady, shall be almost epidemical, insomuch that many shall run mad upon it, not knowing what nails to drive to keep the wolf from the door, very often plotting, contriving, cudgeling and puzzling their weak shallow brains, and syllogizing and prying up and down for the philosopher’s stone, tho’ they only get Midas’s lugs by the bargain. I quake for very fear when I think on’t; for I assure you, few will escape this disease, which Averroes calls lack of money, and by consequence of the last year’s comet, and Saturn’s retrogradation, there will be a horrid clutter between the cats and the[325] rats, hounds and hares, hawks and ducks, and eke between the monks and eggs.

OF THE FRUITS OF THE EARTH THIS YEAR

I find by the calculations of Albumazar in his book of the great conjunction, and elsewhere, that this will be a plentiful year of all manner of good things to those who have enough; but your hops of Picardy will go near to fare the worse for the cold. As for oats they’ll be a great help to horses. I dare say, there won’t be much more bacon than swine. Pisces having the ascendant, ’twill be a mighty year for muscles, cockles, and periwinkles. Mercury somewhat threatens our parsly-beds, yet parsly will be to be had for money. Hemp will grow faster than the children of this age, and some will find there’s but too much on’t. There will be a very few bon-chretiens, but choak-pears in abundance. As for corn, wine, fruit and herbs, there never was such plenty as will be now, if poor folks may have their wish.

RABELAIS IMITATES DIOGENES
(From the Author’s Prologue to Book III.)

When Philip, King of Macedon, enterprised the siege and ruin of Corinth, the Corinthians having received certain intelligence by their spies, that he with a numerous army in battle array was coming against them, were all of them, not without cause, most terribly afraid; and, therefore, were not neglective of their duty, in doing their best endeavors to put themselves in a fit posture to resist his hostile approach, and defend their own city. Some from the fields brought into the fortified places their movables, cattle, corn, wine, fruit, victuals and other necessary provisions. Others did fortify and rampire their walls, set up little fortresses, bastions, squared ravelins, digged trenches, cleansed countermines, fenced themselves with gabions, contrived platforms, emptied casemates, barricaded the false brayes, erected the cavalliers, repaired the contrescarpes, plaistered the courtines,[326] lengthened ravelins, stopped parapets, mortised barbacans, new pointed the portcullises with fine steel or good iron, fastened the herses and cataracts, placed their sentries and doubled their patrol.

Every one did watch and ward, and not one was exempted from carrying the basket. Some polished corselets, varnished backs and breasts, cleaned the headpieces, mailcoats, brigandins, salads, helmets, murrions, jacks, gushets, gorgets, hoguines, brassars and cuissars, corselets, haubergeons, shields, bucklers, targets, greves, gauntlets and spurs.

Others made ready bows, slings, cross-bows, pellets, catapults, migraines or fire-balls, firebrands, balists, scorpions, and other such warlike engines, repugnatory, and destructive to the Helepolides.

They sharpened and prepared spears, staves, pikes, brown bills, halberts, long hooks, lances, zagages, quarterstaves, eelspears, partisans, troutstaves, clubs, battle-axes, maces, darts, dartlets, glaves, javelins, javelots, and truncheons.

They set edges upon scimetars, cutlasses, badelairs, backswords, tucks, rapiers, bayonets, arrow-heads, dags, daggers, mandousians, poniards, whinyards, knives, skenes, chipping knives, and raillons.

Diogenes seeing them all so warm at work, and himself not employed by the magistrates in any business whatsoever, he did very seriously (for many days together, without speaking one word) consider, and contemplate the countenance of his fellow-citizens.

Then on a sudden, as if he had been roused up and inspired by a martial spirit, he girded his cloak, scarf-ways, about his left arm, tucked up his sleeves to the elbow, trussed himself like a clown gathering apples, and giving to one of his old acquaintance his wallet, books, and opistographs, away went he out of town towards a little hill or promontory of Corinth called Craneum; and there on, the strand, a pretty level place, did he roll his jolly tub, which served him for an house to shelter him from the injuries of the weather: there, I say, in a great vehemency of spirit, did he turn it veer it, wheel it, whirl it, frisk it, jumble it, shuffle it, hurdle it, tumble it, hurry it, jolt[327] it, jostle it, overthrow it, evert it, invert it, subvert it, overturn it, beat it, thwack it, bump it, batter it, knock it, thrust it, push it, jerk it, shock it, shake it, toss it, throw it, overthrow it upside down, topsyturvy, tread it, trample it, stamp it, tap it, ting it, ring it, tingle it, towl it, sound it, resound it, stop it, shut it, unbung it, close it, unstopple it. And then again in a mighty bustle he bandied it, slubbered it, hacked it, whittled it, wayed it, darted it, hurled it, staggered it, reeled it, swinged it, brangled it, tottered it, lifted it, heaved it, transformed it, transfigured it, transposed it, transplaced it, reared it, raised it, hoised it, washed it, dighted it, cleansed it, rinsed it, nailed it, settled it, fastened it, shackled it, fettered it, levelled it, blocked it, tugged it, tewed it, carried it, bedashed it, bewrayed it, parched it, mounted it, broached it, nicked it, notched it, bespattered it, decked it, adorned it, trimmed it, garnished it, gaged it, furnished it, bored it, pierced it, tapped it, rumbled it, slid it down the hill, and precipitated it from the very height of the Craneum; then from the foot to the top (like another Sisyphus with his stone) bore it up again, and every way so banged it and belabored it, that it was ten thousand to one he had not struck the bottom of it out.

Which when one of his friends had seen, and asked him why he did so toil his body, perplex his spirit, and torment his tub? the philosopher’s answer was, that not being employed in any other office by the Republic, he thought it expedient to thunder and storm it so tempestuously upon his tub, that amongst a people so fervently busy and earnest at work, he alone might not seem a loitering slug and lazy fellow. To the same purpose may I say to myself,—

For perceiving no account to be made of me towards the discharge of a trust of any great concernment, and considering that through all the parts of this most noble kingdom of France, both on this and on the other side of the mountains, every one is most diligently exercised and busied; some in the[328] fortifying of their own native country, for its defence; others, in the repulsing of their enemies by an offensive war; and all this with a policy so excellent, and such admirable order, so manifestly profitable for the future, whereby France shall have its frontiers most magnifically enlarged, and the French assured of a long and well-grounded peace, that very little withholds me from the opinion of good Heraclitus, which affirmeth war to be the parent of all good things; and therefore do I believe that war is in Latin called bellum, not by antiphrasis, as some patchers of old rusty Latin would have us to think, because in war there is little beauty to be seen; but absolutely and simply; for that in war (bellum in Latin) appears all that is good and graceful, bon and bel in French, and that by the wars is purged out all manner of wickedness and deformity. For proof whereof the wise and pacific Solomon could no better represent the unspeakable perfection of the divine wisdom, than by comparing it to the due disposure and ranking of an army in battle array, well provided and ordered.

Therefore by reason of my weakness and inability, being reputed by my compatriots unfit for the offensive part of warfare; and on the other side, being no way employed in matter of the defensive, although it had been but to carry burdens, fill ditches, or break clods, each whereof had been to me indifferent, I held it not a little disgraceful to be only an idle spectator of so many valorous, eloquent, and warlike persons, who in the view and sight of all Europe act this notable interlude or tragicomedy, and not exert myself, and contribute thereto this nothing, my all; which remained for me to do. For, in my opinion, little honor is due to such as are mere lookers on, liberal of their eyes, and of their strength parsimonious; who conceal their crowns and hide their silver; scratching their head with one finger like grumbling puppies, gaping at the flies like tithe calves; clapping down their ears like Arcadian asses at the melody of musicians, who with their very countenances in the depth of silence express their consent to the prosopopeia.

Having made this choice and election, it seemed to me that my exercise therein would be neither unprofitable nor troublesome[329] to any, whilst I should thus set agoing my Diogenical Tub.

THE LOST HATCHET

There once lived a poor honest country fellow of Gravot, Tom Wellhung by name, a wood-cleaver by trade, who in that low drudgery made shift so to pick up a sorry livelihood. It happened that he lost his hatchet. Now tell me who ever had more cause to be vexed than poor Tom? Alas, his whole estate and life depended on his hatchet; by his hatchet he earned many a fair penny of the best wood-mongers or log-merchants, among whom he went a-jobbing; for want of his hatchet he was like to starve; and had Death but met him six days after without a hatchet, the grim fiend would have mowed him down in the twinkling of a bed-staff. In this sad case he began to be in a heavy taking, and called upon Jupiter with most eloquent prayers (for, you know, necessity was the mother of eloquence), with the whites of his eyes turned up toward heaven, down on his marrow-bones, his arms reared high, his fingers stretched wide, and his head bare, the poor wretch without ceasing was roaring out by way of Litany at every repetition of his supplications, “My hatchet, Lord Jupiter, my hatchet, my hatchet, only my hatchet, oh, Jupiter, or money to buy another, and nothing else; alas, my poor hatchet!”

Jupiter happened then to be holding a grand council about certain urgent affairs, and old Gammer Cybele was just giving her opinion, or, if you had rather have it so, it was young Phœbus the Beau; but, in short, Tom’s outcry and lamentations were so loud that they were heard with no small amazement at the council-board by the whole consistory of the gods. “What a devil have we below,” quoth Jupiter, “that howls so horridly? By the mud of Styx, haven’t we had all along, and haven’t we here still, enough to do to set to rights a world of puzzling businesses of consequence? Let us, however, despatch this howling fellow below; you, Mercury, go see who it is, and discover[330] what he wants.” Mercury looked out at heaven’s trapdoor, through which, as I am told, they hear what’s said here below. By the way, one might well enough mistake it for the scuttle of a ship; though Icaromenippus said it was like the mouth of a well. The light-heeled deity saw that it was honest Tom, who asked for his lost hatchet; and, accordingly, he made his report to the Synod. “Marry,” said Jupiter, “we are finely holped up, as if we had now nothing else to do here but to restore lost hatchets. Well, he must have it for all that, for so ’tis written in the Book of Fate, as well as if it was worth the whole Duchy of Milan. The truth is, the fellow’s hatchet is as much to him as a kingdom to a king. Come, come, let no more words be scattered about it; let him have his hatchet again. Run down immediately, and cast at the poor fellow’s feet three hatchets! his own, another of gold, and a third of massy silver, all of one size; then, having left it to his will to take his choice, if he take his own, and be satisfied with it, give him t’other two. If he take another, chop his head off with his own; and henceforth serve me all those losers of hatchets after that manner.”

Having said this, Jupiter, with an awkward turn of his head, like a jackanapes swallowing pills, made so dreadful a phiz that all the vast Olympus quaked again. Heaven’s foot-messenger, thanks to his low-crowned, narrow-brimmed hat, and plume of feathers, heel-pieces, and running-stick with pigeon-wings, flings himself out at heaven’s wicket, through the empty deserts of the air, and in a trice nimbly alights on the earth, and throws at friend Tom’s feet the three hatchets, saying to him: “Thou hast bawled long enough to be a-dry; thy prayers and requests are granted by Jupiter; see which of these three is thy hatchet, and take it away with thee.”

Wellhung lifts up the golden hatchet, peeps upon it, and finds it very heavy; then staring on Mercury cries, “Gadzooks, this is none of mine; I won’t ha’t.” The same he did with the silver one, and said, “’Tis not this either; you may e’en take them again.” At last, he takes up his own[331] hatchet, examines the end of the helve, and finds his mark there; then, ravished with joy, like a fox that meets some straggling poultry, and sneering from the tip of the nose, he cries, “By the Mass, this is my hatchet; Master God, if you will leave it me, I will sacrifice to you a very good and huge pot of milk, brim full, covered with fine strawberries, next Ides, i.e., the 15th of May.”

“Honest fellow,” said Mercury, “I leave it thee; take it; and because thou hast wished and chosen moderately, in point of hatchet, by Jupiter’s command I give thee these two others; thou hast now wherewith to make thyself rich: be honest.”

Honest Tom gave Mercury a whole cart-load of thanks, and paid reverence to the most great Jupiter. His old hatchet he fastened close to his leathern girdle, and girds it about his breech like Martin of Cambray; the two others, being more heavy, he lays on his shoulder. Thus he plods on, trudging over the fields, keeping a good countenance among his neighbors and fellow-parishioners, with one merry saying or other, after Patelin’s way.

The next day, having put on a clean white jacket, he takes on his back the two precious hatchets, and comes to Chinon, the famous city, noble city, ancient city, yea, the first city in the world, according to the judgment and assertion of the most learned Massoreths. In Chinon he turned his silver hatchet into fine testons, crown-pieces, and other white cash; his golden hatchet into fine angels, curious ducats, substantial ridders, spankers, and rose nobles. Then with them purchases a good number of farms, barns, houses, outhouses, thatch-houses, stables, meadows, orchards, fields, vineyards, woods, arable lands, pastures, ponds, mills, gardens, nurseries, oxen, cows, sheep, goats, swine, hogs, asses, horses, hens, cocks, capons, chickens, geese, ganders, ducks, drakes, and a world of all other necessaries, and in a short time became the richest man in all the country. His brother bumpkins, and the yeomen and other country-puts thereabout, perceiving his good fortune, were not a little amazed, insomuch that their former pity of poor Tom was soon[332] changed into an envy of his so great and unexpected rise; and, as they could not for their souls devise how this came about, they made it their business to pry up and down, and lay their heads together, to inquire, seek, and inform themselves by what means, in what place, on what day, what hour, how, why, and wherefore, he had come by this great treasure.

At last, hearing it was by losing his hatchet, “Ha, ha!” said they, “was there no more to do, but to lose a hatchet, to make us rich?” With this they all fairly lost their hatchets out of hand. The devil a one that had a hatchet left; he was not his mother’s son, that did not lose his hatchet. No more was wood felled or cleared in that country through want of hatchets. Nay, the Æsopian apologue even saith, that certain petty country gents, of the lower class, who had sold Wellhung their little mill and little field to have wherewithal to make a figure at the next muster, having been told that this treasure was come to him by that means only, sold the only badge of their gentility, their swords, to purchase hatchets to go to lose them, as the silly clodpates did, in hopes to gain store of coin by that loss.

You would have truly sworn they had been a parcel of your petty spiritual usurers, Rome-bound, selling their all, and borrowing of others to buy store of mandates, a pennyworth of a new-made pope.

Now they cried out and brayed, and prayed and bawled, and lamented and invoked Jupiter, “My hatchet! My hatchet! Jupiter, my hatchet!” On this side, “My hatchet!” On that side, “My hatchet! Ho, ho, ho, ho, Jupiter, my hatchet!” The air round about rung again with the cries and howlings of these rascally losers of hatchets.

Mercury was nimble in bringing them hatchets; to each offering that which he had lost, as also another of gold, and a third of silver.

Everywhere he still was for that of gold, giving thanks in abundance to the great giver Jupiter; but in the very nick of time, that they bowed and stooped to take it from the[333] ground, whip in a trice, Mercury lopped off their heads, as Jupiter had commanded. And of heads thus cut off, the number was just equal to that of the lost hatchets.

—Gargantua and Pantagruel.

There is an epigram in Martial, and one of the very good ones—for he has all sorts—where he pleasantly tells the story of Cælius, who, to avoid making his court to some great men of Rome, to wait their rising, and to attend them abroad, pretended to have the gout; and the better to color this, anointed his legs and had them lapped up in a great many swathings, and perfectly counterfeited both the gesture and countenance of a gouty person; till in the end, Fortune did him the kindness to make him one indeed.

I think I have read somewhere in Appian, a story like this, of one who to escape the proscriptions of the triumvirs of Rome, and the better to be concealed from the discovery of those who pursued him, having hidden himself in a disguise, would yet add this invention, to counterfeit having but one eye; but when he came to have a little more liberty, and went to take off the plaster he had a great while worn over his eye, he found he had totally lost the sight of it indeed, and that it was absolutely gone. ’Tis possible that the action of sight was dulled from having been so long without exercise, and that the optic power was wholly retired into the other eye for we evidently perceive that the eye we keep shut sends some part of its virtue to its fellow, so that it will swell and grow bigger; and so, inaction, with the heat of ligatures and plaster might very well have brought some gouty humor upon this dissembler of Martial.

Reading in Froissart the vow of a troop of young English gallants, to keep their left eyes bound up till they had arrived in France and performed some notable exploit upon us, I have often been tickled with the conceit: suppose it had befallen[334] them as it did the Roman, and they had returned with but one eye apiece to their mistresses, for whose sakes they had made his ridiculous vow.

Mothers have reason to rebuke their children when they counterfeit having but one eye, squinting, lameness, or any other personal defect; for, besides that their bodies being then so tender may be subject to take an ill bent, Fortune, I know not how, sometimes seems to delight in taking us at our word; and I have heard several examples related of people who have become really sick, by only feigning to be so. I have always used, whether on horseback or on foot, to carry a stick in my hand, and even to affect doing it with an elegant air; many have threatened that this fancy would one day be turned into necessity: if so, I should be the first of my family to have the gout.

But let us a little lengthen this chapter, and add another anecdote concerning blindness. Pliny reports of one who, dreaming he was blind, found himself so indeed in the morning without any preceding infirmity in his eyes. The force of imagination might assist in this case, as I have said elsewhere, and Pliny seems to be of the same opinion; but it is more likely that the motions which the body felt within, of which physicians, if they please, may find out the cause, taking away his sight, were the occasion of his dream.

Let us add another story, not very improper for this subject, which Seneca relates in one of his epistles: “You know,” says he, writing to Lucilius, “that Harpaste, my wife’s fool, is thrown upon me as an hereditary charge for I have naturally an aversion to those monsters; and if I have a mind to laugh at a fool, I need not seek him far, I can laugh at myself. This fool has suddenly lost her sight: I tell you a strange, but a very true thing; she is not sensible that she is blind, but eternally importunes her keeper to take her abroad, because she says the house is dark. That what we laugh at in her, I pray you to believe, happens to every one of us: no one knows himself to be avaricious or grasping: and again, the blind call for a guide, while we stray of our own accord. I am not ambitious, we say; but a man cannot live otherwise at Rome; I am not[335] wasteful, but the city requires a great outlay; ’tis not my fault if I am choleric—if I have not yet established any certain course of life: ’tis the fault of youth. Let us not seek our disease out of ourselves; ’tis in us, and planted in our bowels; and the mere fact that we do not perceive ourselves to be sick, renders us more hard to be cured. If we do not betimes begin to see to ourselves, when shall we have provided for so many wounds and evils wherewith we abound? And yet we have a most sweet and charming medicine in philosophy; for of all the rest we are sensible of no pleasure till after the cure: this pleases and heals at once.” This is what Seneca says, that has carried me from my subject, but there is advantage in the change.

As in England, the French published many jest books containing short anecdotes or epigrams, as well as the ubiquitous noodle stories.

A wife said to her husband, who was much attached to reading, “I wish I were a book, that I might always have your company.” Then, answered he, I should wish you an almanac, that I might change once a year.

It was said of a malicious parasite, that he never opened his mouth but at the expense of others; because he always ate at the tables of others, and spoke ill of everybody.

The Duke of Vivonne, who was a heretic in medicine, being indisposed, his friends sent for a physician. When the Duke was told a physician was below, he said, Tell him I cannot see him, because I am not well. Let him call again at another time.

The Marechal de Faber, at a siege, was pointing out a place with his finger. As he spoke, a musket-ball carried off the finger. Instantly stretching another, he continued his discourse, Gentlemen, as I was saying—. This was true sang froid.

[336]

A man, carrying on an unjust process, was advised to pray to God for its success. Stop, stop, replied he, God must hear nothing of this.

Another princess of France, being espoused by the king of Spain, in passing through a town, on her way to Madrid, the magistrates of the place, which was a famous mart for stockings, waited on the queen with a present of a dozen pairs of remarkable fineness. The Spanish grandee, who attended her, full of the jealous humour of his nation, said, in a passion. “You fools, know that a queen of Spain has no legs.” The magistrates retired in terror, and the poor queen, weeping sadly, said, Must I then have both my legs cut off?

In a village of Poitou, a peasant’s wife, after a long illness, fell into a lethargy. She was thought dead; and being only wrapped in linen, as the custom of burying the poor in that country is, she was carried to the place of interment. In going to church, the body, being borne aloft, was caught hold of by some briars, and so scratched, that as if bled by a surgeon, she revived. Fourteen years after, she died in earnest, as was thought; and as they carried her to church, the husband exclaimed, For God’s sake, do not go near the briars.

A gentleman, seeing in his yard a mass of rubbish, blamed his people for not removing it. A domestic said, no cart could be got. “Why,” answered the master, “do you not make a pit beside the rubbish, and bury it?” “But,” answered the domestic, “where shall we put the earth that comes out of the pit?” You great fool, replied his master, make the pit so large as to hold all.

A lady sitting near the fire, and telling a long story, a spark flew on her gown, and she did not perceive it till it had burnt a good while. I saw it at first, madam, said a lady who was present, but I could not be so rude as to interrupt you.

[337]

When Rabelais lay on his death-bed, he could not help jesting at the very last moment; for, having received the extreme unction, a friend coming to see him, said, he hoped he was prepared for the next world. Yes, yes, answered Rabelais, I am ready for my journey now; they have just greased my boots.

GERMAN WIT AND HUMOR

Brandt’s Das Narrenschiff, or The Ship of Fools, a long satirical poem, was published at the close of the Fifteenth century.

It was followed by The Boats of Foolish Women and other imitative works.

Among them, was The Praise of Folly, by Desiderius Erasmus, a Dutch classical scholar and satirist.

The following is from the Dedicatory Epistle which introduces The Praise of Folly, and which is addressed to Sir Thomas More.

“But those who are offended at the lightness and pedantry of this subject, I would have them consider that I do not set myself for the first example of this kind, but that the same has been oft done by many considerable authors. For thus, several ages since, Homer wrote of no more weighty a subject than of a war between the frogs and mice; Virgil of a gnat and a pudding cake; and Ovid of a nut. Polycrates commended the cruelty of Busiris; and Isocrates, that corrects him for this, did as much for the injustice of Glaucus. Favorinus extolled Thersites, and wrote in praise of a quartane ague. Synesius pleaded in behalf of baldness; and Lucian defended a sipping fly. Seneca drollingly related the deifying of Claudius; Plutarch the dialogue betwixt Gryllus and Ulysses; Lucian and Apuleius the story of an ass; and somebody else records the last will of a hog, of which St. Hierom makes mention. So that, if they please, let themselves think the worst of me, and fancy to themselves that I was, all this while, a playing at push-pin, or riding astride on a hobby-horse. For how unjust is it, if when we allow different recreations[338] to each particular course of life, we afford no diversion to studies; especially when trifles may be a whet to more serious thoughts, and comical matters may be so treated of, as that a reader of ordinary sense may possibly thence reap more advantage than from some more big and stately argument.... As to what relates to myself, I must be forced to submit to the judgment of others, yet, except I am too partial to be judge in my own case, I am apt to believe I have praised Folly in such a manner as not to have deserved the name of fool for my pains.”

A short extract from the book follows.

However, but few individual names stand out in the early German literature that can by any stretch of definition be called humorous.

As in all other countries, legends and folk lore tales were rife, and eventually produced popular heroes about whom stories were invented.

Brother Rush, who seems to be merely a demon of darkness, is first found in print in Germany in 1515.

He is a tricksy sprite and goes through various vicissitudes of rather dull interest.

He was followed by Tyll Eulenspiegel, a far more popular personage, and translated to England under the name of Owleglas or Howleglas.

Eulenspiegel was a shrewd and cunning proposition and had many startling adventures, two of which are here given.

EULENSPIEGEL’S PRANKS
The Golden Horseshoes

Eulenspiegel came to the court of the King of Denmark, who liked him well, and said that if he would make him some diversion, then might he have the best of shoes for his horse’s hoofs. Eulenspiegel asked the king if he was minded to keep his word well and truly, and the king did answer most solemnly, “Yes.”

Now did Eulenspiegel ride his horse to a goldsmith, by[340] whom he suffered to be beaten upon the horse’s hoofs shoes of gold with silver nails. This done, Eulenspiegel went to the king, that the king might send his treasurer to pay for the shoeing. The treasurer believed he should pay a blacksmith, but Eulenspiegel conducted him to the goldsmith, who did require and demand one hundred Danish marks. This would the treasurer not pay, but went and told his master.

Therefore the king caused Eulenspiegel to be summoned into his presence, and spoke to him:

“Eulenspiegel, why did you have such costly shoes? Were I to shoe all my horses thus, soon would I be without land or any possessions.”

To which Eulenspiegel did make reply:

“Gracious King, you did promise me the best of shoes for my horse’s hoofs, and I did think the best were of gold.”

Then the king laughed:

“You shall be of my court, for you act upon my very word.”

And the king commanded his treasurer to pay the hundred marks for the horse’s golden shoes. But these Eulenspiegel caused to be taken off, and iron shoes put on in their stead; and he remained many a long day in the service of the King of Denmark.

Paying with the Sound of a Penny

Eulenspiegel was at a tavern where the host did one day put the meat on the spit so late that Eulenspiegel got hungry for dinner. The host, seeing his discontent, said to him:

“Who cannot wait till the dinner be ready, let him eat what he may.”

Therefore Eulenspiegel went aside, and ate some dry bread; after that he had eaten he sat by the fire and turned the spit until the meat was roasted. Then was the meat borne upon the table, and the host, with the guests, did feast upon it. But Eulenspiegel stayed on the bench by the fire, nor would he sit at the board, since he told the host that he had his fill from the odor of the meat. So when they had eaten, and the host came to Eulenspiegel with the tray,[341] that he might place in it the price of the food, Eulenspiegel did refuse, saying:

“Why must I pay for what I have not eaten?”

To which the host replied, in anger:

“Give me your penny; for by sitting at the fire, and swallowing the savor of the meat, you had the same nourishment as though you had partaken of the meat at the board.”

Then Eulenspiegel searched in his purse for a penny, and threw it on the bench, saying to the host:

“Do you hear this sound?”

“I do, indeed,” answered the host.

Then did Eulenspiegel pick up the penny and restore it to his purse; which done, he spoke again:

“To my belly the odor of the meat is worth as much as the sound of the penny is to you.”

About this time came into being the tales of the Schildburgers, or Noodles, who correspond to the Gothamites of England.

Schildburg, we are told, was a town “in Misnopotamia, beyond Utopia, in the kingdom of Calecut.” The Schildburgers were originally so renowned for their wisdom, that they were continually invited into foreign countries to give their advice, until at length not a man was left at home, and their wives were obliged to assume the charge of the duties of their husbands. This became at length so onerous, that the wives held a council, and resolved on despatching a solemn message in writing to call the men home. This had the desired effect; all the Schildburgers returned to their own town, and were so joyfully received by their wives that they resolved upon leaving it no more. They accordingly held a council, and it was decided that, having experienced the great inconvenience of a reputation of wisdom, they would avoid it in future by assuming the character of fools. One of the first evil results of their long neglect of home affairs was the want of a council-hall, and this want they now resolved to supply without delay. They accordingly went to the hills and woods, cut down the timber, dragged it with great labour to the[342] town, and in due time completed the erection of a handsome and substantial building. But, when they entered their new council-hall, what was their consternation to find themselves in perfect darkness! In fact, they had forgotten to make any windows. Another council was held, and one who had been among the wisest in the days of their wisdom, gave his opinion very oracularly; the result of which was that they should experiment on every possible expedient for introducing light into the hall, and that they should first try that which seemed most likely to succeed. They had observed that the light of day was caused by sunshine, and the plan proposed was to meet at mid-day when the sun was brightest, and fill sacks, hampers, jugs, and vessels of all kinds, with sunshine and daylight, which they proposed afterwards to empty into the unfortunate council-hall. Next day, as the clock struck one, you might see a crowd of Schildburgers before the council-house door, busily employed, some holding the sacks open, and others throwing the light into them with shovels and any other appropriate implements which came to hand. While they were thus labouring, a stranger came into the town of Schildburg, and, hearing what they were about, told them they were labouring to no purpose, and offered to show them how to get the daylight into the hall. It is unnecessary to say more than that this new plan was to make an opening in the roof, and that the Schildburgers witnessed the effect with astonishment, and were loud in their gratitude to the new comer.

The Schildburgers met with further difficulties before they completed their council-hall. They sowed a field with salt, and when the salt-plant grew up next year, after a meeting of the council, at which it was stiffly disputed whether it ought to be reaped, or mowed, or gathered in in some other manner, it was finally discovered that the crop consisted of nothing but nettles. After many accidents of this kind, the Schildburgers are noticed by the emperor, and obtain a charter of incorporation and freedom, but they profit little by it. In trying some experiments to catch mice, they set fire to their houses, and the whole town is burnt to the ground, upon which, in their sorrow, they abandon it altogether, and become, like the Jews of old,[343] scattered over the world, carrying their own folly into every country they visit.

Another tale relates how the boors of Schilda contrived to get their millstone twice down from a high mountain:

The boors of Schilda had built a mill, and with extraordinary labour they had quarried a millstone for it out of a quarry which lay on the summit of a high mountain; and when the stone was finished, they carried it with great labour and pain down the hill. When they had got to the bottom, it occurred to one of them that they might have spared themselves the trouble of carrying it down by letting it roll down. “Verily,” said he, “we are the stupidest of fools to take these extraordinary pains to do that which we might have done with so little trouble. We will carry it up, and then let it roll down the hill by itself, as we did before with the tree which we felled for the council-house.”

This advice pleased them all, and with greater labour they carried the stone to the top of the mountain again, and were about to roll it down, when one of them said, “But how shall we know where it runs to? Who will be able to tell us aught about it?” “Why,” said the bailiff, who had advised the stone being carried up again, “this is very easily managed. One of us must stick in the hole [for the millstone, of course, had a hole in the middle], and run down with it.” This was agreed to, and one of them, having been chosen for the purpose, thrust his head through the hole, and ran down the hill with the millstone. Now at the bottom of the mountain was a deep fish-pond, into which the stone rolled, and the simpleton with it, so that the Schildburgers lost both stone and man, and not one among them knew what had become of them. And they felt sorely angered against their old companion who had run down the hill with the stone, for they considered that he had carried it off for the purpose of disposing of it. So they published a notice in all the neighbouring boroughs, towns, and villages, calling on them, that “if any one come there with a millstone round his neck, they should treat him as one who had stolen the common goods, and give him to justice.” But the poor fellow lay in the pond, dead. Had he been able to[344] speak, he would have been willing to tell them not to worry themselves on his account, for he would give them their own again. But his load pressed so heavily upon him, and he was so deep in the water, that he, after drinking water enough—more, indeed, than was good for him—died; and he is dead at the present day, and dead he will, shall, and must remain!

The earliest known edition of the history of the Schildburgers was printed in 1597, but the story itself is no doubt older. It will be seen at once that it involves a satire upon the municipal towns of the middle ages.

ITALIAN WIT AND HUMOR

Of Italian wit and humor up to and through the Sixteenth Century there is little to be said. Translators who have given us in English the early literature of Italy have been so concerned with the serious poetry and prose that they neglected the lighter veins.

If, indeed, there were any worth while.

The outstanding name of the Fourteenth Century is that of Giovanni Boccaccio.

But though the Decameron, a collection of one hundred stories, is a mirror of the humorous taste of that time, the stories are for the most part, long, dull and prosy.

They relate the intrigues of lovers in a freely licentious way, but both humorous description and witty repartee are consciously lacking.

One of the most amusing of the decent tales is here given, also a sonnet of Boccaccio’s translated by Rossetti.

THE STOLEN PIG

Calandrino had a little farm, not far from Florence, which came to him through his wife. There he used to have a pig fatted every year, and some time about December he and his wife went always to kill and salt it for the use of the family. Now it happened once—she being unwell at the time—that he went thither by himself to kill his pig; which Bruno and Buffalmacco hearing, and knowing she was not to be there, they went to spend a few days with a great friend of theirs, a priest in Calandrino’s neighborhood. Now the pig had been killed the very day they came thither, and Calandrino, seeing them along with the priest, called to them and said, “Welcome, kindly; I would gladly you should see what a good manager I am.” Then, taking them into the house, he showed them this pig. They saw that it was fat, and were told by him that it was to be salted for his family. “Salted, booby?” said Bruno. “Sell it, let us make merry with the money, and tell your wife that it was stolen.” “No,” said Calandrino, “she will never believe it; and, besides, she would turn me out of doors. Trouble me, then, no further about any such thing, for I will never do it.” They said a great deal more to him, but all to no purpose. At length he invited them to supper, but did it in such a manner that they refused.

After they had come away from him, said Bruno to Buffalmacco, “Suppose we steal this pig from him to-night.” “How is it possible?” “Oh, I know well enough how to[346] do it, if he does not remove it in the meantime from the place where we just now saw it.” “Then let us do it, and afterward we and the parson will make merry over it.” The priest assured them that he should like it above all things. “We must use a little art,” quoth Bruno; “you know how covetous he is, and how freely he drinks when it is at another’s cost. Let us get him to the tavern, where the parson shall make a pretense of treating us all, out of compliment to him. He will soon get drunk, and then the thing will be easy enough, as there is nobody in the house but himself.”

This was done, and Calandrino, finding that the parson was to pay, took his glasses pretty freely, and, getting his dose, walked home betimes, left the door open, thinking that it was shut, and so went to bed. Buffalmacco and Bruno went from the tavern to sup with the priest, and as soon as supper was over they took proper tools with them to get into the house; but finding the door open, they carried off the pig to the priest’s and went to bed likewise.

In the morning, as soon as Calandrino had slept off his wine, he rose, came down-stairs, and finding the door open and his pig gone, began to inquire of everybody if they knew anything of the matter; and receiving no tidings of it, he made a terrible outcry, saying, “What shall I do now? Somebody has stolen my pig!” Bruno and Buffalmacco were no sooner out of bed than they went to his house to hear what he would say; and the moment he saw them he roared out, “Oh, my friends, my pig is stolen!” Upon this Bruno whispered to him and said, “Well, I am glad to see you wise in your life for once.” “Alas!” quoth he, “it is too true.” “Keep to the same story,” said Bruno, “and make noise enough for every one to believe you.”

Calandrino now began to bawl louder, “Indeed! I vow and swear to you that it is stolen.” “That’s right; be sure you let everybody hear you, that it may appear so.” “Do you think that I would forswear myself about it? May I be hanged this moment if it is not so!” “How is it possible!” quoth Bruno; “I saw it but last night; never imagine that[347] I can believe it.” “It is so, however,” answered he, “and I am undone. I dare not now go home again, for my wife will never believe me, and I shall have no peace this twelve-month.” “It is a most unfortunate thing,” said Bruno, “if it be true; but you know I put it into your head to say so last night, and you should not make sport both of your wife and us at the same time.”

At this Calandrino began to roar out afresh, saying, “Good God! you make me mad to hear you talk. I tell you once for all it was stolen this very night!” “Nay, if it be so,” quoth Buffalmacco, “we must think of some way to get it back again.” “And what way must we take,” said he “to find it?” “Depend upon it,” replied the other, “that nobody came from the Indies to steal it; it must be somewhere in your neighborhood, and if you could get the people together I could make a charm, with some bread and cheese, that would soon discover the thief.” “True,” said Bruno, “but they would know in that case what you were about; and the person that has it would never come near you.” “How must we manage, then?” said Buffalmacco. “Oh!” replied Bruno, “you shall see me do it with some pills of ginger and a little wine, which I will ask them to come and drink. They will have no suspicion what our design is, and we can make a charm of these as well as of the bread and cheese.” “Very well,” quoth the other. “What do you say, Calandrino? Have you a mind we should try it?” “For Heaven’s sake do,” he said; “if I only knew who the thief is, I should be half comforted.” “Well, then,” quoth Bruno, “I am ready to go to Florence for the things, if you will only give me some money.” He happened to have a few florins in his pocket, which he gave him, and off went Bruno.

When he got to Florence, Bruno went to a friend’s house and bought a pound of ginger made into pills. He also got two pills made of aloes, which had a private mark that he should not mistake them, being candied over with sugar like the rest. Then, having bought a jar of good wine, he returned to Calandrino, and said, “To-morrow you must take care to invite every one that you have the least suspicion[348] of; it is a holiday, and they will be glad to come. We will finish the charm to-night, and bring the things to your house in the morning, and then I will take care to do and say on your behalf what is necessary upon such an occasion.”

Calandrino did as he was told, and in the morning he had nearly all the people in the parish assembled under an elm-tree in the churchyard. His two friends produced the pills and wine, and, making the people stand round in a circle, Bruno said to them, “Gentlemen, it is fit that I should tell you the reason of your being summoned here in this manner, to the end, if anything should happen which you do not like, that I be not blamed for it. You must know, then, that Calandrino had a pig stolen last night, and, as some of the company here must have taken it, he, that he may find out the thief, would have every man take and eat one of these pills, and drink a glass of wine after it. Whoever the guilty person is, you will find he will not be able to get a bit of it down, but it will taste so bitter that he will be forced to spit it out. Therefore, to prevent such open shame, he had better, whoever he is, make a secret confession to the priest, and I will proceed no further.”

All present declared their readiness to eat; so, placing them all in order, he gave every man his pill and coming to Calandrino, he gave one of the aloe pills to him, which he straightway put into his mouth, and no sooner did he began to chew it than he was forced to spit it out. Every one was now attentive to see who spit his pill out, and while Bruno kept going round, apparently taking no notice of Calandrino, he heard somebody say behind him, “Hey-day! what is the meaning of its disagreeing so with Calandrino?” Bruno now turned suddenly about, and seeing that Calandrino had spit out his pill, he said, “Stay a little, honest friends, and be not too hasty in judging; it may be something else that has made him spit, and therefore he shall try another.” So he gave him the other aloe pill, and then went on to the rest that were unserved. But if the first was bitter to him, this he thought much more so. However, he[349] endeavored to get it down as well as he could. But it was impossible; it made the tears run down his cheeks, and he was forced to spit it out at last, as he had done the other. In the meantime Buffalmacco was going about with the wine; but when he and all of them saw what Calandrino had done, they began to bawl out that he had robbed himself, and some of them abused him roundly.

After they were all gone, Buffalmacco said, “I always thought that you yourself were the thief, and that you were willing to make us believe the pig was stolen in order to keep your money in your pocket, lest we should expect a treat upon the occasion.” Calandrino, who had still the taste of the aloes in his mouth, fell a-swearing that he knew nothing of the matter. “Honor bright, now, comrade,” said Buffalmacco, “what did you get for it?” This made Calandrino quite furious.

To crown all, Bruno struck in: “I was just now told,” said he, “by one of the company, that you have a mistress in this neighborhood to whom you are very kind, and that he is confident you have given it to her. You know you once took us to the plains of Mugnone, to look for some black stones, when you left us in the lurch, and pretended you had found them; and now you think to make us believe that your pig is stolen, when you have either given it away or sold it. You have played so many tricks upon us, that we intend to be fooled no more by you. Therefore, as we have had a deal of trouble in the affair, you shall make us amends by giving us two couple of fowls, unless you mean that we should tell your wife.”

Calandrino, now perceiving that he would not be believed, and being unwilling to have them add to his troubles by bringing his wife upon his back, was forced to give them the fowls, which they joyfully carried off along with the pork.

—The Decameron.

Rather earlier than Boccaccio lived Rustico di Filippo, who gives us the following satirical bit.

[350]

Among other collections of tales was the Novellino, collected by Massuchio di Salerno, about the middle of the Fifteenth Century.

We quote

THE INHERITANCE OF A LIBRARY

Jeronimo, who had inherited the place of master and head of the house, found himself in possession of many thousand florins in ready money. Wherefore the youth, seeing that he himself had endured no labor and weariness in gathering together the same, forthwith made up his mind not to place his affection in possessions of this sort, and at once began to array himself in sumptuous garments, to taste the pleasures of the town in the company of certain chosen companions of his, to indulge in amorous adventures, and in a thousand other ways to dissipate his substance abroad without restraint of any kind. Not only did he banish from his mind all thought and design of continuing his studies, but he even went so far as to harbor against the books, which his father had held in such high esteem and reverence and had bequeathed to him, the most fierce and savage hatred.[351] So violent, indeed, was his resentment against them that he set them down as the worst foes he had in the world.

On a certain day it happened that the young man, either by accident or for some reason of his own, betook himself into the library of his dead father, and there his eye fell upon a vast quantity of handsome and well-arranged books, such as are wont to be found in places of this sort. At the first sight of these he was somewhat stricken with fear, and with a certain apprehension that the spirit of his father might pursue him; but, having collected his courage somewhat, he turned with a look of hatred on his face toward the aforesaid books and began to address them in the following terms:

“Books, books, so long as my father was alive you waged against me war unceasing, forasmuch as he spent all his time and trouble either in purchasing you, or in putting you in fair bindings; so that, whenever it might happen that there came upon me the need of a few florins or of certain other articles, which all youths find necessary, he would always refuse to let me have them, saying that it was his will and pleasure to dispense his money only in the purchase of such books as might please him. And over and beyond this, he purposed in his mind that I, altogether against my will, should spend my life in close companionship with you, and over this matter there arose between us many times angry and contumelious words. Many times, also, you have put me in danger of being driven into perpetual exile from this my home. Therefore it cannot but be pleasing to God—since it is no fault of yours that I was not hunted forth from this place—that I should send you packing from this my house in such fashion that not a single one of you will ever behold my door again. And, in sooth, I wonder more especially that you have not before this disordered my wits, a feat you might well have accomplished with very little more trouble on your part, in your desire to do with me as you did with my father, according to my clear recollection. He, poor man, as if he had become bemused through conversing with you alone, was accustomed to demean himself in strange fashion,[352] moving his hands and his head in such wise that over and over again I counted him to be one bereft of reason. Now, on account of all this, I bid you have a little patience, for the reason that I have made up my mind to sell you all forthwith, and thus in a single hour to avenge myself for all the outrages I have suffered on your account and, over and beyond this, to set myself free from the possible danger of going mad.”

After he had thus spoken, and had packed up divers volumes of the aforesaid books—one of his servants helping him in the work—he sent the parcel to the house of a certain lawyer, who was a friend of his, and then in a very few words came to an agreement with the lawyer as to the business, the issue of the affair being that, though he had simply expelled the books from his house, and had not sold them, he received, nevertheless, on account of the same, several hundred florins. With these, added to the money which still remained in his purse, he continued to pursue the course of pleasure he had begun.

Another ironical skit is by Francesco Berni, entitled

Francho Sacchetti, poet and novelist, wrote many stories and verses in lighter vein.

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This brings us to Benvenuto Cellini, who, though not classed among the humorists, gives us many flashes of wit and humor in his celebrated Biography.

A COMPULSORY MARRIAGE AT SWORD’S POINT

One of those busy personages who delight in spreading mischief came to inform me that Paolo Micceri had taken a house for his new lady and her mother, and that he made use of the most injurious and contemptuous expressions regarding me, to wit:

“Poor Benvenuto! he paid the piper while I danced; and now he goes about boasting of the exploit. He thinks I am afraid of him—I, who can wear a sword and dagger as well as he. But I would have him to know my weapons are as keen as his. I, too, am a Florentine, and come of the Micceri, a much better house than the Cellini any time of day.”

In short, the vile informer painted the things in such colors to my disadvantage that it fired my whole blood. I was in a fever of the most dangerous kind. And feeling it must kill me unless it found vent, I had recourse to my usual means on such occasions. I called to my workman, Chioccia, to accompany me, and told another to follow me with my horse. On reaching the wretch’s house, finding the door half open, I entered abruptly in. There he sat with his precious “lady-love,” his boasted sword and dagger beside him, in[357] the very act of jesting with the elder woman upon my affairs. To slam the door, draw my sword and present the point to his throat, was the work of a moment, giving him no time to think of defending himself:

“Vile poltroon, recommend thy soul to God! Thou art a dead man!”

In the excess of his terror he cried out thrice, in a feeble voice, “Mama! mama! mama! Help, help, help!”

At this ludicrous appeal, so like a girl’s, and the ridiculous manner in which it was uttered, though I had a mind to kill, I lost half my rage and could not forbear laughing. Turning to Chioccia, however, I bade him make fast the door; for I was resolved to inflict the same punishment upon all three. Still with my sword-point at his throat, and pricking him a little now and then, I terrified him with the most desperate threats, and finding that he made no defense, was rather at a loss how to proceed. It was too poor a revenge—it was nothing—when suddenly it came into my head to make it effectual, and compel him to espouse the girl upon the spot.

“Up! Off with that ring on thy finger, villain!” I cried. “Marry her this instant, and then I shall have my full revenge.”

“Anything—anything you like, provided you will not kill me,” he eagerly answered.

Removing my sword a little:

“Now, then,” I said, “put on the ring.”

He did so, trembling all the time.

“This is not enough. Go and bring me two notaries to draw up the contract.” Then, addressing the girl and her mother in French:

“While the notaries and witnesses are coming, I will give you a word of advice. The first of you that I know to utter a word about my affairs, I will kill you—all three. So remember.”

I afterward said in Italian to Paolo:

“If you offer the slightest opposition to the least thing I choose to propose, I will cut you up into mince-meat with this good sword.”

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“It is enough,” he interrupted in alarm, “that you will not kill me. I will do whatever you wish.”

So this singular contract was duly drawn out and signed. My rage and fever were gone. I paid the notaries, and went home.—The Biography.

CRITICISM OF A STATUE OF HERCULES

Bandinello was incensed to such a degree that he was ready to burst with fury, and turning to me said, “What faults have you to find with my statues?”

I answered, “I will soon tell them, if you have but the patience to hear me.”

He replied, “Tell them, then.”

The duke and all present listened with the utmost attention. I began by promising that I was sorry to be obliged to lay before him all the blemishes of his work, and that I was not so properly delivering my own sentiments as declaring what was said of it by the artistic school of Florence. However, as the fellow at one time said something disobliging, at another made some offensive gesture with his hands or his feet, he put me into such a passion that I behaved with a rudeness which I should otherwise have avoided.

“The artistic school of Florence,” said I, “declares what follows: If the hair of your Hercules were shaved off, there would not remain skull enough to hold his brains. With regard to his face, it is hard to distinguish whether it be the face of a man, or that of a creature something between a lion and an ox; it discovers no attention to what it is about; and it is so ill set upon the neck, with so little art and in so ungraceful a manner, that a more shocking piece of work was never seen. His great brawny shoulders resemble the two pommels of an ass’s packsaddle. His breasts and their muscles bear no similitude to those of a man, but seem to have been drawn from a sack of melons. As he leans directly against the wall, the small of the back has the appearance of a bag filled with long cucumbers. It is impossible to conceive in what manner the two legs are fastened to this distorted figure, for it is hard[359] to distinguish upon which leg he stands, or upon which he exerts any effort of his strength; nor does he appear to stand upon both, as he is sometimes represented by those masters of the art of statuary who know something of their business. It is plain, too, that the statue inclines more than one-third of a cubit forward; and this is the greatest and the most insupportable blunder which pretenders to sculpture can be guilty of. As for the arms, they both hang down in the most awkward and ungraceful manner imaginable; and so little art is displayed in them that people would be almost tempted to think that you had never seen a naked man in your life. The right leg of Hercules and that of Cacus touch at the middle of their calves, and if they were to be separated, not one of them only, but both, would remain without a calf, in the place where they touch. Besides, one of the feet of the Hercules is quite buried, and the other looks as if it stood upon hot coals.”—The Biography.

SPANISH WIT AND HUMOR

The Spanish literature of this time contains little that can be quoted as humor.

Hurtado de Mendoza, a novelist, historian and poet, and Lope de Vega, dramatist, are the principal names among the Spanish writers.

About 1600 there flourished a poet named Baltazar del Alcazar, whose work shows a rather modern type of humor.

In 1605 was published the first part of Don Quixote de la Mancha the celebrated satirical work of Miguel de Cervantes.

Of this book Hallam says, “it is the only Spanish book which can be said to possess a European reputation.”

Its reputation is world wide and fine translations have given us the spirit of the original.

HE SECURES SANCHO PANZA AS HIS SQUIRE

In the meantime, Don Quixote tampered with a laborer, a neighbor of his and an honest man (if such an epithet can be[361] given to one that is poor), but shallow-brained; in short, he said so much, used so many arguments and made so many promises, that the poor fellow resolved to sally out with him and serve him in the capacity of a squire. Among other things, Don Quixote told him that he ought to be very glad to accompany him, for such an adventure might, some time or the other, occur that by one stroke an island might be won, where he might leave him governor. With this and other promises, Sancho Panza (for that was the laborer’s name) left his wife and children and engaged himself as squire to his neighbor. Don Quixote now set about raising money; and, by selling one thing, pawning another, and losing by all, he collected a tolerable sum. He fitted himself likewise with a buckler, which he borrowed of a friend, and, patching up his broken helmet in the best manner he could, he acquainted his squire Sancho of the day and hour he intended to set out, that he might provide himself with what he thought would be most needful. Above all, he charged him not to forget a wallet, which Sancho assured him he would not neglect; he said also that he thought of taking an ass with him, as he had a very good one, and he was not used to travel much on foot. With regard to the ass, Don Quixote paused a little, endeavoring to recollect whether any knight-errant had ever carried a squire mounted on ass-back, but no instance of the kind occurred to his memory. However, he consented that he should take his ass, resolving to accommodate him more honorably, at the earliest opportunity, by dismounting the first discourteous knight he should meet. He provided himself also with shirts, and other things, conformably to the advice given him by the innkeeper.

All this being accomplished, Don Quixote and Sancho Panza, without taking leave, the one of his wife and children, or the other of his housekeeper and niece, one night sallied out of the village unperceived; and they travelled so hard that by break of day they believed themselves secure, even if search were made after them. Sancho Panza proceeded upon his ass like a patriarch, with his wallet and leathern bottle, and with a vehement desire to find himself governor of the island which[362] his master had promised him. Don Quixote happened to take the same route as on his first expedition, over the plain of Montiel, which he passed with less inconvenience than before; for it was early in the morning, and the rays of the sun, darting on them horizontally, did not annoy them. Sancho Panza now said to his master, “I beseech your worship, good Sir Knight-errant, not to forget your promise concerning that same island, for I shall know how to govern it, be it ever so large.” To which Don Quixote answered: “Thou must know, friend Sancho Panza, that it was a custom much in use among the knights-errant of old to make their squires governors of the islands or kingdoms they conquered; and I am determined that so laudable a custom shall not be lost through my neglect; on the contrary, I resolve to outdo them in it, for they, sometimes, and perhaps most times, waited till their squires were grown old; and when they were worn out in their service, and had endured many bad days and worse nights, they conferred on them some title, such as count, or at least marquis, of some valley or province of more or less account; but if you live and I live, before six days have passed I may probably win such a kingdom as may have others depending on it, just fit for thee to be crowned king of one of them. And do not think this any extraordinary matter, for things fall out to knights by such unforeseen and unexpected ways, that I may easily give thee more than I promise.” “So, then,” answered Sancho Panza, “if I were a king, by some of those miracles your worship mentions, Joan Gutierrez, my duck, would come to be a queen, and my children infantas!” “Who doubts it?” answered Don Quixote. “I doubt it,” replied Sancho Panza; “for I am verily persuaded that, if God were to rain down kingdoms upon the earth, none of them would set well upon the head of Mary Gutierrez; for you must know, sir, she is not worth two farthings for a queen. The title of countess would sit better upon her, with the help of Heaven and good friends.” “Recommend her to God, Sancho,” answered Don Quixote, “and He will do what is best for her; but do thou have a care not to debase thy mind so low as to content thyself with being less than a viceroy.” “Sir, I will not,” answered[363] Sancho; “especially having so great a man for my master as your worship, who will know how to give me whatever is most fitting for me and what I am best able to bear.”

OF THE VALOROUS DON QUIXOTE’S SUCCESS IN THE DREADFUL AND NEVER-BEFORE-IMAGINED ADVENTURE OF THE WINDMILLS

Engaged in this discourse, they came in sight of thirty or forty windmills which are in that plain; and as soon as Don Quixote espied them, he said to his squire, “Fortune disposes our affairs better than we ourselves could have desired; look yonder, friend Sancho Panza, where thou mayest discover somewhat more than thirty monstrous giants, whom I intend to encounter and slay, and with their spoils we will begin to enrich ourselves; for it is lawful war, and doing God good service, to remove so wicked a generation from off the face of the earth.” “What giants?” said Sancho Panza. “Those thou seest yonder,” answered his master, “with their long arms; for some are wont to have them almost of the length of two leagues.”

“Look, sir,” answered Sancho, “those which appear yonder are not giants, but windmills, and what seem to be arms are the sails, which, whirled about by the wind, make the millstone go.” “It is very evident,” answered Don Quixote, “that thou art not versed in the business of adventures. They are giants; and if thou art afraid, get thee aside and pray, whilst I engage with them in fierce and unequal combat.” So saying, he clapped spurs to his steed, notwithstanding the cries his squire sent after him, assuring him that they were certainly windmills, and not giants. But he was so fully possessed that they were giants, that he neither heard the outcries of his squire Sancho, nor yet discerned what they were, though he was very near them, but went on, crying out aloud, “Fly not, ye cowards and vile caitiffs! for it is a single knight who assaults you.” The wind now rising a little, the great sails began to move, upon which Don Quixote called out, “Although ye should have more arms than the giant Briareus, ye shall pay for it.”

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Thus recommending himself devoutly to his lady Dulcinea, beseeching her to succor him in the present danger, being well covered with his buckler and setting his lance in the rest he rushed on as fast as Rozinante could gallop and attacked the first mill before him, when, running his lance into the sail, the wind whirled it about with so much violence that it broke the lance to shivers, dragging horse and rider after it, and tumbling them over and over on the plain in very evil plight. Sancho Panza hastened to his assistance as fast as the ass could carry him; and when he came up to his master he found him unable to stir, so violent was the blow which he and Rozinante had received in their fall.

“God save me!” quoth Sancho, “did not I warn you to have a care of what you did, for that they were nothing but windmills? And nobody could mistake them but one that had the like in his head.”

“Peace, friend Sancho,” answered Don Quixote; “for matters of war are, of all others, most subject to continual change. Now I verily believe, and it is most certainly the fact, that the sage Freston, who stole away my chamber and books, has metamorphosed these giants into windmills, on purpose to deprive me of the glory of vanquishing them, so great is the enmity he bears me! But his wicked arts will finally avail but little against the goodness of my sword.”

“God grant it!” answered Sancho Panza. Then, helping him to rise, he mounted him again upon his steed, which was almost disjointed.—Don Quixote.

THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY

Though still serious-minded in the main, the world at the beginning of the Seventeenth century recognized and appreciated humor.

And, growing with what it fed upon the vein of humor became more marked and more important in literature.

Wherefore our outline must from now on be less comprehensive and more discriminating.

The field is getting too wide, the harvest too bountiful for[365] gleaning, even for general reaping; we can now only pluck spears of ripened grain.

An Outline can touch only the high spots, and though many wonderful flashes of wit and humor occur in the works of the most serious writers space cannot be given to such, it must be conserved for the definitely and intentionally humorous writers.

This is greatly to be regretted, for not infrequently the jests of the serious-minded are more intrinsically witty than those of professed humorists.

As an example may be mentioned George Herbert, the famous clergyman who was called Holy George Herbert.

His religious writings are interspersed with flashes of exquisite wit.

“God gave thy soul brave wings; put not those feathers Into a bed to sleep out all ill weathers,”

is a most graceful bit of word play.

And so with scores, even hundreds of worthy writers, among whose pages brilliant shafts of wit are found.

Such excursions we have no room for, and must abide by the inexorable laws of limitation.

Nor can such a matter as the Ballads be touched upon.

The historical ballads of this time were narrative poems of exceeding great length and usually, of exceeding great dulness. Fun they show, here and there, but the bulk of them are destitute of mirth-provoking lines.

Not so the Ballad Literature intended for social diversion and lovers of ribaldry. These, in large numbers, were put forth, and were oftener than not, founded on the old Jest Books, the Merry Tales, and even the Gesta and Fabliaux of earlier days.

Collections of these include the effusions of the balladists from the short stanzas, mere epigrams, to the intolerably long tales based on political or religious matters.

Yet it is at this juncture we must mention the name of Thomas Hobbes, the Malmesbury Philosopher, and a most important figure of the seventeenth century.

Not because of his own wit or humor, but of his understanding and valuation of it.

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His observations on laughter, hereinbefore referred to, must be quoted entire.

From Human Nature
LAUGHTER

There is a passion that hath no name; but the sign of it is that distortion of the countenance which we call laughter, which is always joy: but what joy, what we think, and wherein we triumph when we laugh, is not hitherto declared by any. That it consisteth in wit, or, as they call it, in the jest, experience confuteth; for men laugh at mischances and indecencies, wherein there lieth no wit nor jest at all. And forasmuch as the same thing is no more ridiculous when it groweth stale or usual, whatsoever it be that moveth laughter, it must be new and unexpected. Men laugh often—especially such as are greedy of applause from everything they do well—at their own actions performed never so little beyond their own expectations as also at their own jests: and in this case it is manifest that the passion of laughter proceedeth from a sudden conception of some ability in himself that laugheth. Also, men laugh at the infirmities of others by comparison wherewith their own abilities are set off and illustrated. Also men laugh at jests the wit whereof always consisteth in the elegant discovering and conveying to our minds some absurdity of another; and in this case also the passion of laughter proceedeth from the sudden imagination of our own odds and eminency; for what is else the recommending of ourselves to our own good opinion, by comparison with another man’s infirmity or absurdity? For when a jest is broken upon ourselves, or friends, of whose dishonour we participate, we never laugh thereat. I may therefore conclude that the passion of laughter is nothing else but sudden glory arising from a sudden conception of some eminency in ourselves, by comparison with the infirmity of others, or with our own formerly; for men laugh at the follies of themselves past, when they come suddenly to remembrance, except they bring with them any[367] present dishonour. It is no wonder, therefore, that men take heinously to be laughed at or derided—that is, triumphed over. Laughing without offence must be at absurdities and infirmities abstracted from persons, and when all the company may laugh together; for laughing to one’s self putteth all the rest into jealousy and examination of themselves. Besides, it is vain-glory, and an argument of little worth, to think the infirmity of another sufficient matter for his triumph.

Robert Herrick, among the most exquisite of lyric poets, was a classical scholar, addicted to Martial. His works, neglected for long years, came into their own about a century ago, and his spontaneous gayety and tenderness is not frequently equalled.

The temptation is to quote his lyrics, but his whimsical humor is more clearly shown in his waggish lines.

Thomas Carew, Edmund Waller, Sir John Suckling and Richard Lovelace all followed more or less in Herrick’s footsteps,[369] and though each possessed what is called a pretty wit, they were not primarily humorous writers.

A few poems are given, perhaps of more lyric than witty value.

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John Milton, second only to Shakespeare in all literature, is not usually looked upon as a humorist.

A wise commentator (of more wisdom than wit), has said, of Milton, “Few great poets are so utterly without humor; alone among the greatest poets he has not sung of love.”

We take objection to both these statements, though with the second we are not now concerned.

But surely no humorless pen could have indited L’Allegro, and as to less subtle humor, we give in evidence the well known Epitaph on the Carrier.