Part 1 / Book 3 — RABELAIS IMITATES DIOGENES (From the Author’s Prologue to Book III.) (continued 4)
Reading edition
Charles Kingsley, a clergyman of attainments, possessed the same type of whimsical humor as the later and greater Lewis Carroll.
His Water Babies from which a short extract is given, is a classic in child literature.
THE PROFESSOR’S MALADY
They say that no one has ever yet seen a water-baby. For my part, I believe that the naturalists get dozens of them when they are out dredging, but they say nothing about them and throw them overboard again, for fear of spoiling their theories. But you see the professor was found out, as every one is in due time. A very terrible old fairy found the professor out. She felt his bumps, and cast his nativity, and took the lunars of him carefully inside and out; and so she knew what he would do as well as if she had seen it in a print book, as they say in the dear old west country. And he did it. And so he was found out beforehand, as everybody always is; and the old fairy will find out the naturalists some day, and put them in the Times; and then on whose side will the laugh be?
So all the doctors in the country were called in to make a report on his case; and of course every one of them flatly contradicted the other: else what use is there in being men of science? But at last the majority agreed on a report, in the true medical language, one half bad Latin, the other half worse Greek, and the rest what might have been English, if they had only learned to write it. And this is the beginning thereof:
“The subanhypaposupernal anastomoses of peritomic diacellurite in the encephalo-digital region of the distinguished individual of whose symptomatic phenomena we had the melancholy honour (subsequent to a preliminary diagnostic inspection) of making an inspectorial diagnosis, presenting the interexclusively quadrilateral and antinomian diathesis known as Bumpsterhausen’s blue follicles, we proceeded——”
But what they proceeded to do my lady never knew, for she was so frightened at the long words that she ran for her life, and locked herself into her bedroom, for fear of being squashed by the words and strangled by the sentence. A boa-constrictor, she said, was bad company enough; but what was a boa-constrictor made of paving-stones?
“It was quite shocking! What can they think is the matter with him?” said she to the old nurse.
“That his wit’s just addled; maybe wi’ unbelief and heathenry,” quoth she.
“Then why can’t they say so?”
And the heaven, and the sea, and the rocks and vales re-echoed, “Why, indeed?” But the doctors never heard them.
So she made Sir John write to the Times to command the chancellor of the exchequer for the time being to put a tax on long words:
A light tax on words over three syllables, which are necessary evils, like rats, but, like them, must be kept down judiciously.
A heavy tax on words over four syllables, as heterodoxy, spontaneity, spiritualism, spuriosity, etc.
And on words over five syllables (of which I hope no one will wish to see any examples), a totally prohibitory tax.
And a similar prohibitory tax on words derived from three or more languages at once, words derived from two languages, having become so common that there was no more hope of rooting out them than of rooting out peth-winds.
The chancellor of the exchequer, being a scholar and a man of sense, jumped at the notion, for he saw in it the one and only plan for abolishing Schedule D. But when he brought in his bill, most of the Irish members, and (I am sorry to say) some of the Scotch likewise, opposed it most strongly, on the ground that in a free country no man was bound either to understand himself or to let others understand him. So the bill fell through on the first reading, and the chancellor, being a philosopher, comforted himself with the thought that it was not the first time that a woman had hit off a grand idea, and the men turned up their stupid noses thereat.
Alfred, Lord Tennyson, is conceded the gift of humor by some, but his other attributes so far outshine it that his amusing bits are hard to find. A moderately funny poem is:
THE GOOSE
I knew an old wife lean and poor, Her rags scarce held together; There strode a stranger to the door, And it was windy weather. He held a goose upon his arm, He utter’d rhyme and reason, “Here, take the goose, and keep you warm, It is a stormy season.” She caught the white goose by the leg, A goose—’twas no great matter. The goose let fall a golden egg With cackle and with clatter. She dropt the goose, and caught the pelf, And ran to tell her neighbours; And bless’d herself, and cursed herself, And rested from her labours. And feeding high and living soft, Grew plump and able-bodied; Until the grave churchwarden doff’d, The parson smirk’d and nodded. So sitting, served by man and maid, She felt her heart grow prouder: But, ah! the more the white goose laid It clack’d and cackled louder. It clutter’d here, it chuckled there; It stirr’d the old wife’s mettle; She shifted in her elbow-chair, And hurl’d the pan and kettle. “A quinsy choke thy cursed note!” Then wax’d her anger stronger. “Go, take the goose, and wring her throat, I will not bear it longer.” Then yelp’d the cur, and yawl’d the cat; Ran Gaffer, stumbled Gammer. The goose flew this way and flew that, And fill’d the house with clamour. As head and heels upon the floor They flounder’d all together, There strode a stranger to the door, And it was windy weather: He took the goose upon his arm, He utter’d words of scorning; “So keep you cold, or keep you warm, It is a stormy morning.” The wild wind rang from park and plain, And round the attics rumbled, Till all the tables danced again, And half the chimneys tumbled. The glass blew in, the fire blew out, The blast was hard and harder. Her cap blew off, her gown blew up, And a whirlwind cleared the larder. And while on all sides breaking loose, Her household fled the danger, Quoth she, “The devil take the goose, And God forget the stranger!”
Robert Browning, though scarcely to be called a humorous poet, had a fine wit and a quick and agile sense of whimsey.
His Pied Piper of Hamelin, written to amuse a sick child of Macready’s, is a masterpiece of quiet humor. His satiric vein is shown in:
THE POPE AND THE NET
What, he on whom our voices unanimously ran, Made Pope at our last Conclave? Full low his life began: His father earned the daily bread as just a fisherman. So much the more his boy minds book, gives proof of mother-wit, Becomes first Deacon, and then Priest, then Bishop: see him sit No less than Cardinal ere long, while no one cries “Unfit!” But some one smirks, some other smiles, jogs elbow and nods head; Each wings at each: “I’ faith, a rise! Saint Peter’s net, instead Of sword and keys, is come in vogue!” You think he blushes red? Not he, of humble holy heart! “Unworthy me!” he sighs: “From fisher’s drudge to Church’s prince—it is indeed a rise: So, here’s my way to keep the fact forever in my eyes!” And straightway in his palace-hall, where commonly is set Some coat-of-arms, some portraiture ancestral, lo, we met His mean estate’s reminder in his fisher-father’s net! Which step conciliates all and some, stops cavil in a trice: “The humble holy heart that holds of new-born pride no spice! He’s just the saint to choose for Pope!” Each adds, “’Tis my advice.” So Pope he was: and when we flocked—its sacred slipper on— To kiss his foot, we lifted eyes, alack, the thing was gone— That guarantee of lowlihead,—eclipsed that star which shone! Each eyed his fellow, one and all kept silence. I cried “Pish! I’ll make me spokesman for the rest, express the common wish. Why, Father, is the net removed?” “Son, it hath caught the fish.”
Frederick Locker-Lampson, though following in the footsteps of Praed, was a more famous writer of the rhymes known as Vers de Société.
There is no English equivalent for the French term, and attempts to coin one are usually failures. Society verse, Familiar Verse, Occasional verse,—each lacks somewhat of the real implication.
Locker-Lampson, himself a discerning and severe critic, instructs us that the rhymes should be short, graceful, refined and fanciful, not seldom distinguished by chastened sentiment, and often playful.
But, really, playfulness and light, bright humor are more a distinctive quality of Vers de Société than that dictum stipulates.
Wit is the keynote, fun the undercurrent of the best of the material so often collected under this name; and Locker-Lampson made the first and perhaps the best collection, under the title of Lyra Elegantiarum.
Typical of all that goes to make up the best form of Vers de Société is his poem,
MY MISTRESS’S BOOTS
They nearly strike me dumb, And I tremble when they come Pit-a-pat; This palpitation means These boots are Geraldine’s— Think of that! Oh, where did hunter win So delectable a skin For her feet? You lucky little kid, You perished, so you did, For my sweet! The faëry stitching gleams On the sides, and in the seams, And it shows The Pixies were the wags Who tipt those funny tags And these toes. What soles to charm an elf! Had Crusoe, sick of self, Chanced to view One printed near the tide, Oh, how hard he would have tried For the two! For Gerry’s debonair And innocent, and fair As a rose; She’s an angel in a frock, With a fascinating cock To her nose. The simpletons who squeeze Their extremities to please Mandarins, Would positively flinch From venturing to pinch Geraldine’s. Cinderella’s lefts and rights, To Geraldine’s were frights; And I trow, The damsel, deftly shod, Has dutifully trod Until now. Come, Gerry, since it suits Such a pretty Puss (in Boots) These to don; Set this dainty hand awhile On my shoulder, dear, and I’ll Put them on.
ON A SENSE OF HUMOUR
He cannot be complete in aught Who is not humorously prone; A man without a merry thought Can hardly have a funny-bone.
SOME LADIES
Some ladies now make pretty songs, And some make pretty nurses; Some men are great at righting wrongs And some at writing verses.
A TERRIBLE INFANT
I recollect a nurse call’d Ann, Who carried me about the grass, And one fine day a fine young man Came up, and kiss’d the pretty lass. She did not make the least objection! Thinks I, “Aha! When I can talk I’ll tell Mamma” —And that’s my earliest recollection.
Charles Stuart Calverley is called the Prince of Parodists, but his genius deserves far higher praise than that.
His serious work is of a high order but it is for his humorous verse that he is most loved and praised.
His parodies while showing the best and finest burlesque qualities, are also poems in themselves, and are of an exquisite wit and a spontaneous humor rarely excelled.
One of the best is the ballad in which Rossetti’s manner is parodied in very spirit.