Young writer, young artist, whoever you be, I pray you go to work in this roaring, toiling, machine-clanking, sunny, stormy, terrible, joyful, commonplace, vulgar, tremendous world indownright earnest. By all the altars of Greek beauty themselves, I swear it to you; yes, by all that Raphael painted and Shakspeare taught; by all the glory and dignity of all art and of all Thought! you will find your most splendid successes not in cultivating the worn-out romantic, but inlovingthe growing Actual of life. Master the past if you will, but only that you may the more completely forget it in the present. He or she is best and bravest among you who gives us the freshest draughts of reality and of Nature. It lies all around you—in the foul smoke and smell of the factory, amid the crash and slip of heavy wheels on muddy stones, in the blank-gilt glare of the steamboat saloon, by the rattling chips of the faro table, in the quiet, gentle family circle, in the opera, in the six-penny concert, the hotel, the watering-place, on the prairie, in the prison. Not as the poor playwright and little sensation-story grinder see them, not as the manufacturers of Magdalen elegies and mock-moral and mock-philanthropical tales skim them, but in their truth and freshness as facts, around and through which sweep incessantly the infinite joys and agonies, the dreams and loves and despair ofhumanity. Heavens! is notLifeas earnest and as mysterious and as well worth the fierce grapple ofGenius, here andnow, in this American nineteenth century, as it ever was under the cedars of Italy, the olives of Greece, or the palms of Morning Land? Are there not as much, or more vigor and raciness in the practical souls of the multitude and in their never-ending strife with Nature, as among the spoiled and dainty darlings of fortune and among the nerveless, mind-emasculated Victims of Society who sing us their endless Miserere from the Sistine chapels of fashionable novels? You know there is, and if you watch the time, you may see that it is the warm truth from real life, which is most eagerly read and which goes most directly to the hearts of all. Never yet in history was there an age or a country so rich in great ideas, in great developments, or which offered such copious material to the writer as these of ours. Be bold and seize it with a strong hand. Those who are to live after us will wonder aswe now do of the great eras of the past, that there were so few on the spot to picture them. Yet, why speak ofgreatscenes, when humanity and Nature are always great—great in small things even, far beyond our utmost power of apprehension? Forget the spirit of the past, live in the present, and thus—and thus only—you will secure a glorious and undying reward in the future.
Young writer, young artist, whoever you be, I pray you go to work in this roaring, toiling, machine-clanking, sunny, stormy, terrible, joyful, commonplace, vulgar, tremendous world indownright earnest. By all the altars of Greek beauty themselves, I swear it to you; yes, by all that Raphael painted and Shakspeare taught; by all the glory and dignity of all art and of all Thought! you will find your most splendid successes not in cultivating the worn-out romantic, but inlovingthe growing Actual of life. Master the past if you will, but only that you may the more completely forget it in the present. He or she is best and bravest among you who gives us the freshest draughts of reality and of Nature. It lies all around you—in the foul smoke and smell of the factory, amid the crash and slip of heavy wheels on muddy stones, in the blank-gilt glare of the steamboat saloon, by the rattling chips of the faro table, in the quiet, gentle family circle, in the opera, in the six-penny concert, the hotel, the watering-place, on the prairie, in the prison. Not as the poor playwright and little sensation-story grinder see them, not as the manufacturers of Magdalen elegies and mock-moral and mock-philanthropical tales skim them, but in their truth and freshness as facts, around and through which sweep incessantly the infinite joys and agonies, the dreams and loves and despair ofhumanity. Heavens! is notLifeas earnest and as mysterious and as well worth the fierce grapple ofGenius, here andnow, in this American nineteenth century, as it ever was under the cedars of Italy, the olives of Greece, or the palms of Morning Land? Are there not as much, or more vigor and raciness in the practical souls of the multitude and in their never-ending strife with Nature, as among the spoiled and dainty darlings of fortune and among the nerveless, mind-emasculated Victims of Society who sing us their endless Miserere from the Sistine chapels of fashionable novels? You know there is, and if you watch the time, you may see that it is the warm truth from real life, which is most eagerly read and which goes most directly to the hearts of all. Never yet in history was there an age or a country so rich in great ideas, in great developments, or which offered such copious material to the writer as these of ours. Be bold and seize it with a strong hand. Those who are to live after us will wonder aswe now do of the great eras of the past, that there were so few on the spot to picture them. Yet, why speak ofgreatscenes, when humanity and Nature are always great—great in small things even, far beyond our utmost power of apprehension? Forget the spirit of the past, live in the present, and thus—and thus only—you will secure a glorious and undying reward in the future.
The fault of this volume, in the eyes of many readers, will be a certain confusion in the arrangement of the matter, and the want of sufficient expansion in the development of some of its leading suggestions. But it must be judged as the earnest utterances of a poet, rather than a grave didactic treatise. With the purpose which the author had in view, a spice of rhapsody is no defect. He presents a beautiful example of the smiling wisdom of which he is such an eloquent advocate. He has an intuitive sense of the genial and joyous aspects of life, and has no sympathies to waste on the victims of 'carking care' or morbid melancholy. A more complete exposition of the conditions of cheerfulness in the nature of man, would furnish materials for an interesting volume; but it belongs more properly to an ethical or philosophical discourse. We will not complain of the author for not doing what he has not attempted—for what he had no inward call or outward occasion; what he could not have accomplished but at the sacrifice of much which constitutes the charm and grace of the present work; while we cordially thank him for this endeavor to speak a cheering word in behalf of the joyousness of life, and to spread 'sunshine in the shady place.'
R.
FOOTNOTES:[3]Sunshine in Thought.ByCharles Godfrey Leland. 12mo, pp. 197. New York: Geo. P. Putnam.
[3]Sunshine in Thought.ByCharles Godfrey Leland. 12mo, pp. 197. New York: Geo. P. Putnam.
[3]Sunshine in Thought.ByCharles Godfrey Leland. 12mo, pp. 197. New York: Geo. P. Putnam.
There is nothing which contributes so much to ease social intercourse as the jest. In comparison with it, the proverb is only a humble subordinate, and song itself, with all its power, but a weak influence. Yet the song and the proverb boast a critical literature, while the brief compendiums of merriment which never die, which, once written, live through every age, and force their way through every penetrable language, are undoubtedly less studied than any other popular medium of feeling.
What is a jest? It is as little worth the while to try to define its nature, as it is to analyze wit. We all know that the world laughs, and what it laughs at, and what the droll saws, anecdotes, rhymes, quips, and facetiæ are, which give fame to a Bebel, or a Frischlin, a Tom Brown, and a Joseph Miller. Leave labored analysis to the philosophers, contenting ourselves with remarking that a jest is a laugh candied or frozen in words, and thawed and relished in the reading or utterance. And laughter? When a man is too lazy to think out an idea, and yet too active to dreamilyfeelit, he laughs. When he catches its leading points, and yet realizes that behind them remains the incomprehensible or incongruous, he settles it for the nonce with a smile. Hence it comes that we laugh so seldom with all our heart, a second time over a jest. It has beencomprehended; the mystery, the sense of contradiction and incongruity, has vanished—we may revive it in others, and laugh electrically with them; but the first piquant gusto ofitsspice is gone forever.
Yet the jest, like the proverb, acquires a value by becoming current. It often illustrates an opinion or an experience, and when it is much worn, it may still gain a new point, by being brought into illustrative relation with some event or idea. Esop's fables, or any fables, are, after all, only good jokes in a narrative form, which owe their fame simply to their boundless capacity for application. Sidney Smith's story of Mrs. Partington, who tried to mop out the Atlantic, was a jest, and so too was Lady Macbeth's 'cat i' the adage,' who wanted fish, yet would not wet her paws, and let 'I dare not' wait upon 'I would.'Somethingof our old enjoyment of a joke for the first time, always lingers around it, and we gladly laugh again—for, 'old love never quite rusts out.' And there are many jests, which, owing to their boundless variety of application, always come before us in a new light. Such are those which illustrate character. Woe to the man among the vulgar, who once becomes the scape-goat of a story on the subject of a joke-anecdote which 'shows him up.' Woe in truth, if it grow to a nickname—for then he, of all persons, learns that there are jests which never lose their sting.
Some jests have been progressive—they have been re-made to suit the times. Diogenes, when asked which wine he preferred, replied, 'That of other people.' An Englishman answered to the same question, 'The O. P. brand,' referring the initials not only to Other People, but also to the far-famed Old Particular stamp which marked certain rare varieties—or, as others explain it, to 'Old Port.' The Scholastikos of Hierocles, having a house for sale, carried a brick around as a sample—a modern story says that a commander when asked of what material his fortifications were built, called up his troops, and said: 'There!—every man's a brick.' Here we have the 'living walls' of the Romans—two old stories blended into one, and the whole greatly strengthened by a modern slang expression. When thus changed to suit the times, jests, instead of growing old, rather grow new again. Not unfrequently, a single joke becomes, in this manner, the parent of scores of others. I think that it is Mr. Wendell Phillips, who, in a lecture on Lost Arts, declares that there were never yet more than twenty-five original 'good stories,' and that all of those now current may be traced back to them. In a certain sense, the assertion is true; but it is a mistake to confound the result of a cause with the cause itself, and an error to declare the descendant to be one and the same with the ancestor. Max Muller has proved that hundreds of words of the most different meanings descend from the same root, and, in like manner, we might show, if the traditional links were supplied, that the last 'good one' current at Washington, originated at the court of King Pharaoh. Let no one laugh, for Chaucer's Clerke of Oxforde's Tale was for years told, with Daniel Webster and Henry Clay as the heroes, and we have even met with a bold Southron who 'knewthat it was true of them!'
In this connection it is worth while to observe that even the slang phrases of the day, which are popular, partly because theysave trouble in thinking, and partly because the vulgar mind, like the vulgar ear, finds a relief or pleasure in monotony—are not unfrequently of ancient origin. The current expression, 'a high old time,' occurs in a Latin jest, given in an old German-Latin jest-book, which, as its preface asserts, consists entirely of a reprint from still older works. 'Henricus,' it says, 'was begged to make at a wedding (Hoch zeit—literally, 'high time') a wedding song, and complied with the following:
'Iste vetus Juvenis Socius prius ad stationem arripitAtquealtum tempushabere cupit.'[4]
The expression is better in its old form, sincealtummeans both high and old. Those who have laughed at the instance in 'Ferdinand Count Fathom,' of the Dutchman, who boasted that his brother had written a great book of poetry as thick as a cheese, may find its original 'motive' in an anecdote given in the same work.
'A peasant going to a lawyer, begged him to undertake a case for him, to which the man of law assenting, began to refer to and read in a very small book. But the peasant, who saw many large folios in the study, touched the advocate on the arm and said:'Sir—please read some in agreatbook also, for this is certainly a big case which I have brought to you.'
'A peasant going to a lawyer, begged him to undertake a case for him, to which the man of law assenting, began to refer to and read in a very small book. But the peasant, who saw many large folios in the study, touched the advocate on the arm and said:
'Sir—please read some in agreatbook also, for this is certainly a big case which I have brought to you.'
Everybody knows the story of the fortune hunter who commanded his servant to duplicate in the affirmative, when he should be in conversation, all his assertions. 'I have a fine farm,' said he. 'Faith, ye mane ye have two on thim,' interpolated his Irishman; and so it went on, until the master admitted that he had a cork leg. 'Twofalse ligs,an' ye know it,' cried out the man. This is somewhat varied and enlarged from the old story as given in theFacetiæof Bebel, in which the nobleman, remarking to his lady-love that he was 'a little out of sorts,'—'dixit ille, se pallidulum parumque infirmum,' was interrupted by his servant with: 'And no wonder, since you suffer with such a terrible and incurable quotidian disease!'[5]
If all stories and jests are to be traced to a few originals, perhaps the many eccentric tales of Jack on horseback may be found in a very old anecdote of a certainVenetus insuetus ac nescius equitare—a Venetian unaccustomed to and ignorant of riding, who, when mounted on horseback, having inadvertently spurred the animal, exclaimed, as it reared and plunged:
'Lord! the waves of the sea are nothing to those on land,'—thinking that the leaping of his steed was caused by a sudden storm! The anecdotes of absent-mindedness may find a prototype in a very old monk-Latin anecdote of a certain doctor who went riding 'cum Palatino Rheni,' with the Prince Palatine, and who, on being told that he had no breeches on, replied: 'Credebam, ô princeps, mihi famulum ea induisse.' 'I thought, oh prince, that my valet had put them on!' Domine Sampson and the magistrate who appeared un-breeched before General Washington, are both anticipated in these absent small-clothes.
Many of the capital extravagances contained in 'Baron Munchausen' are borrowed literally from the old Latin jest-books. The incident of the wild pig which led about by its tail a blind wild boar, so that when the former was slain the latter was taken home by simply giving it the tail to hold, is of very respectable antiquity—as is also the story of the horse cut in two—attributed by Bebel to a locksmith. The locksmiths, he tells us in the parenthesis, are the boldest of Major Longbows.
There are many jests current in all languages, quizzing the vanity of humble persons suddenly raised to some small dignity. 'Neebors, I am still but a mon,' remarked the Scotchman, who became mayor.[6]Perhaps their type is latent in the 'De rustica præfecti uxore—the village magistrate's wife,—which runs as follows:
'When a certain man had been made a prefect of a small village, he bought his wife a new fur garment (melotam). She, proud of her finery and full of her new honor, entered church,capite elato et superbo, with her head raised, just as all the congregation rose to their feet, when the Gospel was to be read. When she, thinking it to be in her honor, and recollecting her former condition, said: Sit still! I have not forgotten that I was once poor!'
'When a certain man had been made a prefect of a small village, he bought his wife a new fur garment (melotam). She, proud of her finery and full of her new honor, entered church,capite elato et superbo, with her head raised, just as all the congregation rose to their feet, when the Gospel was to be read. When she, thinking it to be in her honor, and recollecting her former condition, said: Sit still! I have not forgotten that I was once poor!'
A very great proportion of the shrewd retorts and witty replies attributed togreat men are very old. 'What do you think of soldiers who can endure such wounds?' remarked Napoleon, when, showing a frightfully scarred grenadier to an Englishman. 'What does your majesty think of the men who gave the wounds?' was the reply. It is essentially the remark of Louis the Bavarian, who, on enlisting four soldiers famed for incredible bravery, and observing that they were scarred from head to foot, said to them: 'Ye are brave fellows; but I had rather see the mena quibus tot vulnera accepistis—from whom ye received so many wounds.' The number of witty retorts and droll stories associated with the names of Talleyrand, Piron, Voltaire—in fact, to a certain degree, of almost all great men—is so great as to almost persuade the reader who wanders in the neglected field of ancient humor, that no man of the later centuries was ever capable of a single witty and original thought. It is not long since I met with an anecdote, stating that Alexandre Dumas, who had a very unattractive wife, one day surprised a gentleman in the act of tenderly embracing her. In a compassionate and astonished tone the novelist exclaimed: 'Poor man! why do you act so? I am sure that nobody could have compelled you to it against your will.' 'Eh! monsieur, qui est-ce qui vous y obligeait?' The jest is 'old as the hills'—it was old before Dumas was born. So, too, with the amusing bit of naïveté attributed to an English duchess, who, to express her deeply-seated religious prejudices, declared that she would sooner have a dozen Protestant husbands than one Catholic. The same point is expressed as follows, in a very witty but extremely wicked collection of facetiæ of the seventeenth century:[7]
Displicet, insignis, mihi Clericus ordo puellaInquit et est valde gens odiosa mihi.Malo decem certè me consociare colonis,Unicum Clero quam coiisse velim.
Sir Isaac Newton, and I know not how many other philosophers, have been made to learn by a current story how to bear coals—literally. A learned man, it is said, being asked by a little girl for a live coal, offered to bring her a fire shovel. 'It is not necessary,' replied the child, and having laid cold ashes on her palm, she placed a glowing ember on them and bore it away safely. 'With all my wisdom,' said the sage, 'I should never have thought of that!' The jest is of mediæval antiquity—possibly pre-Latin—it was in later days, however, versified by Schurrias—an extremely aged and dying woman being substituted for the learned man.
'Nam nudâ poteris ignea ferre manu?Parva puella refert: mater, perizomate prunasPortabo flammæ ne nocuisse queant.Quid facies igitur, Anus inquit? Serviet hicceMi cinis, illa refert; quo super hasce feram.Mox exclamat Anus: disco, moriorque profecto.En disco moriens quæ latuere senem:O, ich lern und stirb!'
A very great number of the 'good stories' current at the present day with new names and faces, are to be found in the works of Rabelais, and in theMoyen Parvenir, now generally attributed to him. It is almost needless to say that few of these were however original with the great French humorist. We find them in the Macaronics of Merlin Coccaius, and in scores of older authorities. Still it must be borne in mind that a similarity does not always establish an identity. There are few persons who cannot cite some droll instance of a sharper or greedy fellow, who, expecting an undeserved reward for some sham service, has found himself drolly overreached. So Rabelais dresses up for us anew the fable of the woodman, who, having lost his hatchet, and wearied Jupiter with prayers for its recovery, was tempted by Mercury with a golden hatchet, and asked if it were the missing article. He answering 'No,' received the precious one for reward. Which being made known, excited great hopesamong his neighbors of becoming rich by the same means:
'Ha, ha! said they—was there no more to do but to lose a hatchet to make us rich? Now for that; it is as easy as ——, and will cost us but little. Are then at this time of the year the revolutions of the heavens, the constellations of the firmament and aspects of the planets such that whosoever shall lose a hatchet, shall immediately grow rich? Ha, ha, ha! by Jove you shall even be lost and it please you, my dear hatchet! With this they all fairly lost their hatchets out of hand. The devil of 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 Aesopian apologue even saith, that certain petty country gents of the lower class who had sold the Woodman their little mill and little field to have wherewithal to make a figure at the next muster, having been told that his treasure was come to him by this only means, sold the only badge of their gentility, their swords, to purchase hatchets to go lose them, as the silly clodpates did, in hopes to gain store of chink 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 penny-worth of a new-made pope.'Now they cried out and brayed, and prayed and bawled, 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 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.'Everyhewas still 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 ground, whip, in a trice, Mercury chopped off their heads, as Jupiter had commanded; and of heads thus cut off the number was just equal to that of the lost hatchets.'
'Ha, ha! said they—was there no more to do but to lose a hatchet to make us rich? Now for that; it is as easy as ——, and will cost us but little. Are then at this time of the year the revolutions of the heavens, the constellations of the firmament and aspects of the planets such that whosoever shall lose a hatchet, shall immediately grow rich? Ha, ha, ha! by Jove you shall even be lost and it please you, my dear hatchet! With this they all fairly lost their hatchets out of hand. The devil of 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 Aesopian apologue even saith, that certain petty country gents of the lower class who had sold the Woodman their little mill and little field to have wherewithal to make a figure at the next muster, having been told that his treasure was come to him by this only means, sold the only badge of their gentility, their swords, to purchase hatchets to go lose them, as the silly clodpates did, in hopes to gain store of chink 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 penny-worth of a new-made pope.
'Now they cried out and brayed, and prayed and bawled, 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 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.
'Everyhewas still 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 ground, whip, in a trice, Mercury chopped off their heads, as Jupiter had commanded; and of heads thus cut off the number was just equal to that of the lost hatchets.'
This is but a small portion of the fable as amplified by Rabelais; but what is cited illustrates theaccretivepower of a jest when it involves a principle of general application. The same idea—that of roguery rewarded according to the letter—is involved in an anecdote, which tells us that a certain alchemist having dedicated to Pope Leo the Tenth a book containing the whole art of making gold, received as recompense a great empty purse, with the words: 'If thou canst make gold, thou art far richer than I; but herein is a purse wherein thou mayest put thy gold.'
In the GermanLallenbuch, as well as other works, we find the story of the stupid fellow who, coming to the banks of a river, waited long and in vain until the water should all have rolled by. It is given in the following form in a very droll collection of jests:[8]
'Rustici cujusdam filius à patre in proximam urbem missus, quum ad flumen aliquod pervenisset, diu dum integrum deflueret, sicque transitum præberet, expectans, tandem ubi continuo aquam fluere vidit, domum reversus est, de eo quod sibi accidisset, parentibus conquestus.'
'Rustici cujusdam filius à patre in proximam urbem missus, quum ad flumen aliquod pervenisset, diu dum integrum deflueret, sicque transitum præberet, expectans, tandem ubi continuo aquam fluere vidit, domum reversus est, de eo quod sibi accidisset, parentibus conquestus.'
But the story was old, centuries before the monks—for even Horace sums it up in two verses as one quotes a well-known popular proverb:
'Rusticus exspectat dum defluat amnis: at illeLabitur et labetur in omne volubilis ævum.''The clown awaits until the flood be gone:It glides and whirls for ages ever on.'
The reader has probably heard of the apocryphal twelfth commandment, 'Mind your own business.' Possibly its existence was suggested by the discovery of thefirst, told as follows in theDemocritus Ridens.
'A certain soldier being asked by his pastor what was the first commandment given by GOD, replied, 'Thou shalt not eat!' At which answer the priest inquiring what he meant, received for reply that this was the first command to our first parents relative to the apple.Quo audito, Pastor conticuit!Which having heard, the priest was silent.'
'A certain soldier being asked by his pastor what was the first commandment given by GOD, replied, 'Thou shalt not eat!' At which answer the priest inquiring what he meant, received for reply that this was the first command to our first parents relative to the apple.Quo audito, Pastor conticuit!Which having heard, the priest was silent.'
Of the same family or parentage is the modern story of the clergyman who, wishing to preach against the extravagant head-dresses worn by the women of his congregation, took for a text, 'Top knot come down!' referring forhis authority to Matthew xxiv. 17. In like manner a not over-learned brother is said to have expounded Genesis, chap. xxii. v. 23, as follows: 'These eight Milcah bear.' This shows us, my brethren, what hard times they had of old, when it took eight on 'em to milk a bar (and I 'spose get mighty little at that), when nowadays my darter kin milk a cow with nary help, as easy as look at her.'
Every one has heard of the Irishman crossing the brook. 'Sure, Paddy, if ye carry me, don't I carry the barrel of whiskey, an' isn't that fair and aiquil?' It is differently told in one of the old Latin jest books, where a certain Piero, pitying his weary jackass, which bore a heavy plough, took the latter on his own shoulders, and mounting the donkey, said: 'Nune procedere poteris, non enim tu sed ego aratrum fero,'—'Now you may go along, for not you but I now bear the plough.' Not a few of the jokes given to modern Irishmen originated centuries ago in other countries than theirs. The reader may recall the advice given by an Emeralder to another at a tavern, when the latter found that his boiled egg was ready to hatch. 'Down wid it, Murphy, ye divil, before the landlord comes in and charges ye for achicken breakfast!' The same occurs as an old Latin joke, with this difference, that, in the latter, the companion, when the breakfast was over, required that the chicken eater should pay the reckoning for both. 'Ni facis, dicam cauponi de pullo quem pro ovo absumpsisti, et solves largius.' 'Unless you do, I will tell the landlord of the chicken which you ate for an egg, andthensee what a bill you'll have to pay.'
The Germans of the present day have a story of a certain Englishman who, on being told that his coat was burning, politely replied: 'What the devil business is that of yours? I have seen your coat burning this half hour, and never bothered myself about it.' Tom Brown tells us of a roguish boy who said to a traveller, warming his feet at a fire: 'Take care, sir, or you'll burn your spurs!' 'My boots! you mean,' quoth the traveller. 'No, sir, I mean your spurs; your boots be burned already.' But the best form of the joke is given by Erasmus in his Adages, as follows:
'A certain traveller in Holland lay so near the fire that his cloak was scorched. Which being observed by a guest, he said to the sleeper, 'Here—I want to tell you something!' To which the other replied: 'If it is bad news, put it off, for I don't wish to hear any in company where all should be jolly.Post convivium, inquit, seria—'save up the sorrow until after supper.' And when they had merrily supped, 'Now,' said he, 'I am ready to hear it.' Then the other showed him and immense hole in his cloak, and he began to rage that he had not been warned of it in time. 'I wished to do so,' replied the guest meekly, 'but you forbade me.'
'A certain traveller in Holland lay so near the fire that his cloak was scorched. Which being observed by a guest, he said to the sleeper, 'Here—I want to tell you something!' To which the other replied: 'If it is bad news, put it off, for I don't wish to hear any in company where all should be jolly.Post convivium, inquit, seria—'save up the sorrow until after supper.' And when they had merrily supped, 'Now,' said he, 'I am ready to hear it.' Then the other showed him and immense hole in his cloak, and he began to rage that he had not been warned of it in time. 'I wished to do so,' replied the guest meekly, 'but you forbade me.'
The witty sayings of men about to be executed are numerous, but are in many cases far from being original or authentic. During the horrors of the French Revolution, when men 'became so accustomed to death that they lost all respect for it,' it became the fashion to make a jest with the last breath, and it is said that a volume of these sayings was collected and published. In theDemocritus Ridens, already referred to, under the head ofJocus sub necem, the author gives several anecdotes, more than one of which has been attributed in modern times to some noted criminal:
'Those condemned to death are not infrequently so excited and confused as to lose their wits and joke most improperly. As an example, take that man who, when standing on the scaffold, said with a smile to the judge who was present: 'I wonder, old fellow, that you with such a turned-up nose can see anything!''Another when about to die asked for a parting cup. A goblet of beer was brought, from which he carefully blew away the froth, saying that it was 'unhealthy and conducive to the gravel.''Another on the way to the gallows, seeing a crowd hastening forward, said to them: 'There is no need of hurrying, children; even though you go as slowly as I, for depend upon it, the thing will not come off till I get there.''Another on quitting the prison, turning to his jailor, said privately: 'You needn't keep the house open beyond the usual time this evening on my account, for I shall not return.'''Another is said, when about to be shipwrecked, to have called for salt meat. And being asked why? replied: 'Because I shall soon have to drink more than I ever did in all my life.'O ridiculos et o insanos homunculos!adds the old writer: 'O foolish and mad worms of men who could thus joke at the very opening instant of eternity!''
'Those condemned to death are not infrequently so excited and confused as to lose their wits and joke most improperly. As an example, take that man who, when standing on the scaffold, said with a smile to the judge who was present: 'I wonder, old fellow, that you with such a turned-up nose can see anything!'
'Another when about to die asked for a parting cup. A goblet of beer was brought, from which he carefully blew away the froth, saying that it was 'unhealthy and conducive to the gravel.'
'Another on the way to the gallows, seeing a crowd hastening forward, said to them: 'There is no need of hurrying, children; even though you go as slowly as I, for depend upon it, the thing will not come off till I get there.'
'Another on quitting the prison, turning to his jailor, said privately: 'You needn't keep the house open beyond the usual time this evening on my account, for I shall not return.''
'Another is said, when about to be shipwrecked, to have called for salt meat. And being asked why? replied: 'Because I shall soon have to drink more than I ever did in all my life.'O ridiculos et o insanos homunculos!adds the old writer: 'O foolish and mad worms of men who could thus joke at the very opening instant of eternity!''
This last instance of dying recklessness has been used by Rabelais as one of the jests of Panurge. Much like it is the anecdote to the effect that in a storm at sea, when the sailors were all at prayers, expecting every moment to go to the bottom, a passenger appeared quite unconcerned. The captain asked him how he could be so much at his ease in this awful situation. 'Sir,' said the passenger, 'my life is insured.'
Somewhat allied to this spirit of blindness was the remark of the Greek to his slave during a terrible storm at sea. Seeing the latter weeping, he exclaimed, 'Why are you so troubled—I give you your freedom?' And allied to it is the well-known epigram:
'It blew a hard storm and in utmost confusionThe sailors all hurried to get absolution;Which done, and the weight of the sins they confessedWas conveyed, as they thought, from themselves to the priest:To lighten the ship and conclude their devotion,They tossed the poor parson souse into the ocean.'
One of the coarse jokes current with the last generation was that of a sailor who, when a duke with his lady was on board ship, and all expected soon to be lost, asked the mate if he had ever lain with a duchess? The other answering in fear and trembling, 'no,' was told by the reckless fellow: 'Well, we shall all have that pleasure soon.' The ship, however, was saved, and the sailor being asked by the duke what he meant by his insulting remark, replied: 'At the bottom of the sea, your grace, we all lie low in death together.' And he was pardoned. It is remarkable that in all ages wit has been suffered to save men when better qualities would perhaps be of no avail.
We may class with these jests of menin articulo mortisthe droll story told by Bebelius, to the effect that a certain duke having caught a miller in the act of stealing, asked his victim as he stood beneath the gallows, to swear by his faith if he believed that there was on earth a single man of his calling who was honest. To which the miller stoutly swore that to his knowledge there was not one who was not a greater thief than himself. 'If that be the case,' replied his judge, 'go in peace and live while you may, for I had rather be robbed by you than by some more rapacious rascal of your trade.'
An excellent illustration of the fact that old stories are frequently revamped to suit new times and men, may be found in the following 'original,' also given by Bebelius, asPulchrum factum cujusdam militis Tubigentis—a fine deed of a certain soldier of Tübingen:
'Conrad Buhel of Tübingen, distinguished by his bravery among the captains of Cæsar Maximilian in the Hungarian campaign, was, once in camp, lying on the straw and expecting no evil, when there entered another soldier to whom Conrad had done an injury. Who, when he found him thus lying on his back, said with that noble magnanimity characteristic of the German mind: 'Wert thou not lying helpless, I would stab thee with my sword!' To which Conrad replied: 'Wilt thou do me no injury until I stand up and am ready for fight?' 'Not I,' replied his foe, 'for I hold it base to strike an unarmed man.' 'Then,' replied Conrad, 'I shall lie still all night.' But on the next day he transfixed the other with his spear.'
'Conrad Buhel of Tübingen, distinguished by his bravery among the captains of Cæsar Maximilian in the Hungarian campaign, was, once in camp, lying on the straw and expecting no evil, when there entered another soldier to whom Conrad had done an injury. Who, when he found him thus lying on his back, said with that noble magnanimity characteristic of the German mind: 'Wert thou not lying helpless, I would stab thee with my sword!' To which Conrad replied: 'Wilt thou do me no injury until I stand up and am ready for fight?' 'Not I,' replied his foe, 'for I hold it base to strike an unarmed man.' 'Then,' replied Conrad, 'I shall lie still all night.' But on the next day he transfixed the other with his spear.'
The same story is told of an eminent Irish lawyer, who had offended the client of a rival pleader. 'Will ye get up till I bate yees?' 'An' would ye strike a man lying down?' 'Divil a bit!' 'Then I'll jist go to slape again.' In the modern stories the foes are reconciled—in the old camp incident all is fierce and characteristic of the bloody feuds of the middle ages, and the final murder of the great-hearted enemy strikes us with a pang. Thesed postridie alterum cuspide transfixitseems brutal and ungenerous; but the event, whether literally true or feigned, had no such discord to the readers of those days. It was more essential to establish the thorough bravery of Conrad, than to reward the magnanimity of his foe. Truly, the history of jests is the history of civilization.
In relation to this transmission of the renown of stories of the olden times to lawyers of the later day, we may cite the well-known incident of the honest criminal who, travelling alone on foot, was met by Sir Matthew Hale, and in answer to the questions of the latter, admitted that he was going to a distant court to be tried for his life. The same noble truthfulness is beautifully set forth in the following,Pulchra historia simplicis prætoris et furis, or 'Fine Story of a Simple-hearted Superintendent and Thief.'
'My lord of Stœffel, of that free and excellent nobility which are called barons, had a superintendent of his serfs. And he, when a certain man was accused of theft, and condemned by him to the torture of the cross (ad crucis tormentum damnasset), with rustic simplicity sent the criminal to the church that he might confess his sins, first taking his word that he would return after confession. So he entered the shrine, confessed, and not heeding the privilege of ecclesiastical immunity (i. e., the right of sanctuary), 'whereby he might have escaped, kept his faith with the superintendent (fidem prætori servavit), and again returning underwent extreme punishment. And this I knew from my boyhood, that he went up to the place of punishment with such alacrity, that it would seem as if he truly desired death. But many curses were lavished on the priest to whom he confessed, because he did not warn the imprudent man not to quit the bounds of ecclesiastical freedom!'
'My lord of Stœffel, of that free and excellent nobility which are called barons, had a superintendent of his serfs. And he, when a certain man was accused of theft, and condemned by him to the torture of the cross (ad crucis tormentum damnasset), with rustic simplicity sent the criminal to the church that he might confess his sins, first taking his word that he would return after confession. So he entered the shrine, confessed, and not heeding the privilege of ecclesiastical immunity (i. e., the right of sanctuary), 'whereby he might have escaped, kept his faith with the superintendent (fidem prætori servavit), and again returning underwent extreme punishment. And this I knew from my boyhood, that he went up to the place of punishment with such alacrity, that it would seem as if he truly desired death. But many curses were lavished on the priest to whom he confessed, because he did not warn the imprudent man not to quit the bounds of ecclesiastical freedom!'
There is a whole ballad—nay, a whole history of the middle ages in this story; for among thousands I can recall none as perfectly characteristic of the times. The absolute aristocratic control of the life of a white slave; its abuse by transferring it to the arbitrary will of an upper servant; the blind devotion to feudal service shown in the fidelity of the poor serf, the horrible cruelty of his punishment; and finally, the cowardly supple fawning of the local priesthood, who were always either worms or dragons in their relations to the nobility, are all set forth here in a few lines.
I have said that the eminent lawyers of modern times are greatly favored in the inheritance of old jokes. Judge Jeffries, we are told, in examining an old fellow with a long beard, told him he supposed he had a conscience quite as long as that natural ornament of his visage. 'Does your lordship measure consciences by beards?' said the man; 'that is strange, seeing you yourself are shaven.' Among the monk-Latin tales there is one to the effect that a certainpater, priding himself on his beard, was informed that in a convent of he-goats he certainly deserved to be abbot. The same story, re-made into a gross form, is current in this country, and attributed to an eminent Virginia politician. In theAntidotum Melancholiæ(Frankfort, 1667), it is given in the form of an evidently very old Latin rhyme:
'Si bene barbatum faceret sua barba beatum,Nullus in hoc circo fuerit felicior hireo.'
There is a modern story current in America, which is often circumstantially narrated, of some individual wearing a fine beard or 'whiskers,' and who is said to have sold them to a vulgar practical joker, who had one shaved off, but suffered the other to remain for a long time on the face of his victim, annoying him meantime with inquiries as to 'my whisker.' It is the true type of a great number of stories which originated in the Southern and South-Western United States, the point of which almost invariably turns on vexing, grieving, or maltreating some victim, who is an inferior as regards wit, fortune, or physique. It is worth remarking that the only really original and characteristic class of jokes which the slave States originated are strongly marked with that cruelty and vulgarity which naturally attend the morbidlyvain and semi-civilized man, who is so unfortunate as to have inferiors by fortune entirely in his power. I would ask the reader in confirmation of this to simply turn over the large collection of 'Georgia Major' and 'Simon Suggs' tales, which, emanating from the South, have contributed so much to brutalize and vulgarize the humorous tendencies of that portion of the more Northern public which reads them.
But to return to the story of the half shaven beard. It also is a very old one, being told in its original form asBarba deceptus Judæus—'The Jew deceived by a beard,' and is as follows:
'A nobleman of Frankfort, while being shaved in a barber's shop, was summoned by a Jew to whom he owed money. But at the request of his debtor the Jew consented to forego the arrest until the nobleman's beard should be shaved. Upon which the latter departed unshorn, and ever remained so.'
'A nobleman of Frankfort, while being shaved in a barber's shop, was summoned by a Jew to whom he owed money. But at the request of his debtor the Jew consented to forego the arrest until the nobleman's beard should be shaved. Upon which the latter departed unshorn, and ever remained so.'
The old story—Jews, Cogots, serfs, negroes—the outwitting, persecuting, and swindling some outlawed class of poor helpless victims, who have been made worse than they should be by oppression. This anecdote—like that of the free lance Conrad—is a sad epitome of the middle ages, and to us of the present day, it rings like a curse on the olden time, in the form of a diabolical jest. It is, however, bitterest of all, to find the oppressed—as in the stories illustrating merefeudalfidelity,—so utterly degraded as to actually take part with their oppressors and with the foes of humanity, against their own rights. So, in this present struggle with that incarnation of evil, and of the old devilish feudal oppression, the Confederate South, we are still pained to find among its adherents men, who, having been socially trampled on in Europe, seek, by sheer force of slavish habit, masters to lord it over them here. There is but one type of man who is more pitiable—it is he who is recreant to the great cause of freedom for the sake of—money!
A brutal and disgraceful jest-story, which stands in close relation to this last, is that ofDetrimentum barbæ propter Sanctos;' or, 'losing a beard for the saints,' which runs as follows:
'A Hebrew contending with a Catholic, affirmed there were more Jewish saints in Heaven than Christian. It was thereupon agreed that each should name his saints in turn, and as he named, pluck a hair from the beard of his adversary.'Abraham,' said the Jew, and plucked a hair.'Saint Peter,' said the Christian.'Isaac.''Saint Paul.'And so they kept up their litanies, until the 'Christian,' exclaiming: 'Saint Ursula and the Eleven Thousand Virgins!' tore out the whole beard of the Jew by the roots, to the great laughter of all standing around.'
'A Hebrew contending with a Catholic, affirmed there were more Jewish saints in Heaven than Christian. It was thereupon agreed that each should name his saints in turn, and as he named, pluck a hair from the beard of his adversary.
'Abraham,' said the Jew, and plucked a hair.
'Saint Peter,' said the Christian.
'Isaac.'
'Saint Paul.'
And so they kept up their litanies, until the 'Christian,' exclaiming: 'Saint Ursula and the Eleven Thousand Virgins!' tore out the whole beard of the Jew by the roots, to the great laughter of all standing around.'
It would matter but little, that a fanatical and brutal crowd of the middle ages had laughed at seeing 'only a Jew' disgraced and dripping with blood, to point a scurvy jest. But, I confess that it struck me as singular, when I once found this story in a memoir, set down as having been narrated by an eminent Christian philosopher (now not long dead), as a capital thing. Granting its humor, is it worth while to inquire if he would have enjoyed it as much, had the Jew torn out the beard of the Christian in the name of the thousands who had been martyred for the faith of Israel?
The jokes of the middle ages on the subject of the beard, were numerous—it was a favorite ornament, as we may judge from the fact that Eberhard, the far-famed old warlike duke, sung in more than one poem by Uhland, is always spoken of in the old stories, asnoster princeps barbatus, 'our bearded prince,' or, more familiarly, simply as 'our bearded one.' One of the table problems of the day was, 'Potestnè probari mulierem quandam habuisse barbam?'—'Can it be proved that any woman ever had a beard?' The answer to which, was, 'Yes—when Judith bore the head of Holofernes.' It was singular that such a question could have been agitated, when thelegends of the saints contained the story of the bearded saintess of the Tyrol—a converted ballet-dancer, who was thus rendered hideous in accordance with her prayer, that she might be made so repulsive as to frighten away all lovers. And yet Mr. Barnum's Bearded Lady had a husband!
Jokes ridiculing red beards and heads were common in the old time; probably because a popular tradition declared that Judas, 'the arch rascal,' was so marked by nature. The anecdote of the good clergyman who never laughed but once in church, and that was, when he saw a youth trying to light a cigar, or warm his hands at a certain ruddy poll, finds its prototype in one of the old Latin stories:
'Our country people are wont to say, when they see a red-headed man; 'he would make a bad chimney-sweeper.' And when the reason is asked, they say: 'when his head came out of the chimney the country folks would think it was fire, and would ring the bells, assemble from every direction, and cause all the riot and trouble incident to a conflagration.'
'Our country people are wont to say, when they see a red-headed man; 'he would make a bad chimney-sweeper.' And when the reason is asked, they say: 'when his head came out of the chimney the country folks would think it was fire, and would ring the bells, assemble from every direction, and cause all the riot and trouble incident to a conflagration.'
It is worth noting in this connection, that the prejudice against red hair is rapidly being forgotten among cultivated persons, and is far from being what it was within the memory of man. The vulgar, who are the last to abandon an absurdity, still retain a few jokes on the subject; but these will probably be as unintelligible in time, as would be the jests of the middle ages on therufa tunica, or red frock. The boorishness and cruelty of 'the good old times,' are strongly reflected in the following, which a scholar of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries was not ashamed to record of himself:
'When lately during Lent, in the year 1506, we had several guests, among them a rustic from Weilsberg, who wore a long red beard. I asked him why he did so? and he replied, 'out of grief for the death of his father-in-law.' To which I replied: 'All wrong, for red is a color suited to rejoicing'—at which remark all the guests present began to laugh immoderately. But he with his rustic simplicity, being made ashamed, answered: 'Yes, sir—that is very true, and yet I assure you that I feel as sorrowful in this red beard as any other man does in his black one.'
'When lately during Lent, in the year 1506, we had several guests, among them a rustic from Weilsberg, who wore a long red beard. I asked him why he did so? and he replied, 'out of grief for the death of his father-in-law.' To which I replied: 'All wrong, for red is a color suited to rejoicing'—at which remark all the guests present began to laugh immoderately. But he with his rustic simplicity, being made ashamed, answered: 'Yes, sir—that is very true, and yet I assure you that I feel as sorrowful in this red beard as any other man does in his black one.'
The man who does not—though three and a half centuries lie between—sympathize with the sad, honest simplicity of the poor red-bearded mourner, must be as gross and heartless as was the narrator of the incident. It gives one, indeed, strange subject for reflection, to pause among these old trifles of a by-gone day; jotted down for passing time in a rude age, and yet preserved so clearly, cut and freshly colored in the modern time! Conrad Bühel, the free lance, and his enemy—the red-bearded mourner, the Baron von Stoeffel and his prætor, with the simple minded thief, and timid priests, and the genial but coarse scholar, Bebelius himself, were all real men in their day, who might have passed away without the slightest link to bind their names or natures to an after age—and now they live in a jest! Still they live—and it may be that when the page which you now peruse, O reader, shall be as old as the yellow leaves of the sixteenth century volume now before me, some one may revive them again. It is something to be near a scholar now and then, for no one knows who once crosses his path, but that he too may be noted down, to be borne by an anecdote across stormy centuries, into ages all unlike our own. No man ever yet died out of a printed book.
Many a happy thought dashed off by a modern writer, is only the adroit plagiarism of an old joke, 'But oh, the Latin!' says Heinrich Heine, in describing his boyish sorrows to a lady—'Madame, you can really have no idea of what a mess it is. The Romans would never have found time to conquer the world, if they had been first obliged to learn Latin. Lucky dogs! they already knew in their cradles the nouns ending inim.' This is a very adroit theft from theEpistolarum Obscurorum Virorum, attributed to VonHütten and others, in which a stupid monk, having argued with Erasmus, writes as follows to his master:
'Then our host, who is a good scholar, began to talk of poetry, and greatly praisedJulius Caesarin his writings and deeds. Now when I heard this I was specially delighted that I had read so much, and that I had heard you lecture on poetry in Cologne, and I said: 'Since you speak of poetry, I can no longer keep quiet, and I tell you plainly that I do not believe thatCaesarwrote those commentaries; and I strengthened my assertion with this argument: 'He who has his business in war and in constant labors, cannot learn Latin. Now,Caesarwas always in wars or in great toils, therefore he could not be erudite, or learn Latin.' I think, however, thatSuetoniuswrote those Commentaries, for I never saw any writer whose style so much resembles that ofCaesar, as does that ofSuetonius.'
'Then our host, who is a good scholar, began to talk of poetry, and greatly praisedJulius Caesarin his writings and deeds. Now when I heard this I was specially delighted that I had read so much, and that I had heard you lecture on poetry in Cologne, and I said: 'Since you speak of poetry, I can no longer keep quiet, and I tell you plainly that I do not believe thatCaesarwrote those commentaries; and I strengthened my assertion with this argument: 'He who has his business in war and in constant labors, cannot learn Latin. Now,Caesarwas always in wars or in great toils, therefore he could not be erudite, or learn Latin.' I think, however, thatSuetoniuswrote those Commentaries, for I never saw any writer whose style so much resembles that ofCaesar, as does that ofSuetonius.'
Who has not heard the story of the hackney coachman, who, at the end of the day, was wont to divide his gains into 'half for master and half for me,' when the whole should have been given to the proprietor? Or of the American public functionary, who said that his annual gains were 'one thousand dollars salary, besides the cheatage and stealage?' Both seem to me to be foreshadowed in the following 'Sacerdotis jocus non illepidus';
'A certain priest namedFysilinuswho begged for a convent of Saint Sebastian, being asked what his annual salary was, replied: 'Twenty gold crowns!' 'Little enough!' answered the other. To whichFysilinusreplied: 'Various, however, are the emoluments of mortals; for I have also what is given to me, and what I steal. And very good is Saint Sebastian, who, whatever division I make with him, is always silent and contented.'
'A certain priest namedFysilinuswho begged for a convent of Saint Sebastian, being asked what his annual salary was, replied: 'Twenty gold crowns!' 'Little enough!' answered the other. To whichFysilinusreplied: 'Various, however, are the emoluments of mortals; for I have also what is given to me, and what I steal. And very good is Saint Sebastian, who, whatever division I make with him, is always silent and contented.'
It is worth noting that this story and thousands which bore much more severely on the priests, were current for centuries before the Reformation. There were many anecdotes of this priest, all to his discredit, many of which were attributed, at a later day, to other unworthy monks. Among these, a very dull one is interesting, as connecting him with Eberhard, 'our bearded prince,' already referred to. Having begged of this truly noble man a benefice, Eberhard, who was aware of his character, replied: 'If I had a thousand vacant, you should not have the least of them.'—'Si mille, inquit, mihi beneficia, ego minimum tibi non conferrem.' To which Fysilinus impudently replied: 'And if I should hold divine service a thousand times, I would never bear you in mind, nor pray once for your salvation.'
I have attempted in the foregoing remarks to set forth, or rather illustrate, the manner in which modern jests have flown directly or indirectly, from those of earlier generations; and have, in so doing, called attention to a rare and curious class of humorous books, which have been but little cited for more than two centuries. The principal point which I would most gladly make clear, is the fact that in literature and the history of culture, there are two classes of critics: the ultra-modern and the ultra-conservative, both of whom are in the wrong. The one cries that every flash of genius is new, and that an old jest is an old abomination—the other vows that there is nothing new under the sun, and that every good story is hidden away, in all its excellence, somewhere in the storehouse of the past. Examination is, however, like Pietro D'Abano, always aConciliator. We find the originalthemain the past, often reduced to the careless illustration of some principle or characteristic common to all humanity; but when we follow it down to the present, it becomes varied, improved, and enlarged into whole groups and families of new anecdotes, poems, jests, or proverbs; any single member of which is, perhaps, better than the original.
The history of jests can, in turn, be made to furnish an extremely vivid and curious history of the social conditions of men, and their changes from the earliest ages—not to be surpassed in value by that of any other peculiarities. In nothing is a man so much himself as in his humor.