A MODEST WIT.

A supercilious nabob of the East— Haughty, being great—purse-proud, being rich— A governor, or general, at the least, I have forgotten which— Had in his family a humble youth, Who went from England in his patron’s suit, An unassuming boy, in truth A lad of decent parts, and good repute. This youth had sense and spirit; But yet with all his sense, Excessive diffidence Obscured his merit. One day, at table, flushed with pride and wine, His Honor, proudly free, severely merry, Conceived it would be vastly fine To crack a joke upon his secretary. “Young man,” he said, “by what art, craft, or trade, Did your good father gain a livelihood?”— “He was a saddler, sir,” Modestus said, “And in his time was reckon’d good.” “A saddler, eh! and taught you Greek, Instead of teaching you to sew! Pray why did not your father make A saddler, sir, of you?” Each parasite, then, as in duty bound, The joke applauded, and the laugh went round. At length Modestus, bowing low, Said (craving pardon, if too free he made), “Sir, by your leave, I fain would know Your father’s trade!” “My father’s trade! by heaven that’s too bad! My father’s trade? Why, blockhead, are you mad? My father, sir, did never stoop so low— He was a gentleman, I’d have you know.” “Excuse the liberty I take,” Modestus said, with archness on his brow, “Pray, why did not your father make A gentleman of you?”