Part 1 — PART I (continued 2)
Reading edition
A cedar of Lebanon, it tramples underfoot the hyssop of the mustache; a central column, it provides a support for the double arch of the eyebrows. On its capital perches the eagle of thought. It is enwreathed with smiles. With what boldness did the nose of Ajax confront the storm when he said, “I will escape in spite of the gods.” With what courage did the nose of the great Condé—whose greatness really derived from his nose—with what courage did the nose of the great Condé enter before all others, before the great Condé himself, the entrenchments of the Spanish at Lens and Rocroy, where their conqueror boldly flourished the staff of command? With what assurance was Dugazon’s nose thrust before the public, that nose which knew how to wriggle in forty-two different ways, and each way funnier than the last?
No, I do not believe that the nose should be permitted to remain in the obscurity into which man’s ingratitude has hitherto forced it.
I suggest as one reason why the nose has submitted to this injustice the fact that Occidental noses are so small.
But the deuce is to pay if the noses of the West are the only noses.
There are the Oriental noses, which are very handsome noses.
Do you question the superiority of these noses to your own, gentlemen of Paris, of Vienna, of St. Petersburg?
In that case, my Viennese friends, go by the Danube; you Parisians, take the steamer; Petersburgers, the sledge; and say these simple words:
“To Georgia.”
But I forewarn you of deep humiliation. Should you bring to Georgia one of the largest noses in Europe, at the gate of Tiflis they would gaze at you in astonishment and exclaim:
“What a pity that this gentleman has lost his nose on the way.” ...
Ah, sweet Heaven! those beautiful Georgian noses! Robust noses, magnificent noses!
They are all shapes:
Round, fat, long, large.
There is every color:
White, pink, crimson, violet.
Some are set with rubies, others with pearls. I saw one set with turquoises.
In Georgia, Vakhtang IV abolished the fathom, the meter, and the yard, keeping only the nose.
Goods are measured off by the nose.
They say, “I bought seventeen noses of flannel for a dressing-gown, seven noses of cloth for a pair of breeches, a nose and a half of satin for a cravat.”
Let us add, finally, that the Georgian ladies find this more convenient than European measures.
Théophile Gautier, poet, artist and novelist was identified with the romantic movement in French literature.
A charming art of description was his, as may be seen in the story of the Lap Dog.
FANFRELUCHE
To write in praise of this marvelous lap-dog, one should pluck a quill from the wing of Love himself; the hands of the Graces alone would be light enough to trace his picture; nor would the touch of Latour be too soft.
His name was Fanfreluche, a pretty name for a dog, and one that he bore with honor.
Fanfreluche was no larger than his mistress’s hand, and it is well known that the marquise has the smallest hand in the world; and yet he seemed larger to the eye, assuming almost the proportions of a small sheep, for he had silky hair a foot in length, and so fine and soft and lustrous that the tresses of Minette were a mere mop by contrast. When he presented his paw, and one pressed it a little, one was astonished to feel nothing at all. Fanfreluche was rather a ball of silk, from which two beautiful brown eyes and a little red nose glittered, than an actual dog. Such a dog could only have belonged to the mother of Love, who lost him in Cytherea, where the marquise, on one of her occasional visits, found him. Look for a moment at this fascinatingly exquisite face. Would not Roxalana herself have been jealous of that delicately tipped-up nose, divided in the middle by a little furrow just like Anne of Austria’s?
What vivacity in that quick eye! And that double row of white teeth, no larger than grains of rice, which, at the least emotion, sparkled in all their brilliance—what duchess would not envy them? And this charming Fanfreluche, apart from his physical attractions, possessed a thousand social graces: he danced the minuet with exquisite grace, knew how to give his paw and tell the hour, capered before the queen and great ladies of France, and distinguished his right paw from his left. And Fanfreluche was learned, and knew more than the members of the Academy. If he was not a member of that body it was because he did not desire it, thinking, no doubt, to shine rather by his absence. The abbé declared that he was as strong as a Turk in the dead languages, and that, if he did not talk, it was from pure malice and to vex his mistress.
Then, too, Fanfreluche had not the vivacity of common dogs. He was very dainty, and very hard to please. He absolutely refused to eat anything but little pies of calves’ brains made especially for him; he would drink nothing but cream from a little Japanese saucer. Only when his mistress dined in town would he consent to nibble at the wing of a chicken, and to take sweets for dessert; but he did not grant this favor to every one, and one had to have an excellent cook to gain it. Fanfreluche had only one little fault. But who is perfect in this world? He loved cherries in brandy and Spanish snuff, of which he took a little pinch from time to time. But the latter is a weakness he shared with the Prince of Condé.
When he heard the cover of the general’s golden snuff-box click, it was a treat to see him sit up on his little hind legs and brush the carpet with his silken tail; and, if the marquise was engrossed in the pleasures of whist, and did not watch him closely, he would jump on the abbé’s lap, who fed him with brandied cherries. And Fanfreluche, whose head was not strong, would become as tipsy as a Swiss guard and two choristers, would perform the queerest little tricks on the carpet, and become extraordinarily ferocious on the subject of the calves of the chevalier, who, to preserve what little was left of them, would draw up his legs on his chair. Then Fanfreluche was no longer a little dog, but a little lion, and the marquise alone could manage him. His picture would not be complete without mentioning the droll little naughtinesses that he was guilty of before being stowed away into his muff, and put to bed in his niche of rosewood, padded with white satin and edged with blue silk cord.
Henri Murger, a noted litterateur, wrote on themes both gloomy and merry. More than most, he ran the gamut from grave to gay, from lively to severe.
Among his best known works are his Bohemian Life Sketches. From the subjoined bit, it may be seen that boresome parties obtain in all times and nations.
AN EVENING RECEPTION
Toward the end of the month of December the messengers of Bidault’s agency received for distribution about a hundred copies of a circular of which we certify the following to be a true and genuine copy:
Messieurs Rodolphe and Marcel request the honor of your company at a reception, on Christmas Eve, Saturday next. There is going to be some fun.
P. S. We only live once!
Program
I
7 P.M. The rooms will open: lively and animated conversation.
8 P.M. The ingenious authors of The Mountain in Labor, a comedy rejected by the Odéon, will take a turn round the rooms.
8.30 P.M. M. Alexandre Schaunard, the distinguished artist, will execute his Imitative Symphony for the piano, called The Influence of Blue in Art.
9 P.M. First reading of a memoir on the abolition of the penalty of tragedy.
9.30 P.M. M. Gustave Colline, hyperphysical philosopher, and M. Schaunard will commence a debate on comparative philosophy and metapolitics. In order to prevent any possible collision, the two disputants will be tied together.
10 P.M. M. Tristan, a literary man, will relate the story of his first love. M. Alexandre Schaunard will play a pianoforte accompaniment.
10.30 P.M. Second reading of the memoir on the abolition of the penalty of tragedy.
11 P.M. The Story of a Cassowary Hunt, by a foreign prince.
II
At midnight M. Marcel, historical painter, will make a white chalk drawing, with his eyes bandaged. Subject: The interview between Napoleon and Voltaire in the Champs Élysées. At the same time M. Rodolphe will improvise a parallel between the author of Zaïre and the author of The Battle of Austerlitz.
12.30 A.M. M. Gustave Colline, in modest undress, will give a revival of the athletic sports of the Fourth Olympiad.
1 A.M. Third reading of the memoir on the abolition of the penalty of tragedy, followed by a collection in aid of authors of tragedies likely to be thrown out of employment.
2 A.M. Sports and quadrilles, which will be kept up till morning.
6 A.M. Rise of the sun upon the scene. Final chorus.
The ventilators will be open during the whole of the reception.
N. B. Any person attempting to read or recite poetry will be immediately ejected from the rooms and taken into custody; you are also requested not to take away candle-ends.
Victor Marie Hugo, celebrated poet, novelist and dramatist, was a recognized leader of the Romantic school of Nineteenth century France.
Quotation from his works is hard to do in brief, but an amusing story is given from Tales of a Grandfather.
THE GOOD FLEA AND THE WICKED KING
Once upon a time there was a wicked king, who made his people very unhappy. Everybody detested him, and those whom he had put in prison and beheaded would have liked to whip him. But how? He was the strongest, he was the master, he did not have to give account to any one, and when he was told his subjects were not content, he replied:
“Well, what of it? I don’t care a rap!” Which was an ugly answer.
As he continued to act like a king, and as every day he became a little more wicked than the day before, this set a certain little flea to thinking over the matter. It was a little bit of a flea, who was of no consequence at all, but full of good sentiments. This is not the nature of fleas in general; but this one had been very well brought up; it bit people with moderation, and only when it was very hungry.
“What if I were to bring the king to reason?” it said to itself. “It is not without danger. But no matter—I will try.”
That night the wicked king, after having done all sorts of naughty things during the day, was calmly going to sleep when he felt what seemed to be the prick of a pin.
“Bite!”
He growled, and turned over on the other side.
“Bite! Bite! Bite!”
“Who is it that bites me so?” cried the king in a terrible voice.
“It is I,” replied a very little voice.
“You? Who are you?”
“A little flea who wishes to correct you.”
“A flea? Just you wait! Just you wait, and you shall see!”
And the king sprang from his bed, twisted his coverings, and shook the sheets, all of which was quite useless, for the good flea had hidden itself in the royal beard.
“Ah,” said the king, “it has gone now, and I shall be able to get a sound sleep.”
But scarcely had he laid his head on the pillow, when—
“Bite!”
“How? What? Again?”
“Bite! Bite!”
“You dare to return, you abominable little flea? Think for a moment what you are doing! You are no bigger than a grain of sand, and you dare to bite one of the greatest kings on earth!”
“Well, what of it? I don’t care a rap!” answered the flea in the very words of the king.
“Ah, if I only had you!”
“Yes, but you haven’t got me!”
The wicked king did not sleep all that night, and he arose the next morning in a killing ill humor. He resolved to destroy his enemy. By his orders, they cleaned the palace from top to bottom, and particularly his bedroom; his bed was made by ten old women very skilful in the art of catching fleas. But they caught nothing, for the good flea had hidden itself under the collar of the king’s coat.
That night, this frightful tyrant, who was dying for want of sleep, lay back on both his ears, though this is said to be very difficult. But he wished to sleep double, and he knew no better way. I wish you may find a better. Scarcely had he put out his light, when he felt the flea on his neck.
“Bite! Bite!”
“Ah, zounds! What is this?”
“It is I—the flea of yesterday.”
“But what do you want, you rascal—you tiny pest?”
“I wish you to obey me, and to make your people happy.”
“Ho, there, my soldiers, my captain of the guard, my ministers, my generals! Everybody! The whole lot of you!”
The whole lot of them came in. The king was in a rage, which made everybody tremble. He found fault with all the servants of the palace. Everybody was in consternation. During this time the flea, quite calm, kept itself hid in the king’s nightcap.
The guards were doubled; laws and decrees were made; ordinances were published against all fleas; there were processions and public prayers to ask of Heaven the extermination of the flea, and sound sleep for the king. It was all of no avail. The wretched king could not lie down, even on the grass, without being attacked by his obstinate enemy, the good flea, who did not let him sleep a single minute.
“Bite! Bite!”
It would take too long to tell the many hard knocks the king gave himself in trying to crush the flea; he was covered with bruises and contusions. As he could not sleep, he wandered about like an uneasy spirit. He grew thinner. He would certainly have died if, at last, he had not made up his mind to obey the good flea.
“I surrender,” he said at last, when it began to bite him again. “I ask for quarter. I will do what you wish.”
“So much the better. On that condition only shall you sleep,” replied the flea.
“Thank you. What must I do?”
“Make your people happy!”
“I have never learned how. I do not know how——”
“Nothing more easy: you have only to go away.”
“Taking my treasures with me?”
“Without taking anything.”
“But I shall die if I have no money,” said the king.
“Well, what of it? I don’t care!” replied the flea.
But the flea was not hard-hearted, and it let the king fill his pockets with money before he went away. And the people were able to be very happy by setting up a republic.
Alphonse Daudet, humorist and story writer, created the character of Tartarin, a gasconading humbug, and a satire on the typical character attributed to Southern France.
A bit from Tartarin in the Alps will show the type of humor.
WILLIAM TELL
The party of travelers now came to the Lake of Lucerne, with its dark waters overshadowed by high and menacing mountains. To their right they saw that Ruetli meadow where Melchthal, Fuerst, and Stauffacher had sworn the oath to deliver their country.
Tartarin, deeply moved, took off his cap, and even threw it into the air three times to render homage to the shades of the departed heroes. Some of the tourists mistook this for a salutation, and bowed in return. At last they reached Tell’s Chapel. This chapel is situated at the edge of the lake, on the very rock upon which, during the storm, William Tell jumped from Gessler’s boat. And it was a delicious emotion to Tartarin, while he followed the travelers along the lake, to tread this historic ground, to recall and revive the various scenes of this great drama, which he knew as well as his own biography.
For William Tell had always been his ideal man. When at Bézuquet’s pharmacy the game of Preferences was being played, and each one wrote on his slip of paper the name of the poet, the tree, the odor, the hero, and the woman that he preferred to all others of their kind, one slip invariably bore this inscription:
“Favorite tree?—The baobab.
“Favorite odor?—Gunpowder.
“Favorite author?—Fenimore Cooper.
“Who would you like to have been?—William Tell.”
And then everybody would exclaim, “That’s Tartarin!”
Imagine, then, how happy he was, and how his heart beat when he stood before the chapel commemorative of the gratitude of a whole nation. It seemed to him as if William Tell must come in person to open the door, still dripping from the waters of the lake, and holding in his hand his bolts and crossbow.
“Don’t come in here. I’m working. This is not the day on which tourists are allowed,” sounded a strong voice from the interior, reechoing against the walls.
“M. Astier-Réhu, of the French Academy!”
“Herr Professor Doctor Schwanthaler!”
“Tartarin of Tarascon!”
The painter, who was standing on a scaffolding within, stretched out half of his body clad in his working-blouse, and holding his palette in his hand.
“My pupil will come down and open the door for you, gentlemen,” he said in a respectful tone.
“I was sure of it; of course,” said Tartarin to himself, “I have only to mention my name.”
For all that, he had the good taste to fall into line and modestly enter the chapel behind the others.
The painter, a splendid fellow, with a magnificent golden head of an artist of the Renaissance, received his visitors on the wooden staircase which led to the temporary scaffolding from which the mural paintings were being done. All the frescos, representing scenes from Tell’s life, were complete, except the one in which the scene of the apple at Altorf was to be shown. Upon that the painter was now working....
“I find it all very characteristically done,” said the great Astier-Réhu.
And Schwanthaler, folding his arms, recited two of Schiller’s verses, half of which was lost in his beard. Then the ladies delivered their opinions, and for some minutes one would have thought oneself in a confectioner’s shop. “Beautiful!” they cried. “Lovely! Exquisite! Delicious!”
Suddenly came a voice, tearing the silence like a trumpet’s blare:
“Badly shouldered, that blunderbuss, I tell you! He never held it in that way!”
Imagine the stupefaction of the painter when this tourist, stick in hand and bundle on his back, undertook to demonstrate to him as clearly as that two and two are four, that the position of Tell in the picture was incorrect.
“And I understand these matters, I would have you know!”
“And who are you?”
“Who am I?” said our Tarasconian hero, deeply astonished. And so it was not at his name that the door had opened. Drawing himself up, he answered, “Ask the panthers of Zaccar, or the lions of Atlas, and perhaps they will answer you.”
Every one drew away from Tartarin in fright and consternation.
“But then,” asked the painter, “in what respect is Tell’s position incorrect?”
“Look at me!”
Falling back with a double step that made the planks creak, Tartarin, using his cane to represent the “blunderbuss,” threw himself into position.
“Superb! He is right! Don’t move!” cried the painter. Then to his pupil:
“Quick, bring me paper and charcoal!”
GERMAN HUMOR
Christian F. Gellert, a German poet of the early Eighteenth century, was also a lecturer and professor of philosophy.
His literary fame rests upon his sacred songs and his fables. One of the latter we quote.
THE PATIENT CURED
A man long plagued with aches in joint and limb Did all his neighbors recommended him, But, despite that, could nowise gain Deliverance from his pain. An ancient dame, to whom he told his case, Cut an oracular grimace, And thus announced a magic remedy: “You must,” said she, Mysteriously hissing in his ear, And calling him “My dear,” “Sit on a good man’s grave at early light, And with the dew fresh-fallen over night Thrice bathe your hands, your knee-joints thrice: ’Twill cure you in a trice. Remember her who gave you this advice.” The patient did just as the grandam said. (What will not mortals do to be Relieved of misery?) He went right early to the burying-ground, And on a tombstone—’twas the first he found— These words, delighted, read: “Stranger, what man he was who sleeps below, This monument and epitaph may show. The wonder of his time was he, The pattern of most genuine piety; And that thou all in a few words may’st learn, Him church and school and town and country mourn.” Here the poor cripple takes his seat, And bathes his hands, his joints, his feet; But all his labor’s worse than vain: It rather aggravates his pain. With troubled mind he grasps his staff, Turns from the good man’s grave, and creeps On to the next, where lowly sleeps One honored by no epitaph. Scarce had he touched the nameless stone, When lo! each racking pain had flown; His useless staff forgotten on the ground, He leaves this holy grave, erect and sound. “Ah!” he exclaimed, “is there no line to tell Who was this holy man that makes me well?” Just then the sexton did appear, Of him he asked, “Pray, who lies buried here?” The sexton waited long, and seemed quite shy Of making any sort of a reply. “Well,” he began at last with mournful sigh, “The Lord forgive him, ’twas a man Placed by all honest circles under ban; Whom scarcely they allowed a decent grave; Whose soul naught but a miracle might save; A heretic, and, what is worse, Wrote plays and verse! In short, to speak my full conviction, And without fear of contradiction, He was an innovator and a scound—” “No!” cried the man. “No, I’ll be bound! Not so, though all the world the lie repeat! But that chap there, who sleeps hard by us, Whom you and all the world call pious, He was, for sure, a scoundrel and a cheat!”
Gotthold Ephraim Lessing was a celebrated German dramatist and critic. His collected works fill many volumes.
We quote a few of his Fables and Epigrams.
THE RAVEN
The raven remarked that the eagle sat thirty days upon her eggs. “That, undoubtedly,” said she, “is the reason why the young of the eagle are so all-seeing and strong. Good! I will do the same.”
And, since then, the raven actually sits thirty days upon her eggs; but, as yet, she has hatched nothing but miserable ravens.—Fables.
THE DECORATED BOW
A man had an excellent bow of ebony, with which he shot very far and very sure, and which he valued at a great price. But once, after considering it attentively, he said:
“A little too rude still! Your only ornament is your polish. It is a pity! However, that can be remedied,” thought he. “I will go and let a first-rate artist carve something on the bow.”
He went, and the artist carved an entire hunting-scene upon the bow. And what more fitting for a bow than a hunting-scene?
The man was delighted. “You deserve this embellishment, my beloved bow.” So saying, he wished to try it.
He drew the string. The bow broke!—Fables.
EPIGRAMS
From the grave where dead Gripeall, the miser, reposes, What a villainous odor invades all our noses! It can’t be his body alone—in the hole They have certainly buried the usurer’s soul.
While Fell was reposing himself on the hay, A reptile conceal’d bit his leg as he lay; But all venom himself, of the wound he made light, And got well, while the scorpion died of the bite.
So vile your grimace, and so croaking your speech, One scarcely can tell if you’re laughing or crying; Were you fix’d on one’s funeral sermon to preach, The bare apprehension would keep one from dying.
Quoth gallant Fritz, “I ran away To fight again another day.” The meaning of his speech is plain, He only fled to fly again.
“How strange, a deaf wife to prefer!” “True, but she’s also dumb, good sir.”
Rudolph Erich Raspe was a German author who was also an Archæologist of note.
His best known work is the celebrated History of Baron Münchausen.
A HORSE TIED TO A STEEPLE
I set off from Rome on a journey to Russia, in the midst of winter, from a just notion that frost and snow must of course improve the roads, which every traveler had described as uncommonly bad through the northern parts of Germany, Poland, Courland, and Livonia. I went on horseback, as the most convenient manner of traveling. I was but lightly clothed, and of this I felt the inconvenience the more I advanced northeast. What must not a poor old man have suffered in that severe weather and climate, whom I saw on a bleak common in Poland, lying on the road, helpless, shivering, and hardly having wherewithal to cover his nakedness? I pitied the poor soul. Though I felt the severity of the atmosphere myself, I threw my mantle over him, and immediately I heard a voice from the heavens, blessing me for that piece of charity, saying:
“You will be rewarded, my son, for this in time.”
I went on. Night and darkness overtook me. No village was to be seen. The country was covered with snow, and I was unacquainted with the road.
Tired out, I alighted, and fastened my horse to something like the pointed stump of a tree which appeared above the snow. For the sake of safety I placed my pistols under my arm, and laid down on the snow, where I slept so soundly that I did not open my eyes till full daylight. It is not easy to conceive my astonishment at finding myself in the midst of a village, lying in a churchyard. Nor was my horse to be seen; but I heard him soon after neigh somewhere above me. On looking upward, I beheld him hanging by his bridle to the weathercock of the steeple. Matters were now quite plain to me. The village had been covered with snow overnight; a sudden change in the weather had taken place; I had sunk down to the churchyard while asleep at the same rate as the snow had melted away; and what in the dark I had taken to be a stump of a little tree appearing above the snow, to which I had tied my horse, proved to have been the cross or weathercock of the steeple!
Without long consideration, I took one of my pistols, shot the bridle in two, brought down the horse, and proceeded on my journey.—Adventures of Baron Münchausen.
A RATHER LARGE WHALE
I embarked at Portsmouth, in a first-rate English man-of-war of one hundred guns and fourteen hundred men, for North America. Nothing worth relating happened till we arrived within three hundred leagues of the river St. Lawrence, when the ship struck with amazing force against (as we supposed) a rock. However, upon heaving the lead, we could find no bottom, even with three hundred fathoms. What made this circumstance the more wonderful, and indeed beyond all comprehension, was, that the violence of the shock was such that we lost our rudder, broke our bowsprit in the middle, and split all our masts from top to bottom, two of which went by the board. A poor fellow, who was aloft furling the main-sheet, was flung at least three leagues from the ship; but he fortunately saved his life by laying hold of the tail of a large sea-gull, which brought him back and lodged him on the very spot whence he was thrown. Another proof of the violence of the shock was the force with which the people between decks were driven against the floors above them. My head particularly was pressed into my stomach, where it continued some months before it returned to its natural situation.
While we were all in a state of astonishment at the general and unaccountable confusion in which we were involved, the whole was suddenly explained by the appearance of a large whale, which had been basking, asleep, within sixteen feet of the surface of the water. This animal was so much displeased with the disturbance which our ship had given him—for in our passage we had with our rudder scratched his nose—that he beat in all the gallery and part of the quarter-deck with his tail, and almost at the same instant took the main-sheet anchor, which was suspended, as it usually is, from the head, between his teeth, and ran away with the ship at least sixty leagues, at the rate of twelve leagues an hour, when, fortunately, the cable broke, and we lost both the whale and the anchor. However, upon our return to Europe, some months after, we found the same whale within a few leagues of the same spot, floating dead upon the water. It measured above half a mile in length. As we could take only a small quantity of such a monstrous animal on board, we got our boats out, and with much difficulty cut off his head, where, to our great joy, we found the anchor, and above forty fathoms of the cable, concealed on the left side of his mouth, just under his tongue. Perhaps this was the cause of his death, as that side of his tongue was much swelled with severe inflammation.
This was the only extraordinary circumstance that happened on this voyage. One part of our distress, however, I had like to have forgot. While the whale was running away with the ship she sprang a leak, and the water poured in so fast that all our pumps could not keep us from sinking. It was, however, my good fortune to discover it first. I found a large hole about a foot in diameter, and you will naturally suppose this circumstance gives me infinite pleasure, when I inform you that this noble vessel was preserved, with all its crew, by a most happy thought of mine. In short I sat down over it, and could have covered it had it been even larger. Nor will you be surprised at this when I inform you that I am descended from Dutch parents.
My situation, while I sat there, was rather cool, but the carpenter’s art soon relieved me.
—Adventures of Baron Münchausen.
Matthias Claudius was another maker of Poetical Fables and Folk Songs.
THE HEN AND THE EGG
A famous hen’s my story’s theme, Who ne’er was known to tire Of laying eggs, but then she’d scream So loud o’er every egg, ’twould seem The house must be on fire. A turkey-cock, who ruled the walk, A wiser bird, and older, Could bear’t no more, so off did stalk Right to the hen, and told her: “Madam, that scream, I apprehend, Does not affect the matter; It surely helps the eggs no whit; So, lay your egg—and done with it! I pray you, madam, as a friend, Cease that superfluous clatter. You know not how’t goes through my head!” “Humph! Very likely!” madam said, Then, proudly putting forth a leg: “Uneducated barnyard fowl, You know no more than any owl The noble privilege and praise Of authorship in modern days! I’ll tell you why I do it: First, you perceive, I lay my egg, And then—review it.”
Friedrich von Schiller was among the most famous of Germany’s writers. Poet, dramatist and historian he left numerous works of varied value.
His humor, like that of all his countrymen, is heavy and rather labored.
PEGASUS IN THE YOKE
Into a public fair—a cattle-fair, in short, Where other things are bought and sold—ah, sad to tell! A hungry poet one day brought The Muse’s Pegasus to sell. Shrill neighed the hippogriff and clear, And pranced, and reared, displaying his proud frame, Till all exclaimed in wonder, who stood near, “The noble, royal beast! But what a shame His slender form by such a hateful pair Of wings is spoiled! He’d set off a fine post-team well.” “The race,” say others, “would be rare; But who’s go posting through the air?” And lose his money no one will. A farmer mustered courage, though, at length, “The wings, indeed,” he says, “will be no profit; But them one might tie down, or crop them off; it Then were a good horse for drawing—it has strength. I’ll give you twenty pounds, sir, win or lose.” The seller, too delighted to refuse, Cried out, “Agreed!” and eagerly the offer seized. Hans with his bargain trudged off home, well pleased. The noble beast was harnessed in, But felt th’ unwonted burden to be light, And off he set with appetite for flight, And soon his wild careering would begin, And hurled the cart in proudest rage Over a precipice’s edge. “Well done!” thought Hans. “We wisdom from experience borrow; I’ll trust the mad beast with no loads again. I’ve passengers to take to-morrow; He shall be put in leader of the train. By using him, two horses I shall spare; He’ll learn in time the collar, too, to bear.” They went on well awhile. The horse was fleet, And quickened up the rest; and arrow-swift the carriage flies. But now, what next? With look turned to the skies, And unaccustomed with firm hoof the ground to beat, He leaves the sure track of the wheels, True to the stronger nature which he feels, And runs through marsh and moor, o’er planted field and plain; And the same fury seizes all the train. No call will help, no bridle hold them in, Till, to the mortal fright of all within, The coach, well shaken and well smashed, brings up In sad plight on a steep hill’s top. “This is not quite the thing! No, no!” Says Hans, considering, with a frown. “In this way I shall never make it go. Let’s see if ’twill not tame the wild-fire down, To work him hard, and keep him low.” The trial’s made. The beast, so fair and trim, Before three days are gone looks gaunt and grim, And to a shadow shrunk. “I have it! I have found it now!” Cries Hans. “Come on, now. Yoke me him Beside my strongest ox before the plow.” So said, so done. In droll procession now, See ox and wingèd horse before the plow. Unwilling steps the griffin, strains what little might Of longing’s left in him, to take his fond old flight. In vain: deliberately steps his neighbor, And Phœbus’ high-souled steed must bend to his slow labor, Till now, by long resistance spent his force, His trembling limbs he can no longer trust, And, bowed with shame, the noble, godlike horse Falls to the ground, and rolls him in the dust. “You cursèd beast!” Hans breaks out furious now, And scolds and blusters, while he lays the blows on; “You are too poor, then, even for the plow! You rascal, so my ignorance to impose on!” And while in this way angrily he goes on, And swings the lash, behold! upon the way A pleasant youth steps up so smart and gay. A harp shakes ringing in his hand, And through his glossy, parted hair Winds glittering a golden band. “Where now, friend, with that wondrous pair?” From far off to the boor he spoke. “The bird and ox together in that style? I pray you, man, why, what a yoke! But come, to try a little while, Will you entrust your horse to me? Look well: a wonder you shall see.” The hippogriff’s unyoked, and with a smile The youth springs lightsomely upon his back. Scarce feels the beast the master’s certain hand, But gnashes at his wings’ confining band, And mounts, with lightning-look, the airy track. No more the being that he was, but royally, A spirit now, a god, up mounteth he; Unfurls at once, as for their far storm-flight, His splendid wings, and shoots to heaven with fierce, wild neigh; And ere the eye can follow him, away He melts into the clear blue height.
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, the greatest name in German literature, is hardly to be classed among the humorists.
But a short extract from his Reynard the Fox is quoted.
“But I am rather bad in my inside. By what I’ve eaten I am quite upset, And nowise fitted for a journey yet.” “What was it?” asked Sir Bruin, quite prepared, For Reynard had not thrown him off his guard. “Ah,” quoth the Fox, “what boots it to explain? E’en your kind pity could not ease my pain. Since flesh I have abjured, for my soul’s weal, I’m often sadly put to’t for a meal. I bear my wretched life as best I can; A hermit fares not like an alderman. But yesterday, as other viands failed, I ate some honey—see how I am swelled! Of that there’s always to be had enough. Would I had never touched the cursed stuff! I ate it out of sheer necessity; Physic is not so nauseous near to me.” “Honey!” exclaimed the Bear; “did you say honey! Would I could any get for love or money! How can you speak so ill of what’s so good? Honey has ever been my fav’rite food; It is so wholesome, and so sweet and luscious, I can’t conceive how you can call it nauseous. Do get me some o’t, and you may depend You’ll make me evermore your steadfast friend.” “You’re surely joking, uncle!” Reynard cried. “No, on my sacred word!” the Bear replied; “I’d not, though jokes as blackberries were rife, Joke upon such a subject for my life.” “Well, you surprise me!” said the knavish beast. “There’s no accounting, certainly, for taste; And one man’s meat is oft another’s poison. I’ll wager that you never set your eyes on Such store of honey as you soon shall spy At Gaffer Joiner’s, who lives here hard by.” In fancy o’er the treat did Bruin gloat, While his mouth fairly watered at the thought. “Oh, take me, take me there, dear coz,” quoth he, “And I will ne’er forget your courtesy! Oh, let me have a taste, if not my fill; Do, cousin.” Reynard grinned, and said, “I will. Honey you shall not long time be without. ’Tis true just now I’m rather sore of foot; But what of that? The love I bear to you Shall make the road seem short, and easy too Not one of all my kith or kin is there Whom I so honor as th’ illustrious Bear. Come, then, and in return I know you’ll say A good word for me on the council day. You shall have honey to your heart’s content, And wax, too, if your fancy’s that way bent.” Whacks of a different sort the sly rogue meant. Off starts the wily Fox, in merry trim, And Bruin blindly follows after him. “If you have luck,” thought Reynard, with a titter, “I guess you’ll find our honey rather bitter.” When they at length reached Goodman Joiner’s yard, The joy that Bruin felt he might have spared. But hope, it seems, by some eternal rule, Beguiles the wisest as the merest fool. ’Twas ev’ning now, and Reynard knew, he said, The goodman would be safe and sound in bed. A good and skilful carpenter was he; Within his yard there lay an old oak-tree, Whose gnarled and knotted trunk he had to split. A stout wedge had he driven into it; The cleft gaped open a good three foot wide; Toward this spot the crafty Reynard hied. “Uncle,” quoth he, “your steps this way direct; You’ll find more honey here than you suspect. In at this fissure boldly thrust your pate; But I beseech you to be moderate. Remember, sweetest things the soonest cloy, And temperance enhances every joy.” “What!” said the Bear, a shock’d look as he put on Of self-restraint; “d’ye take me for a glutton? With thanks I use the gifts of Providence, But to abuse them count a grave offense.” And so Sir Bruin let himself be fooled— As strength will be whene’er by craft ’tis ruled. Into the cleft he thrust his greedy maw Up to the ears, and either foremost paw. Reynard drew near, and tugging might and main Pulled forth the wedge, and the trunk closed again. By head and foot was Bruin firmly caught, Nor threats nor flatt’ry could avail him aught. He howled, he raved, he struggled, and he tore, Till the whole place re-echoed with his roar, And Goodman Joiner, wakened by the rout, Jumped up, much wond’ring what ’twas all about. He seized his ax, that he might be prepared, And danger, if it came, might find him on his guard. Still howled the Bear, and struggled to get free From the accursed grip of that cleft tree. He strove and strained, but strained and strove in vain; His mightiest efforts but increased his pain; He thought he never should get loose again. And Reynard thought the same, for his own part, And wished it, too, devoutly from his heart And as the joiner coming he espied, Armed with his ax, the jesting ruffian cried: “Uncle, what cheer? Is th’ honey to your taste? Don’t eat too quick; there’s no such need of haste. The joiner’s coming, and I make no question, He brings you your dessert, to help digestion.” Then, deeming ’twas not longer safe to stay, To Malepartus back he took his way.
Carl Arnold Kortum, a German poet, wrote a long rigmarole of burlesque, called The Jobsiad. This was exceedingly popular and became a German classic. It is dull for the most part, but shows flashes of real drollery.
Contains the copy of a letter, which, among many others, the student Hieronimus did write to his parents:
Dear and Honored Parents, I lately Have suffered for want of money greatly; Have the goodness, then, to send without fail, A trifle or two by return of mail. I want about twenty or thirty ducats; For I have not at present a cent in my pockets; Things are so tight with us this way, Send me the money at once, I pray. And everything is growing higher, Lodging and washing, and lights and fire, And incidental expenses every day— Send me the ducats without delay. You can hardly perceive the enormous expenses The college imposes on all pretenses, For text-books and lectures so much to pay— I wish the ducats were on their way! I devote to my studies unremitting attention— One thing I must not forget to mention: The thirty ducats, pray send them straight For my purse is in a beggarly state. Boots and shoes, and stockings and breeches, Tailoring, washing, and extra stitches, Pen, ink and paper, are all so dear, I wish the thirty ducats were here! The money—(I trust you will speedily send it!) I promise faithfully to spend it; Yes, dear parents, you never need fear, I live very strictly and frugally here. When other students revel and riot, I steal away into perfect quiet, And shut myself up with my books and light In my study-chamber, till late at night. Beyond the needful supply of my table, I spare, dear parents, all I am able; Take tea but rarely, and nothing more, For spending money afflicts me sore. Other students, who’d fain be called mellow, Set me down for a niggardly fellow, And say: there goes the dig, just look! How like a parson he eyes his book! With jibes and jokes they daily beset me, But none of these things do I suffer to fret me; I smile at all they can do or say— Don’t forget the ducats, I pray! Ten hours each day I spend at the college, Drinking at the fount of knowledge, And when the lectures come to an end, The rest in private study I spend. The Professors express great gratification Only they hope I will use moderation, And not wear out in my studiis Philosophicis et theologicis. It would savor, dear parents, of self-laudation, To enter on an enumeration Of all my studies—in brief, there is none More exemplary than your dear son. My head seems ready to burst asunder, Sometimes, with its learned load, and I wonder Where so much knowledge is packed away: (Apropos! don’t forget the ducats, I pray!) Yes, dearest parents, my devotion to study Consumes the best strength of mind and body, And generally even the night is spent In meditation deep and intent. In the pulpit soon I shall take my station And try my hand at the preacher’s vocation Likewise I dispute in the college-hall On learned subjects with one and all. But don’t forget to send me the ducats, For I long so much to replenish my pockets; The money one day shall be returned In the shape of a son right wise and learn’d. Then my Privatissimum (I’ve been thinking on it For a long time—and in fact begun it) Will cost me twenty Rix-dollars more, Please send with the ducats I mentioned before. I also, dear parents, inform you sadly, I have torn my coat of late very badly, So please enclose with the rest in your note Twelve dollars to purchase a new coat. New boots are also necessary, Likewise my night-gown is ragged, very; My hat and pantaloons, too, alas! And the rest of my clothes are going to grass. Now, as all these things are needed greatly, Please enclose me four Louis d’ors separately, Which, joined to the rest, perhaps will be Enough for the present emergency. My recent sickness you may not have heard of; In fact, for some time, my life was despaired of, But I haste to assure you, on my word, That now my health is nearly restored. The Medicus, for services rendered, A bill of eighteen guilders has tendered, And then the apothecary’s will be, In round numbers, about twenty-three. Now that physician and apothecary May get their dues, it is necessary These forty-one guilders be added to the rest, But, as to my health, don’t be distressed. The nurse would also have some compensation, Who attended me in my critical situation, I, therefore, think it would be best To enclose seven guilders for her with the rest. For citrons, jellies and things of that nature, To sustain and strengthen the feeble creature, The confectioner, too, has a small account, Eight guilders is about the amount. These various items of which I’ve made mention, Demand immediate attention; For order, to me, is very dear, And I carefully from debts keep clear. I also rely on your kind attention, To forward the ducats of which I made mention So soon as it can possibly be— One more small item occurs to me:— Two weeks ago I unluckily stumbled, And down the length of the stairway tumbled, As in at the college door I went, Whereby my right arm almost double was bent. The Chirurgus who attended on the occasion, For his balsams, plasters and preparation Of spirits, and other things needless to name, Charges twelve dollars; please forward the same. But, that your minds may be acquiescent, I am, thank God, now convalescent; Both shoulder and shin are in a very good way, And I go to lecture every day. My stomach is still in a feeble condition, A circumstance owing, so thinks the physician, To sitting so much, when I read and write, And studying so long and so late at night. He, therefore, earnestly advises Burgundy wine, with nutmeg and spices, And every morning, instead of tea, For the stomach’s sake, to drink sangaree. Please send, agreeably to these advices, Two pistoles for the wine and spices, And be sure, dear parents, I only take Such things as these for the stomach’s sake. Finally, a few small debts, amounting To thirty or forty guilders (loose counting), Be pleased, in your letter, without fail, Dear parents, to enclose this bagatelle. And could you, for sundries, send me twenty Or a dozen Louis d’or (that would be plenty), ’Twould be a kindness seasonably done, And very acceptable to your son. This letter, dear parents, comes hoping to find you In usual health—I beg to remind you How much I am for money perplexed, Please, therefore, to remit in your next. Herewith I close my letter, repeating To you and all my friendly greeting, And subscribe myself, without further fuss, Your obedient son, Hieronimus. I add in a postscript what I neglected To say, beloved and highly respected Parents, I beg most filially, That you’ll forward the money as soon as may be. For I had, dear father (I say it weeping), Fourteen French Crowns laid by in safe keeping (As I thought) for a day of need—but the whole An anonymous person yesterday stole: I know you’ll make good, unasked, each shilling, Your innocent son has lost by this villain; For a man so considerate must be aware That I such a loss can nowise bear. Meanwhile, I’ll take care that, to-day or to-morrow, Mr. Anonymous shall, to his sorrow And your satisfaction, receive the reward Of his graceless trick with the hempen cord.
Adelbert von Chamisso, German author and poet, came of an old French family. His principal work is in prose, The Wonderful History of Peter Schlemihl, the man who sold his shadow.
An amusing poem is in nonsense vein.
THE PIGTAIL
There lived a sage in days of yore, And he a handsome pigtail wore; But wondered much, and sorrowed more, Because it hung behind him. He mused upon this curious case, And swore he’d change the pigtail’s place, And have it hanging at his face, Not dangling there behind him. Says he, “The mystery I’ve found; I’ll turn me round.” He turned him round, But still it hung behind him. Then round, and round, and out, and in, All day the puzzled sage did spin; In vain—it mattered not a pin— The pigtail hung behind him. And right, and left, and round about, And up, and down, and in, and out He turned. But still the pigtail stout Hung steadily behind him. And though his efforts never slack, And though he twist, and whirl, and tack, Alas! still faithful to his back The pigtail hangs behind him!
Wilhelm Müller, a lyric poet of promise, died young. Many of his songs were set to music by Schubert. His humorous verse was rollicking and popular.
THE DRUNKARD’S FANCY
Straight from the tavern door I am come here; Old road, how odd to me Thou dost appear! Right and left changing sides, Rising and sunk; Oh, I can plainly see, Road, thou art drunk! Oh, what a twisted face Thou hast, oh, moon! One eye shut, t’other eye Wide as a spoon. Who could have dreamed of this? Shame on thee, shame! Thou hast been fuddling, Jolly old dame! Look at the lamps again: See how they reel! Nodding and flickering Round as they wheel. Not one among them all Steady can go; Look at the drunken lamps All in a row. All in an uproar seem Great things and small; I am the only one Sober at all. But there’s no safety here For sober men; So I’ll turn back to The tavern again.
The brothers, Jakob and Wilhelm Grimm, wrote much in collaboration beside their well-known Märchen or Fairy Tales.
Their humor is of the heavier sort, but their versatile erudition found opportunities for witty conceits.
EXCERPT FROM CLEVER GRETHEL
One day her master said to her, “Grethel, I have invited some friends to dinner to-day; cook me some of your best chickens.”
“That I will, master,” she replied.
So she went out, and killed two of the best fowls and prepared them for roasting.
In the afternoon she placed them on the spit before the fire, and they were all ready, and beautifully hot and brown by the proper time, but the visitors had not arrived. So she went to her master, and said, “The fowls will be quite spoiled if I keep them at the fire any longer. It will be a pity and a shame if they are not eaten soon!”
Then said her master, “I will go and fetch the visitors myself,” and away he went.
As soon as his back was turned Grethel put the spit with the birds on one side, and thought, “I have been standing by the fire so long that it has made me quite thirsty. Who knows when they will come? While I am waiting I may as well run into the cellar and have a little drop.” So she seized a jug, and said, “All right, Grethel, you shall have a good draft. Wine is so tempting!” she continued, “and it does not do to spoil your draft.” And she drank without stopping till the jug was empty.
After this she went into the kitchen, and placed the fowls again before the fire, basted them with butter, and rattled the spit round so furiously that they browned and frizzled with the heat. “They would never miss a little piece if they searched for it ever so carefully,” she said to herself. Then she dipped her finger in the dripping-pan to taste, and cried, “Oh, how nice these fowls are! It is a sin and a shame that there is no one here to eat them!”
She ran to the window to see if her master and the guests were coming; but she could see no one. So she went and stood again by the fowls, and thought, “The wing of that fowl is a little burned. I had better eat it out of the way.” She cut it off as she thought this, and ate it up, and it tasted so nice that when she had finished it she thought, “I must have the other. Master will never notice that anything is missing.”
After the two wings were eaten, Grethel again went to look for her master, but there were no signs of his appearance.
“Who knows?” she said to herself; “perhaps the visitors are not coming at all, and they have kept my master to dinner, so he won’t be back. Hi, Grethel! there are lots of good things left for you; and that piece of fowl has made me thirsty. I must have another drink before I come back and eat up all these good things.”
So she went into the cellar, took a large draft of wine, and returning to the kitchen, sat down and ate the remainder of the fowl with great relish.
There was now only one fowl left, and as her master did not return, Grethel began to look at the other with longing eyes. At last she said, “Where one is, there the other must be; for the fowls belong to each other, and what is right for one is also fair and right for the other. I believe, too, I want some more to drink. It won’t hurt me.”
The last draft gave her courage. She came back to the kitchen and let the second fowl go after the first.
As she was enjoying the last morsel, home came her master.
“Make haste, Grethel!” he cried. “The guests will be here in a few minutes.”
“Yes, master,” she replied. “It will soon be all ready.”
Meanwhile the master saw that the cloth was laid and everything in order. So he took up the carving-knife with which he intended to carve the fowl, and went out to sharpen it on the stones in the passage.
While he was doing so, the guests arrived and knocked gently and courteously at the house door. Grethel ran out to see who it was, and when she caught sight of the visitors she placed her finger on her lips, and whispered, “Hush! Hush! Go back again as quickly as you came! If my master should catch you it would be unfortunate. He did invite you to dinner this evening, but with no other intention than to cut off both the ears of each of you. Listen; you can hear him sharpening his knife.”
The guests heard the sound, and hastened as fast as they could down the steps, and were soon out of sight.
Grethel was not idle. She ran screaming to her master, and cried, “You have invited fine visitors, certainly!”
“Hi! Why, Grethel, what do you mean?”
“Oh!” she exclaimed, “they came here just now, and have taken my two beautiful fowls from the dish that I was going to bring up for dinner, and have run away with them.”
“What strange conduct!” said her master, who was so sorry to lose his nice dinner that he rushed out to follow the thieves. “If they had only left me one, or at least enough for my own dinner!” he cried, running after them. But the more he cried to them to stop the faster they ran; and when they saw him with the knife in his hand, and heard him say, “Only one! only one!”—he meant, if they had left him “only one fowl,” but they thought he spoke of “only one ear,” which he intended to cut off—they ran as if fire were burning around them, and were not satisfied till they found themselves safe at home with both ears untouched.
Friedrich Rückert was a prolific writer and left many volumes of his collected poems.
A scathing bit of satire is here quoted.
ARTIST AND PUBLIC
The dumb man asked the blind man: “Canst do a favor, pray? Could I the harper find, man? Hast seen him pass to-day? I take, myself, small pleasure In harp-tones—almost none— Yet much I’d like a measure Played for my deaf young son.” The blind man quick made answer: “I saw him pass my gate; I’ll send my lame young man, sir, To overtake him straight.” At one look from his master, Away the cripple ran, And faster, ever faster, He chased the harper-man. The harper came, elated, And straight to work he went; His arms were amputated; His toes to work he bent. All hearts his playing captured; The deaf man was all ear; The blind man gazed, enraptured; The dumb man shouted, “Hear!” The lame boy fell to dancing, And leaped with all his might; The scene was so entrancing, They stayed till late at night. And when the concert ended, The public, justly proud, The artist’s powers commended, Who, deeply grateful, bowed.
Heinrich Heine, the celebrated lyric poet, rarely showed any humor in his poetry. But some of his prose works are broadly ludicrous, and his observations witty and cynical.
THE TOWN OF GÖTTINGEN
The town of Göttingen, famous by reason of its university and its sausages, belongs to the kingdom of Hanover, and contains 999 fire-stations, divers churches, a lying-in hospital, an observatory, an academic prison, a library, and an underground tavern—where the beer is excellent. The brook that flows past the town is called the Leine, and serves for bathing in summer; the water is very cold, and at some places the brook is so wide that one cannot jump across it without some exertion. The town is very handsome, and pleases me best when my back is turned to it. It must be very old, for I remember that when I matriculated (and was soon afterward rusticated), five years ago, it had the same gray, ancient appearance, and was as thoroughly provided, as it is now, with poodle dogs, dissertations, laundresses, anthologies, roast pigeon, Guelph decorations, pipe-bowls, court councilors, privy councilors and silly counts....
In general, the inhabitants of Göttingen may be divided into students, professors, Philistines, and cattle. The cattle class is numerically the strongest. To place on record here the names of all professors and students would take me too far afield, nor can I even, at this moment, remember the name of every student; while among the professors there are many who have as yet made none. The number of Philistines in Göttingen must be like that of the sands—or rather the mud—of the sea. Truly, when they appear in the morning with their dirty faces and their white bills at the gates of the academic court, one wonders how God could have had the heart to create such a pack of scoundrels!
More thorough information concerning Göttingen is easily obtainable by reference to the “Topography” of the town, by K. F. H. Marx. Although I am under the deepest obligations to the author, who was my physician and did me many kindnesses, I cannot praise his work without reserve. I must blame him for not having opposed in terms sufficiently strong the heresy that the ladies of Göttingen have feet of spacious dimensions. I have been engaged for a long time upon a work which is to destroy this erroneous idea once and forever. For this purpose I have studied comparative anatomy, have made excerpts from the rarest books in the library, and have for hours and hours observed the feet of the passing ladies in Weender Street. In my learned treatise I intend to deal with the subject as follows:
1. Of Feet in General.
2. Of the Feet of the Ancients.
3. Of the Feet of Elephants.
4. Of the Feet of the Fair Inhabitants of Göttingen.
5. Summing up of Opinions delivered upon Feet in Göttingen Taverns.
6. Connection and Comparison of Feet with Calves, Knees, etc.
7. Facsimile Charts (if sheets of paper sufficiently large are obtainable) of Specimen Feet of Göttingen Ladies.
I am the most peaceable of mortals. My wishes are: A modest dwelling, a thatched roof, but a good bed, good fare, milk and butter (the latter very fresh), flowers at the window, and a few fine trees before my gate. And if the Lord would fill the cup of my happiness, He would let me live to see the day when six or seven of my enemies are hung on the trees. With softened heart I would then forgive them all the evil they have done me. Yes, one must forgive one’s enemies, but not before they are hung.
A. If I were of the race of Christ, I should boast of it, and not be ashamed.
B. So would I, if Christ were the only member of the race. But so many miserable scamps belong to it that one hesitates to acknowledge the relationship.
Gervinus, the literary historian, set himself the following problem: To repeat in a long and witless book what Heinrich Heine said in a short and witty one. He solved the problem.
De mortuis nil nisi bene. One should speak only evil of the living.
Heinrich Hoffman, a Frankfort doctor, wrote the popular tales for children about Struwelpeter, which are nursery classics in many languages. These stories have an added interest from the clever illustrations by their author.
Wilhelm Busch, also a comic artist, born near Hanover, is the creator of the Max and Maurice stories and pictures.
He was a well-known contributor to the Fliegende Blätter, the popular comic paper of Germany.
A distinct type of German humor is found in their Student Songs. These, oftener than not, are in praise of merrymaking and good cheer.
POPE AND SULTAN
The Pope he leads a happy life; He fears not married care nor strife; He drinks the best of Rhenish wine— I would the Pope’s gay lot were mine. CHORUS He drinks the best of Rhenish wine— I would the Pope’s gay lot were mine. But then, all happy’s not his life; He has not maid nor blooming wife, Nor child has he to raise his hope— I would not wish to be the Pope. The Sultan better pleases me; His is a life of jollity; His wives are many as his will— I would the Sultan’s throne then fill. But even he’s a wretched man; He must obey his Alcoran; And dares not drink one drop of wine— I would not change his lot for mine. So, then, I’ll hold my lowly stand, And live in German fatherland; I’ll kiss my maiden fair and fine, And drink the best of Rhenish wine. Whene’er my maiden kisses me, I’ll think that I the Sultan be; And when my cheery glass I tope, I’ll fancy then I am the Pope.
CREDO
For the sole edification Of this decent congregation, Goodly people, by your grant I will sing a holy chant, I will sing a holy chant. If the ditty sound but oddly, ’Twas a father, wise and godly, Sang it so long ago. Then sing as Martin Luther sang: “Who loves not woman, wine, and song, Remains a fool his whole life long!” He, by custom patriarchal, Loved to see the beaker sparkle; And he thought the wine improved, Tasted by the lips he loved, By the kindly lips he loved. Friends, I wish this custom pious Duly were observed by us, To combine love, song, wine, And sing as Martin Luther sang, As Doctor Martin Luther sang: “Who loves not woman, wine and song, Remains a fool his whole life long!” Who refuses this our Credo, And who will not sing as we do, Were he holy as John Knox, I’d pronounce him heterodox, I’d pronounce him heterodox, And from out this congregation, With a solemn commination, Banish quick the heretic, Who’ll not sing as Luther sang, As Doctor Martin Luther sang: “Who loves not woman, wine and song, Remains a fool his whole life long!”
ITALIAN HUMOR
The humorists of Italy in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries are few and far between. Carlo Goldoni and Count Carlo Gozzi were both dramatists, the latter also a novelist, whose works show humor, but are not available for quotation.
Count Giacomo Leopardi, though himself a gloomy sort of person, left some satirical writings tinged with wit.
THE ACADEMY OF SYLLOGRAPHS
The Academy of Syllographs, hold that it would be in the highest degree expedient that men should retire as far as possible from the conduct of the business of the world, and should gradually give place to mechanical agency for the direction of human affairs. Accordingly, resolved to contribute as far as lies in its power to this consummation, it has determined to offer three prizes, to be awarded to the persons who shall invent the best examples of the three machines now to be described.
The scope and object of the first of these automata shall be to represent the person and discharge the functions of a friend who shall not calumniate or jeer at his absent associate; who shall not fail to take his part when he hears him censured or ridiculed; who shall not prefer a reputation for wit, and the applause of men, to his duty to friendship; who shall never, from love of gossip or mere ostentation of superior knowledge, divulge a secret committed to his keeping; who shall not abuse the intimacy or confidence of his fellow in order to supplant or surpass him; who shall harbor no envy against his friend; who shall guard his interests and help to repair his losses, and shall be prompt to answer his call, and minister to his needs more substantially than by empty professions.
In the construction of this piece of mechanism it will be well to study, among other things, the treatise on friendship by Cicero, as well as that of Madame de Lambert. The Academy is of opinion that the manufacture of such a machine ought not to prove impracticable or even particularly difficult, for, besides the automata of Regiomontanus and Vaucanson, there was at one time exhibited in London a mechanical figure which drew portraits, and wrote to dictation; while there have been more than one example of such machines capable of playing at chess. Now, in the opinion of many philosophers human life is but a game; nay, some hold that it is more shallow and more frivolous than many other games, and that the principles of chess, for example, are more in accordance with reason, and that its various moves are more governed by wisdom, than are the actions of mankind; while we have it on the authority of Pindar that human action is no more substantial than the shadow of a dream; and this being so, the intelligence of an automaton ought to prove quite equal to the discharge of the functions which have just been described.
As to the power of speech, it seems unreasonable to doubt that men should have the power of communicating it to machines constructed by themselves, seeing that this may be said to have been established by sundry precedents, such, for example, as in the case of the statue of Memnon, and of the human head manufactured by Albertus Magnus, which actually became so loquacious that Saint Thomas Aquinas, losing all patience with it, smashed it to pieces. Then, too, there was the instance of the parrot Ver-Vert, though it was a living creature; but if it could be taught to converse reasonably how much more may it be supposed that a machine devised by the mind of man, and constructed by his hands, should do as much; while it would have this advantage that it might be made less garrulous than this parrot, or the head of Albertus, and therefore it need not irritate its acquaintances and provoke them to smash it.
The inventor of the best example of such a machine shall be decorated with a gold medallion of four hundred sequins in weight, bearing on its face the images of Pylades and Orestes, and on the reverse the name of the successful competitor, surrounded by the legend, First Realizer of the Fables of Antiquity.
The second machine called for by the Academy is to be an artificial steam man, so constructed and regulated as to perform virtuous and magnanimous actions. The Academy is of opinion that in the absence of all other adequate motive power to that end, the properties of steam might prove effective to inspire an automaton, and direct it to the attainment of virtue and true glory. The inventor who shall undertake the construction of such a machine should study the poets and the writers of romance, who will best guide him as to the qualities and functions most essential to such a piece of mechanism. The prize shall be a gold medal weighing four hundred and fifty sequins, bearing on its obverse a figure symbolical of the golden age, and on its reverse the name of the inventor.
The third automaton should be so constituted as to perform the duties of woman such as she was conceived by the Count Baldassar Castiglione, and described by him in his treatise entitled The Courtier, as well as by other writers in other works on the subject, which will be readily found, and which, as well as that of the count, will have to be carefully consulted and followed. The construction of a machine of this nature, too, ought not to appear impossible to the inventors of our time, when they reflect on the fact that in the most ancient times, and times destitute of science, Pygmalion was able to fabricate for himself, with his own hands, a wife of such rare gifts that she has never since been equaled down to the present day. The successful inventor of this machine shall be rewarded with a gold medal weighing five hundred sequins, bearing on one face the figure of the Arabian Phenix of Metastasio, couched on a tree of a European species, while its other side will bear the name of the inventor, with the title, Inventor of Faithful Women and of Conjugal Happiness.
Finally, the Academy has resolved that the funds necessary to defray the expenses incidental to this competition shall be supplemented by all that was found in the purse of Diogenes, its first secretary, together with one of the three golden asses which were the property of three of its former members—namely, Apuleius, Firenzuola, and Machiavelli, but which came into the possession of the Academy by the last wills and testaments of the aforementioned, as duly recorded in its minutes.
Antonio Ghislanzoni, an Italian journalist was possessed of a sort of humor that would be a credit to any nation. It is not far removed from the style of the early American jocularists.
Ghislanzoni was an opera singer, but, losing his voice, he quitted the stage, and founded a comic paper, L’Uomo di Pietra.
His paper on Musical Instruments is so entertaining we quote it all.
ON MUSICAL INSTRUMENTS
The Clarinet
This instrument consists of a severe cold in the head, contained in a tube of yellow wood.
The clarinet was not invented by the Conservatory, but by Fate.
A chiropodist may be produced by study and hard work; but the clarinet-player is born, not made.
The citizen predestined to the clarinet has an intelligence which is almost obtuse up to the age of eighteen—a period of incubation, when he begins to feel in his nose the first thrills of his fatal vocation.
After that his intellect—limited even then—ceases its development altogether; but his nasal organ, in revenge, assumes colossal dimensions.
At twenty he buys his first clarinet for fourteen francs; and three months later his landlord gives him notice. At twenty-five he is admitted into the band of the National Guard.
He dies of a broken heart on finding that not one of his three sons shows the slightest inclination for the instrument through which he has blown all his wits.
The Trombone
The man who plays on this instrument is always one who seeks oblivion in its society—oblivion of domestic troubles, or consolation for love betrayed.
The man who has held a metal tube in his mouth for six months finds himself proof against every illusion.
At the age of fifty he finds that, of all human passions and feelings, nothing is left him but an insatiable thirst.
Later on, if he wants to obtain the position of porter in a gentleman’s house, or aspires to the hand of a woman with a delicate ear, he tries to lay aside his instrument, but the taste for loud notes and strong liquors only leaves him with life.
The Harmoniflute
This instrument, on account of the nature of its monotonous sounds and its tremendous plaintiveness, acts on the nerves of those who hear it, and predisposes to melancholy those who play it.
The harmoniflautist is usually tender and lymphatic of constitution, with blue eyes, and eats only white meats and farinaceous food.
If a man, he is called Oscar; those of the other sex are named Adelaide.
At home, he or she is in the habit of bringing out the instrument at dessert, and dinner being over, and the spirits of the family therefore more or less cheerfully disposed, will entertain the company with the “Miserere” in Il Trovatore, or some similar melody.
The harmoniflautist weeps easily. After practising on the instrument for fifteen years or so, he or she dissolves altogether, and is converted into a brook.
The Organ
This complicated and majestic instrument is of a clerical character, and destined, by its great volume of sound, to drown the flat singing of clergy and congregation in church.
The organist is usually a person sent into the world for the purpose of making a great noise without undue expenditure of strength, one who wants to blow harder than others without wearing out his own bellows.
At forty he becomes the intimate friend of the parish priest, and the most influential person connected with the church. By dint of repeating the same refrains every day at matins and vespers, he acquires a knowledge of Latin, and gets all the anthems, hymns, and masses by heart. At fifty he marries a devout spinster recommended by the priest.
He makes a kind and good-tempered husband, his only defect in that capacity being his habit of dreaming out loud on the eve of every church festival. On Easter Eve, for instance, he nearly always awakens his wife by intoning, with the full force of his lungs, Resurrexit. The good woman, thus abruptly aroused, never fails to answer him with the orthodox Alleluia.
At the age of sixty he becomes deaf, and then begins to think his own playing perfection. At seventy he usually dies of a broken heart, because the new priest, who knows not Joseph, instead of asking him to dine at the principal table with the clergy and other church authorities, has relegated him to an inferior place, and the society of the sacristan and the grave-digger.
The Flute
The unhappy man who succumbs to the fascinations of this instrument is never one who has attained the full development of his intellectual faculties. He always has a pointed nose, marries a short-sighted woman, and dies run over by an omnibus.
The flute is the most deadly of all instruments. It requires a peculiar conformation and special culture of the thumb-nail, with a view to those holes which have to be only half closed.
The man who plays the flute frequently adds to his other infirmities a mania for keeping tame weasels, turtle-doves, or guinea-pigs.
The Violoncello
To play the ’cello, you require to have long, thin fingers; but it is still more indispensable to have very long hair falling over a greasy coat-collar.
In case of fire, the ’cellist who sees his wife and his ’cello in danger will save the latter first.
His greatest satisfaction, as a general thing, is that of “making the strings weep.” Sometimes, indeed, he succeeds in making his wife and family do the same thing in consequence of a diet of excessive frugality. Sometimes, too, he contrives to make people laugh or yawn, but this, according to him, is the result of atmospheric influences.
He can express, through his loftily attuned strings, all possible griefs and sorrows, except those of his audience and his creditors.
The Drum
An immense apparatus of wood and sheepskin, full of air and of sinister presages. In melodrama the roll of the drum serves to announce the arrival of a fatal personage, an agent of Destiny, in most cases an ill-used husband. Sometimes this funereal rumbling serves to describe silence—sometimes to indicate the depths of the operatic heroine’s despair.
The drummer is a serious man, possessed with the sense of his high dramatic mission. He is able, however, to conceal his conscious pride, and sleep on his instrument when the rest of the orchestra is making all the noise it can. In such cases he commissions the nearest of his colleagues to awaken him at the proper moment.
On awaking, he seizes the two drumsticks and begins to beat; but, should his neighbor forget to rouse him, he prolongs his slumbers till the fall of the curtain. Then he shakes himself, perceives that the opera is over, and rubs his eyes. If it happens that the conductor reprimands him for his remissness at the attack, he shrugs his shoulders and replies, “Never mind, the tenor died, all the same. A roll of the drum, more or less, what difference would it have made?”
Edmondo de Amicis, soldier and writer of books of travel, often gives amusing descriptions of scenes or incidents.
TOOTH FOR TOOTH
An English merchant of Mogador was returning to the city on the evening of a market-day, at the moment when the gate by which he was entering was barred by a crowd of country people driving camels and asses. Although the Englishman called out as loud as he could, “Make way!” an old woman was struck by his horse and knocked down, falling with her face upon a stone. Ill fortune would have it that in the fall she broke her last two front teeth. She was stunned for an instant, and then rose convulsed with rage, and broke out into insults and ferocious maledictions, following the Englishman to his door. She then went before the governor, and demanded that in virtue of the law of talion he should order the English merchant’s two front teeth to be broken. The governor tried to pacify her, and advised her to pardon the injury; but she would listen to nothing, and he sent her away with a promise that she should have justice, hoping that when her anger should be exhausted she would herself desist from her pursuit. But, three days having passed, the old woman came back more furious than ever, demanded justice, and insisted that a formal sentence should be pronounced against the Christian.
“Remember,” said she to the governor, “thou didst promise me!”
“What!” responded the governor; “dost thou take me for a Christian, that I should be the slave of my word?”
Every day for a month the old woman, athirst for vengeance, presented herself at the door of the citadel, and yelled and cursed and made such a noise, that the governor, to be rid of her, was obliged to yield. He sent for the merchant, explained the case, the right which the law gave the woman, the duty imposed upon himself, and begged him to put an end to the matter by allowing two of his teeth to be removed—any two, although in strict justice they should be two incisors. The Englishman refused absolutely to part with incisors, or eye-teeth, or molars; and the governor was obliged to send the old woman packing, ordering the guard not to let her put her foot in the palace again.
“Very well,” said she, “since there are none but degenerate Mussulmans here, since justice is refused to a Mussulman woman against an infidel dog, I will go to the sultan, and we shall see whether the prince of the faithful will deny the law of the Prophet.”
True to her determination, she started on her journey alone, with an amulet in her bosom, a stick in her hand, and a bag round her neck, and made on foot the hundred miles which separate Mogador from the sacred city of the empire. Arrived at Fez, she sought and obtained audience of the sultan, laid her case before him, and demanded the right accorded by the Koran, the application of the law of retaliation. The sultan exhorted her to forgive. She insisted. All the serious difficulties which opposed themselves to the satisfaction of her petition were laid before her. She remained inexorable. A sum of money was offered her, with which she could live in comfort for the rest of her days. She refused it.
“What do I want with your money?” said she; “I am old, and accustomed to live in poverty. What I want is the two teeth of the Christian. I want them; I demand them in the name of the Koran. The sultan, prince of the faithful, head of our religion, father of his subjects, cannot refuse justice to a true believer.”
Her obstinacy put the sultan in a most embarrassing position. The law was formal, and her right incontestable; and the ferment of the populace, stirred up by the woman’s fanatical declamations, rendered refusal perilous. The sultan, who was Abd-er-Rahman, wrote to the English consul, asking as a favor that he would induce his countryman to allow two of his teeth to be broken. The merchant answered the consul that he would never consent. Then the sultan wrote again, saying that if he would consent he would grant him, in compensation, any commercial privilege that he chose to ask. This time, touched in his purse, the merchant yielded. The old woman left Fez, blessing the name of the pious Abd-er-Rahman, and went back to Mogador, where, in the presence of many people, the two teeth of the Nazarene were broken. When she saw them fall to the ground she gave a yell of triumph, and picked them up with a fierce joy. The merchant, thanks to the privileges accorded him, made in the two following years so handsome a fortune that he went back to England toothless, but happy.
SPANISH HUMOR
The only illustrious name of a writer of humor in Spain in the eighteenth century is that of the justly celebrated Thomas Yriarte.
He is best known to English readers through his Literary Fables, which have been frequently translated.
THE ASS AND THE FLUTE
You must know that this ditty, This little romance, Be it dull, be it witty, Arose from mere chance. Near a certain inclosure, Not far from my manse, An ass, with composure, Was passing by chance. As he went along prying, With sober advance, A shepherd’s lute lying, He found there by chance. Our amateur started, And eyed it askance, Drew nearer, and snorted Upon it by chance. The breath of the brute, sir, Drew music for once; It entered the flute, sir, And blew it by chance. “Ah!” cried he, in wonder, How comes this to pass? Who will now dare to slander The skill of an ass? And asses in plenty I see at a glance, Who, one time in twenty, Succeed by mere chance.
THE EGGS
Beyond the sunny Philippines An island lies, whose name I do not know; But that’s of little consequence, if so You understand that there they had no hens; Till, by a happy chance, a traveler, After a while, carried some poultry there. Fast they increased as any one could wish; Until fresh eggs became the common dish. But all the natives ate them boiled—they say— Because the stranger taught no other way. At last the experiment by one was tried— Sagacious man!—of having his eggs fried. And, O! what boundless honors for his pains, His fruitful and inventive fancy gains! Another, now, to have them baked devised— Most happy thought!—and still another, spiced. Who ever thought eggs were so delicate! Next, some one gave his friends an omelette: “Ah!” all exclaimed, “what an ingenious feat!” But scarce a year went by, an artiste shouts, “I have it now—ye’re all a pack of louts!— With nice tomatoes all my eggs are stewed.” And the whole island thought the mode so good, That they would so have cooked them to this day, But that a stranger wandered out that way, Another dish the gaping natives taught, And showed them eggs cooked à la Huguenot. Successive cooks thus proved their skill diverse; But how shall I be able to rehearse All of the new, delicious condiments That luxury, from time to time, invents? Soft, hard, and dropped, and now with sugar sweet, And now boiled up with milk, the eggs they eat; In sherbet, in preserves; at last they tickle Their palates fanciful with eggs in pickle. All had their day—the last was still the best. But a grave senior thus, one day, addressed The epicures: “Boast, ninnies, if you will, These countless prodigies of gastric skill— But blessings on the man who brought the hens!” Beyond the sunny Philippines Our crowd of modern authors need not go New-fangled modes of cooking eggs to show.
THE COUNTRY SQUIRE
A country squire, of greater wealth than wit (For fools are often bless’d with fortune’s smile), Had built a splendid house, and furnish’d it In splendid style. “One thing is wanted,” said a friend; “for, though The rooms are fine, the furniture profuse, You lack a library, dear sir, for show, If not for use.” “’Tis true; but, zounds!” replied the squire with glee, “The lumber-room in yonder northern wing (I wonder I ne’er thought of it) will be The very thing. “I’ll have it fitted up without delay With shelves and presses of the newest mode And rarest wood, befitting every way A squire’s abode. “And when the whole is ready, I’ll despatch My coachman—a most knowing fellow—down, To buy me, by admeasurement, a batch Of books in town.” But ere the library was half supplied With all its pomp of cabinet and shelf, The booby Squire repented him, and cried, Unto himself:— “This room is much more roomy than I thought; Ten thousand volumes hardly would suffice To fill it, and would cost, however bought, A plaguy price. “Now, as I only want them for their looks, It might, on second thoughts, be just as good, And cost me next to nothing, if the books Were made of wood. “It shall be so. I’ll give the shaven deal A coat of paint—a colourable dress, To look like calf or vellum and conceal Its nakedness. “And gilt and letter’d with the author’s name, Whatever is most excellent and rare Shall be, or seem to be (’tis all the same) Assembled there.” The work was done; the simulated hoards Of wit and wisdom round the chamber stood, In bindings some; and some, of course, in boards, Where all were wood. From bulky folios down to slender twelves, The choicest tomes in many an even row, Display’d their letter’d backs upon the shelves, A goodly show. With such a stock, which seemingly surpass’d The best collection ever form’d in Spain, What wonder if the owner grew at last Supremely vain? What wonder, as he paced from shelf to shelf, And conn’d their titles, that the Squire began, Despite his ignorance, to think himself A learned man? Let every amateur, who merely looks To backs and bindings, take the hint and sell His costly library; for painted books Would serve as well.
There were other Spaniards, doubtless, who possessed humor or wit, but the only available translations of their plays or stories are too long for quotation.
RUSSIAN HUMOR
A glance at Russia in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries shows the great popularity of the Fable as a means of expressing the wit and wisdom of the philosophers.
The two greatest Fabulists were Ivan Chemnitzer or Khemnitzer and Ivan Kryloff.
Alexander Griboyedoff was a writer of comedies.
Ivan Chemnitzer THE PHILOSOPHER
A certain rich man, who had heard it was an advantage to have been at school abroad, sent his son to study in foreign parts. The son, who was an utter fool, came back more stupid than ever, having been taught all sorts of elaborate explanations of the simplest things by a lot of academical windbags. He expressed himself only in scientific terms, so that no one understood him, and everyone became very tired of him.
One day, while walking along a road, and gazing at the sky in speculating upon some problem of the universe to which the answer had never been found (because there was none), the young man stepped over the edge of a deep ditch. His father, who chanced to be near by, ran to get a rope. The son, however, sitting at the bottom of the ditch, began to meditate on the cause of his fall. He concluded that an earthquake had superinduced a momentary displacement of his corporeal axis, thus destroying his equilibrium, and, in obedience to the law of gravity as established by Newton, precipitating him downward until he encountered an immovable obstacle—namely, the bottom of the ditch.
When his father arrived with the rope, the following dialogue took place between them:
“I have brought a rope to pull you out with. There, now, hold on tight to that end, and don’t let go while I pull.”
“A rope? Please inform me what a rope is before you pull.”
“A rope is a thing to get people out of ditches with, when they have fallen in and can’t get out by themselves.”
“But how is it that no mechanical device has been constructed for that purpose?”
“That would take time; but you will not have to wait until then. Now, then——”
“Time? Please explain first what you mean by time.”
“Time is something that I am not going to waste on a fool like you. So you may stay where you are until I come back.”
Upon which the man went off, and left his foolish son to himself.
Now, would it not be a good thing if all eloquent windbags were gathered together and thrown into the ditch, to keep him company? Yes, surely. Only it would take a much larger ditch than that to hold them.
—The Fables.
THE LION’S COUNCIL OF STATE
A Lion held a court for state affairs. Why? That is not your business, sir—’twas theirs. He called the elephants for councilors. Still The council-board was incomplete, And the king deemed it fit With asses all the vacancies to fill. Heaven help the state, for lo! the bench of asses The bench of elephants by far surpasses. “He was a fool, th’ aforesaid king,” you’ll say; “Better have kept those places vacant, surely, Than to have filled ’em up so very poorly.” Oh, no, that’s not the royal way; Things have been done for ages thus, and we Have a deep reverence for antiquity. Naught worse, sir, than to be, or to appear, Wiser and better than our fathers were! The list must be complete, e’en though you make it Complete with asses—for the lion saw Such had through all the ages been the law. He was no radical to break it; “Besides,” said he, “my elephants’ good sense Will soon my asses’ ignorance diminish, For wisdom has a mighty influence.” They made a pretty finish! The asses’ folly soon obtained the sway: The elephants became as dull as they!
Ivan Krylov THE SWAN, THE PIKE, AND THE CRAB
Whene’er companions don’t agree, They work without accord; And naught but trouble doth result, Although they all work hard. One day a swan, a pike, a crab, Resolved a load to haul; All three were harnessed to the cart, And pulled together all. But though they pulled with all their might, The cart-load on the bank stuck tight. The swan pulled upward to the skies; The crab did backward crawl; The pike made for the water straight— It proved no use at all! Now, which of them was most to blame, ’Tis not for me to say; But this I know: the load is there Unto this very day.
THE MUSICIANS
The tricksy monkey, the goat, the ass, and bandy-legged Mishka, the bear, determined to play a quartet. They provided themselves with the necessary instruments—two fiddles, an alto, and a bass. Then they all settled down under a large tree, with the object of dazzling the world by their artistic performance. They fiddled away lustily for some time, but only succeeded in making a noise, and no music.
“Stop, my friends!” said the monkey, “this will not do; our music does not sound as it ought. It is plain that we are in the wrong positions. You, Mishka, take your bass and face the alto; I will go opposite the second fiddle. Then we shall play altogether differently, so that the very hills and forests will dance.”
So they changed places, and began over again. But they produced only discords, as before.
“Wait a moment!” exclaimed the ass; “I know what the matter is. We must get in a row, and then we shall play in tune.”