Part 22

1253. A good fellow having tippled rather too liberally, and his head being fuller of liquor than discretion, as he went along the streets, happened in the dark to run against a post; and he, conceiving it to have been some man that had affronted him, fell upon the post with his fists, and of course soon beat off all the skin from his knuckles. One coming by, demanded of him, what was the matter? Why, said he, I have met here with a rascal who jostled me, and will not suffer me to pass quietly by him. Alas, see, said the other, you are mistaken, it is a post. A post! said he, why then he should have blown his horn.

1254. A cook of one of the colleges at Cambridge, serving up dinner, gave to one of the assistants a neat’s tongue to put upon the table; the fellow not having firm hold of the dish, let it fall to the ground, so that it was not fit for serving, whereat the cook was very angry; the poor fellow begged the cook not to be so very angry, it was but a _lapsus linguae_.

1255. Two or three gentlemen visiting a citizen, he, at their departure, asked them if they would please to take a glass of beer, apologizing for its being small beer, but such as contented him and his family; they accepted it, saying, it was no matter for the smallness, so it were fresh. One of them tasting it, the other asked him if the beer was fresh. Yes, quoth he, I assure you it is fresh, as if it had been all night in water.

1256. At a general assizes in Queen Elizabeth’s days, two plain country fellows having some business there, were gazing upon the bench, until the time they should be called, discoursing betwixt themselves, said the one to the other, I much wonder at one thing, and would gladly be resolved thereof: the other demanding of him what it was he wished to know, was answered, I have often mused with myself, why all the judges go shaven, and there is no appearance of a beard to be seen amongst them all. To which the other replied, Neighbour, that is a doubt which is easily decided; for in this place they ought to wear no beards, for you ought to know they represent her majesty.

1257. In many towns of this kingdom, mechanics are often made mayors. Amongst others, one who was elected to that office, thought it would be but becoming that his wife should be dressed according to the dignity of the situation, and accordingly ordered her new apparel from top to toe; she not accustomed to such gaiety, was not a little proud, and coming somewhat late to church, at the moment when the auditory rose up for the reverence of the gospel, which she mistaking, and thinking it had been done to her, said aloud, I thank you all, my good friends and neighbours, I shall not be unmindful of this courtesy.

1258. A person being asked the reason why his head was so intermixed with white hairs, that it was indeed quite grey, and that not one could be seen in his beard, answered, It is no wonder, the hair of my head is older than that of my beard by twenty years.

1259. The parson of a country village, visiting one of his sick parishioners, among other comforting words, said to him, Be of good cheer, my good friend, for I hope thou wilt be carried into Paradise. To which the sick man replied, Your speech is comforting to me, for if the way is long, I should never be able to walk there.

1260. Two country fellows falling out, were at very hot words, insomuch that one gave the other the lie, who taking it in great disgrace, bent his fist and threatened revenge; the other, knowing himself unable to grapple with him, denied his words; in conclusion, the defendant was so pressed, that in plain terms he gave him the lie, saying, Thou liest to say I gave thee the lie. To which the other answered, It is well now at last that thou hast given me satisfaction.

1261. A country fellow had an idle housewife, who would do nothing but sit before the fire, and suffer everything to go to sixes and sevens; coming one day from his labour, and finding her sitting as customary, lolling by the fire, he took up a stick, and began to cudgel her soundly; at which she cried out, Alas, husband, what do you mean? you see I am doing nothing, I am doing nothing. That is the very reason why I am beating you, said he.

1262. A person who had a great shrew for his wife, in one of the quarrels, got so enraged, that he could not contain himself, but snatched up a flagon that happened to be near, and gave her a very deep wound on her head, the cost of curing which was very considerable. This woman sitting at another time among her gossips, said openly, My husband does not dare to break my head any more, he paid so dearly for the last cure. This being told to the husband, he sent for the apothecary and surgeon, and, calling for his wife, when they arrived, he paid each of them their bill, and also gave them money in advance, in earnest of the next cure she might require. We need not say, the husband was not further annoyed.

1263. An Irishman said to his companions on Christmas Eve, he did not mean to have a plum-pudding for dinner next day. Why so? asked they. Och, I have raisons for it. Then you did intend it, since you have got the _raisins_.

1264. A gentleman passing in dirty weather through a street in which the pavement had been broken up, got bespattered with mud―on looking about him in his distress, he saw written up on a board, “No thorough-fare”―Egad, said he, they may well say that; for I have proved it _thorough foul_.

1265. A distinguished gentleman, whose nose and chin are both very long, and who has lost his teeth, whereby the nose and chin are brought very close together, was told, I am afraid your nose and chin will fight before long, they approach each other so very menacingly. I was afraid of it myself, replied the gentleman, for a good many words have passed between them already.

1266. A servant, near Limerick, at the time that everybody was required to deliver in their arms, wrote to his master at Dublin, that he had secured the fire arms, having sent all the pokers and tongs to the barracks.

1267. A young lady at the Exhibition at the Suffolk Street Gallery, looking at a subject of still life,―plates, dishes, &c., asked the gentleman who accompanied her, to look in the catalogue and see what it was; he replied, A study. Why, goodness, said she, I took it for a kitchen!

1268. A fine ship was lately launched, at which Sir Henry Tempest attended. A wag observed, What a pity it is, that a tempest should accompany such a launch.

1269. On the expulsion of Mr. Jones from the Irish House of Commons, a punning wag remarked, that this was not In-I-go Jones―but Out-I-go Jones.

1270. Of a person as remarkable for his irregularity as for his musical talents, it was aptly remarked, that the whole tenor of his conduct was thorough base.

1271. A fashionable Irish gentleman having made a purchase of Hume’s History of England, went into a bookseller’s shop to have it most elegantly bound. What binding would you like best? asked the bookseller, would you like it bound in Russia? In Russia! exclaimed the man of fashion; Oh, no, no, that is too far off, I’d rather have it bound in Bond Street.

1272. A very corpulent gentleman travelling in the north, was walking backwards and forwards in front of an inn, while the horses were changing. One of the gapers, an inhabitant of the place, had a mind to be witty: viewing the gentleman’s person, he accosted him with―I see, sir, you carry your portmanteau before ye. Certainly, said he, I always think it requisite to have it under my eye, when passing through a suspicious looking place.

1273. Grattan being asked his opinion of the valour of a certain captain, who from excess of feeling put up with a severe castigation, replied, That he thought it odd, for to his knowledge the captain had fought. Who, who? cried his informant. Shy, said the witty barrister.

1274. A trader in Dublin, said one day to his friend, I will be ruined. I am sorry for it, said the other, but if you will be ruined, you know no one can prevent it.

1275. A gentleman being much pressed in company to sing a song, observed pettishly, That they only wanted to make a butt of him. By no means, my dear fellow, rejoined one of his tormentors, we only want to get a stave out of you.

1276. A Welchman coming to London to pursue a suit at law, chanced to steal a sow, for which he was taken and burnt in the hand. His friends asked him, when he arrived home, How the law went with him? Priddie well, said he, for hur has got hur in hur hand.

1277. What did Mr. King die of? asked a simple neighbour. Of a complication of disorders, replied his friend. How do you describe a complication, my good sir? He died, rejoined the other, of two physicians, an apothecary, and a surgeon.

1278. Parson Hawkins passing the River Wye, to Biford, where he lived, had with him one Bartholomew Herring, who, being heavy laden, fell over the side of the boat into the river; Hawkins cried out, Save the man, save the man. Herring answered, Hold your tongue, am I not in my element!

1279. Serjeant Hoskins having married an old widow, and being asked by a companion of his, Why he did not marry a young woman? answered, He had a maxim for it in his accidence, In _legendis veteribus proficiscis_, [In reading old authors thou dost profit.]

1280. A young man walking along Cheapside, espied a house shut up, with a bill over the door, showing that the house and shop were to be let. He asked a person at the next door, If the shop might be let alone? Yes, replied the other, you may let it alone, for anything I know.

1281. A gownsman at Cambridge was once bargaining with Fordham for a horse; the latter was taken suddenly very ill and died; there were very few pounds between them in respect to the price. The gownsman, not knowing what had occurred, called next morning at the yard, and asked to see Mr. Fordham. Master, sir, said the ostler, is dead, but he left word you should have the horse.

1282. A caravan of wild beasts arriving lately in an American village, the elephant was accommodated in a large carriage-house―where, it appeared, a tall two-fisted negro from the country, who had never seen or heard of an elephant, had lain down to sleep. On waking, blacky was not a little astonished at his strange bed-fellow. What could it be? The devil! The huge mass moved, when lo, a tail at both ends put an end to all doubt, and, with one despairing leap, he was out of the loft window, without once calculating upon the chance of breaking his neck. In the fulness of his astonishment and joy at his escape, he could tell no more of the occasion of his alarm, than of a devil with two tails, and describe in his best way, an extending, contracting, flexible tail, that no distance could secure you from.

1283. The following anecdote is related of Lessing, the German author, who, in his old age, was subject to extraordinary fits of abstraction. On his return home one evening, after he had knocked at his door, the servant looked out of the window to see who was there; not recognizing his master in the dark, and mistaking him for a stranger, he called out, The Professor is not at home. Oh, very well, replied Lessing, no matter, I will call another time; and very composedly walked away.

1284. A young clergyman finding it impossible to provide for his family with his very slender income, wrote to his friend―Dear Frank, I must part with my living to save my life.

1285. A bookseller in Paris being lately asked for a copy of the ‘Constitution of 1814,’ replied―Sir, I keep no periodicals.

1286. A lecturer on the history of chemistry, thus described the celebrated Mr. Boyle: He was a great man, a very great man; he was father of modern chemistry, and brother of the Earl of Cork.

_A Receipt to make an Epigram._

BY LORD HERVEY.

A pleasing subject first with care provide; Your matter must with nature be supplied; Nervous your diction, be your measure long, Nor fear your verse too stiff if sense be strong: In proper places proper numbers use, And now the quicker, now the slower chuse: Too soon the dactyl the performance ends, But the slow spondee coming thoughts suspends; Your last attention on the sting bestow, To that your good or ill success you’ll owe; For there, not wit alone must shine, but humour flow. Observing these, your epigram’s completed; Nor fear ’twill tire, though seven times repeated.

_On Ben Jonson’s Bust set up in Westminster Abbey, with the buttons on the wrong side of his coat._

BY THE REV. SAMUEL WESLEY.

O rare Ben Jonson! What, a turn-coat grown! Thou ne’er wert such till thou wert clad in stone. When time thy coat, thy only coat, impairs, Thou’lt find a patron in a hundred years: Then let not this mistake disturb thy sprite, Another age shall set thy buttons right.

_On Quin’s comparing Garrick to Whitfield, and complaining, that the people were madding it after him._

BY G―CK.

Pope Quin, who damns all churches but his own, Complains that heresy misleads the town, That Whitfield-Garrick does corrupt the age, And taints the sound religion of the stage. ―Thou great infallible! forbear to roar; Thy bulls and errors are revered no more: Where doctrines meet with general approbation, It is not heresy, but reformation.

_On Miss Biddy Floyd._ BY DEAN SWIFT.

When Cupid did his grandsire Jove intreat, To form some beauty by a new receipt, Jove sent and found, far in a country scene, Truth, innocence, good-nature, looks serene; From which ingredients first the dextrous boy Picked the demure, the awkward, and the coy: The Graces from the court did next provide Breeding, and wit, and air, and decent pride; These Venus cleansed from every spurious grain Of nice, coquet, affected, pert, and vain: Jove mixed up all, and his best clay employed, Then called the happy composition, Floyd.

_On the Gravestone of a Blacksmith, buried in Chester Church-yard._

My sledge and hammer lie reclined, My bellows too have lost their wind; My fire’s extinct, my forge decayed, And in the dust my vice is laid; My coal is spent, my iron’s gone, My nails are drove, my work is done; My fire-dried corpse lies here at rest, My soul, smoke like, is soaring to be blest.

_On a Monument intended to be erected for Mr. Rowe, by his Widow._

_Written before Mr. Dryden’s was set up._

BY MR. POPE.

Thy reliques, Rowe, to this fair shrine we trust, And, sacred, place by Dryden’s awful dust. Beneath a rude and nameless stone he lies, To which thy tomb shall gain inquiring eyes: Peace to thy gentle shade, and endless rest, Blest in thy genius, in thy love too blest; One grateful woman to thy fame supplied What a whole thankless land to his denied.

_On Maids._

Most maids resemble Eve now in their lives, Who are no sooner women, but they’re wives.

_On Giles Jacob, the Poet._ BY DR. SEWELL.

Parent of dulness! genuine son of night! Total eclipse! without one ray of light: Born when dull midnight bells for funerals chime, Just at the closing of the bellman’s rhyme.

BY DEAN SWIFT.

As Thomas was cudgelled one day by his wife, He took to his heels and ran for his life: Tom’s three dearest friends came by in the squabble, And skreened him at once from the shrew and the rabble; Then ventured to give him some wholesome advice: But Tom is a fellow of humour so nice, Too proud to take counsel, too wise to take warning, He sent to all three a challenge next morning: He fought with all three, thrice ventured his life, Then went home again, and was thrashed by his wife.

_Translated from_ BUCHANAN.

_Beginning_, Pauper eram juvenis, _&c._

Poor, when in youth, now worn with feeble age I’m rich; but wretched still in either stage: When wealth I could enjoy I then had none; Now plenty’s come, all power of use is gone.

_On a Company of bad Dancers to good Music._ BY MR. BUDGELL.

How ill the motion with the music suits! So Orpheus fiddled, and so danced the brutes.

_The Lover’s Legacy._

Unhappy Strephon, dead and cold, His heart was from his bosom rent, Embalmed, and in a box of gold, To his beloved Kitty sent.

Some ladies might, perhaps, have fainted, But Kitty smiled upon the bauble; A pin-cushion, said she, I wanted, Go put it on the dressing-table.

_The Scotch Weather-Wife._

Scotland, thy weather’s like a modish wife; Thy winds and rains maintain perpetual strife; So termagant, a while, her thunder hies; And when she can no longer scold―she cries.

_On Milton._ BY MR. DRYDEN.

Three poets, in three distant ages born, Greece, Italy, and England did adorn; The first in loftiness of thought surpast; The next in majesty; in both the last. The force of nature could no farther go― To make a third she joined the former two.

_Written, in the leaves of a Fan._

BY DR. ATTERBURY, A LATE BISHOP OF ROCHESTER.

Flavia the least and slightest toy, Can with resistless art employ: This fan in meaner hands would prove An engine of small force in love; Yet she with graceful air and mien, Not to be told or fairly seen, Directs its flowing motion so, That it wounds more than Cupid’s bow; Gives coolness to the matchless dame, To every other breast a flame.

_Written in Miss F―’s Pew at I― Church._

With awe, with pleasure and surprise, I view the lightning of your eyes; Lightning! that wounds me as it flies.

What prayer! what vow! to Heaven can go? For all devotion you subdue; At least, ’tis all transferred to you.

In vain is human strength―its boasted art― While you sit here, you share my vows in part; To Y―[4] I give my ears, to you my eyes and heart.

[4] The Minister.

_The Lucky Man._ BY MR. WELSTED.

I owe, says Metius, much to Colon’s care; Once only seen, he chose me for his heir: True, Metius; hence your fortunes take their rise; His heir you were not, had he seen you twice.

_To Mr. T―d, on his complimenting Mr. F―de on his Poetry._

F―de writes well, you say; suppose it true, You pawn your word for him;―he’ll vouch for you; So two poor knaves, when once their credit fail, To cheat the world, become each other’s bail.

_On a handsome Woman, with a fine voice, but very covetous and proud._

So bright is thy beauty, so charming thy song, As had drawn both the beasts, and their Orpheus along; But such is thy avarice and such is thy pride, That the beasts must have starved, and the poet have died.

_Venus mistaken._ BY MR. PRIOR.

When Chloe’s picture was to Venus shown, Surprised, the goddess took it for her own; And what, said she, does this bold painter mean? When was I bathing thus, and naked seen? Pleased, Cupid heard, and checked his mother’s pride; And who’s blind now, mamma? the urchin cried. ’Tis Chloe’s eye, and cheek, and lip, and breast, Friend Howard’s genius fancied all the rest.

_Epitaph on Mr. Harcourt’s Tomb._ BY MR. POPE.

To this sad shrine, whoe’er thou art, draw near, Here lies the friend most wept, the son most dear, Who ne’er knew joy but friendship might divide, Nor gave his father grief―but when he died. How vain is reason! eloquence how weak! When Pope must tell what Harcourt cannot speak. Yet let thy once-loved friend inscribe the stone, And with a father’s sorrow mix his own. Ah, no! ’tis vain to strive―it will not be; No grief that can be told is felt for thee.

_Prometheus ill-painted._ BY MR. COWLEY.

How wretched does Prometheus’ state appear, Whilst he his second misery suffers here. Draw him no more, lest, as he tortured stands, He blame great Jove’s less than the painter’s hands. It would the vulture’s cruelty outgo, If once again his liver thus should grow. Pity him, Jove, and his bold theft allow; The flames he once stole from thee grant him now.

_On a Lady who pretended to tell Fortunes._ BY MR. MOTTLEY.

Some oracles of old, to cause more wonder, Were, when pronounced, accompanied with thunder: But thy predictions come not in a storm, They are delivered by the brightest form: If, when you speak, Jove does not pierce the sky, Yet still you’ve all his lightning in your eye.

_The Cure of Love._

When, Chloe, I confess my pain, In gentle words your pity show; But gentle words are all in vain, Such gales my flame but higher blow.

Ah, Chloe, would you cure the smart Your conqu’ring eyes have keenly made, Yourself upon my bleeding heart― Yourself, fair Chloe, must be laid.

Thus for the viper’s sting we know, No surer remedy is found, Than to apply the tort’ring foe, And squeeze his venom on the wound

_Epitaph on an unknown Person._

Without a name, for ever senseless, dumb, Dust, ashes, nought else, lies within this tomb. Where’er I lived, or died, it matters not; To whom related, or by whom begot; I was, but am not, ask no more of me― It’s all I am, and all that thou shalt be.

_Epitaph._

Here lies a lady, who, if not belied, Took wise St Paul’s advice, and all things tried; Nor stopt she here; but followed through the rest, And always stuck the longest to the best.

_In a window of a room in the Tower of London is written_;

R. WALPOLE, 1712.

_Underneath that, are the following lines_:

Good unexpected, evil unforeseen, Appear by turns, as fortune shifts the scene: Some, raised aloft, come tumbling down again, And fall so hard, they bound to rise again.

_The Artist._ BY MR. CONCANEN.

Very nicely thou lay’st on thy colours, dear Nan, And no painter in skill can o’ertop ye; When to Ellys you sat, he dully brushed on, Till he thought he had an original drawn, Which you proved to be only a copy.

_Epitaph on a talkative old Maid._

Beneath this silent stone is laid A noisy antiquated maid, Who, from her cradle, talked till death, And ne’er before was out of breath. Whither she’s gone we cannot tell, For if she talks not she’s in hell: If she’s in heaven she’s there unblest, Because she hates a place of rest.

_A Simile._

Women to cards may be compared: we play A round or two; when used, we throw away, Take a fresh pack; nor is it worth our grieving Who cuts and shuffles with the dirty leaving.

* * * * *

Thais, her teeth are black and naught, Lucania’s white are grown: But what’s the reason? These are bought, The other wears her own.

_The disappointed Husband._

_Mulieri ne crede, ne mortuæ quidem._

A scolding wife so long a sleep possessed, Her spouse presumed her soul was now at rest. Sable was called to hang the room in black; And all their cheer was sugar-rolls and sack. Two mourning staffs stood sentry at the door; And silence reigned, who ne’er was there before. The cloaks, and tears, and handkerchiefs prepared, They marched in woeful pomp to Abchurch Yard; When see of narrow streets what mischiefs come! The very dead can’t pass in quiet home: By some rude jolt, the coffin lid was broke, And madam from her dream of death awoke. Now all was spoiled: the undertaker’s pay, Sour faces, cakes, and wine, quite thrown away. But some years after, when the former scene Was acted, and the coffin nailed again, The tender husband took especial care, To keep the passage from disturbance clear; Charging the bearers that they tread aright, Nor put his dear in such another fright.

* * * * *

Among the fair that Hyde Park Circus grace, Canidia seeks admirers of her face; In vain her airs, her wanton arts she tries, Among those beauties that engage all eyes: Bright rays, like diamonds, they around ’em fling, Whilst she is but the cipher of the ring.

_On a Robbery._