History of English Humour Volume I Part 23

Blackmore, who was successively physician to William III. and Queen Anne, had been once a schoolmaster.

Tom Brown died at the early age of forty. His life was full of misfortunes, but we can scarcely say that he was unhappy, for nothing could conquer his buoyant spirit. At one time he was actually in prison, for what was deemed a libellous attack, but we are told that he obtained his "enlargement" from it, upon his writing the following Pindaric Pet.i.tion to the Lords in Council.

"Should you order Tho' Brown To be whipped thro' the town For scurvy lampoon, Grave _Southern_ and _Crown_ Their pens wou'd lay down; Even D'Urfey himself, and such merry fellows That put their whole trust in tunes and trangdillioes May hang up their harps and themselves on the willows; For if poets are punished for libelling trash John Dryden, tho' sixty, may yet fear the lash.

No pension, no praise, Much birch without bays, These are not right ways Our fancy to raise, To the writing of plays And prologues so witty That jirk at the city, And now and then hit Some spark in the pit, So hard and so pat Till he hides with his hat His monstrous cravat.

The pulpit alone Can never preach down The fops of the town Then pardon Tho' Brown And let him write on; But if you had rather convert the poor sinner His foul writing mouth may be stopped with a dinner.

Give him clothes to his back, some meat and some drink Then clap him close prisoner without pen and ink And your pet.i.tioner shall neither pray, write, or think."

Unfortunately his pecuniary difficulties were not removed, but accompanied him through life. What a strange mixture of gaiety, learning and dest.i.tution is brought before us, when on a clamorons dun vowing she would not leave him until she had her money, he exclaimed in an extempore version of two lines of Martial--

"s.e.xtus, thou nothing ow'st, nothing I say!

He something owes, that something has to pay."

In an imitation of another epigram of Martial he gives an account of the unpromising position of his affairs:--

"Without formal pet.i.tion Thus stands my condition, I am closely blocked up in a garret, Where I scribble and smoke, And sadly invoke The powerful a.s.sistance of claret.

Four children and a wife 'Tis hard on my life, Besides myself and a Muse To be all clothed and fed, Now the times are so dead, By my scribbling of doggrel and news; And what I shall do, I'm a wretch if I know So hard is the fate of a poet, I must either turn rogue, Or what's as bad--pedagogue, And so drudge like a thing that has no wit."

How much are we indebted to the pecuniary embarra.s.sments of poets for the interest we take in them. Who could read sentiment written by a man faring sumptuously every day? Towards the end of his life, Brown became acquainted with Lord Dorset, and we read of his once dining with that n.o.bleman and finding a note for fifty pounds under his plate. Tom Brown seems to have regarded with great contempt his contemporary Tom D'Urfey--best known as a composer of sonnets--words and music. He addresses to him "upon his incomparable ballads, called by him Pindaric Odes," the following acrimonious lines--

"Thou cur, half French half English breed, Thou mongrel of Parna.s.sus, To think tall lines, run up to seed, Should ever tamely pa.s.s us.

"Thou write Pindaricks and be d.a.m.ned Write epigrams for cutlers, None with thy lyricks can be shammed But chambermaids and butlers.

"In t'other world expect dry blows; No tears can wash thy stains out, Horace will pluck thee by the nose And Pindar beat thy brains out."

Such unworthy attacks are not unfrequently made by ill-natured literary men. Brown was no doubt jealous of his rival, but Addison's generous heart formed a very different estimate of D'Urfey's talent. He says that after having "made the world merry he hopes they will make him easy" in his pecuniary affairs, for that although "Tom" had written more Odes than Horace, and four times as many Comedies as Terence, he was reduced to great difficulties by a set of men who had furnished him with the accommodations of life, and would not, as we say, "be paid with a song."

"As my friend," he continues, "after the manner of all the old lyrics, accompanies his works with his own voice, he has been the delight of the most polite companies and conversations from the beginning of King Charles II.'s reign to our present times. Many an honest gentleman has got a reputation in his country by pretending to have been in company with Tom D'Urfey." "I myself remember King Charles II. leaning on Tom D'Urfey's shoulder more than once, and humming over a song with him. It is certain that monarch was not a little supported by 'Joy to great Caesar,' which gave the Whigs such a blow as they were not able to recover that whole reign. My friend afterwards attacked Popery with the same success--he has made use of Italian tunes and Sonatas for promoting the Protestant interest, and turned a considerable part of the Pope's music against himself."

Little need be added to this eloquent commendation, except that it was written to obtain patronage for a benefit in behalf of an aged poet and friend. D'Urfey wrote through the reigns of Charles II., James II., William and Anne, into that of George I. His plays, which were thought attractive at the time, contained much that was gross, and were deficient in humour and power. Thus, they were soon forgotten, and neither he nor his rival Brown were able to reach a point, which would give them a permanent position in literature.

The following description would have led us to expect something better of him, at least in farcical talent[62]--

"Mr. D'Urfey generally writes state-plays, and is wonderfully useful to the world in such representations. This method is the same that was used by the old Athenians, to laugh out of countenance or promote opinions among the people. My friend has therefore against this play is acted for his own benefit, made two dances which may be also of an universal benefit. In the first he has represented absolute power in the person of a tall man with a hat and feathers, who gives his first minister who stands just before him a huge kick; the minister gives the kick to the next before; and so to the end of the stage. In this moral and practical jest you are made to understand that there is in an absolute government no gratification, but giving the kick you receive from one above you to one below you. This is performed to a grave and melancholy air; but on a sudden the tune moves quicker, and the whole company fall into a circle and take hands; and then, at a certain sharp note, they move round and kick as kick can. This latter performance he makes to be the representation of a free state; where, if you all mind your steps, you may go round and round very jollily, with a motion pleasant to yourselves and them you dance with: nay, if you put yourselves out, at the worst you only kick and are kicked by friends and equals."

But D'Urfey's short songs and poems were his most successful productions--sometimes he breathed martial strains in honour of Marlborough's victories, sometimes formed adulatory addresses to members of the Royal Family. His "Pills to purge Melancholy," at times approached humour. The following is taken from the "Banquet of the G.o.ds," and refers to Hermes visiting the Infernal regions--

"Fierce Cerberus, who the gate did keep, First with a sop he lays asleep, Then forward goes to th' room of State, Where on a lofty throne of jet, The grizly King of Terrors sate, Discoursing with his Proserpine On things infernally divine.

To him the winged Amba.s.sador His message tells, then adds to her How much her mother Ceres mourns In Sicily, till she returns; That now she hoped (the long half-year Being ended) she would see her there, And that instead of shrieks and howls, The harmony of par-boiled souls, She'd now divert with tunes more gay, And go with her to see a play."

D'Urfey often introduces fresh and pleasing glimpses of country life. He is more happy in this direction than in his humour, which generally drifted away into maudlin and indelicate love-making between pseudo-Roman Corydons and Phyllises. The following effusion is very characteristic of the times,--

"One _April_ morn, when from the sea _Phoebus_ was just appearing!

Damon and Celia young and gay, Long settled Love indearing; Met in a grove to vent their spleen, On parents unrelenting; He bred of _Tory_ race had been, She of the tribe _Dissenting_.

"Celia, whose eyes outshone the G.o.d, Newly the hills adorning, Told him mamma wou'd be stark mad, She missing prayers that morning; Damon, his arm around her waist, Swore tho' nought should 'em sunder, Shou'd my rough dad know how I'm blest, T'would make him roar like thunder.

"Great ones whom proud ambition blinds, By faction still support it, Or where vile money taints the mind, They for convenience court it; But mighty Love, that scorns to show, Party should raise his glory; Swears he'll exalt a va.s.sal true, Let it be _Whig_ or _Tory_."

The following is a song from "The Country Miss and her Furbelow."

"Celladon, when spring came on, Woo'd Sylvia in a grove, Both gay and young, and still he sung The sweet Delights of Love.

Wedded joys in girls and boys, And pretty chat of this and that, The honey kiss, and charming bliss That crowns the marriage bed; He s.n.a.t.c.hed her hand, she blushed and fanned And seemed as if afraid, 'Forbear!' she crys, 'youre fawning lyes, I've vowed to die a maid.'

"Celladon at that began To talk of apes in h.e.l.l, And what was worse, the odious curse Of growing old and stale.

Loss of bloom, when wrinkles come, And offers kind when none will mind, The rosie joy, and sparkling eye Grown faded and decayed, At which, when known, she changed her tone, And to the shepherd said, 'Dear swain, give o'er, I'll think once more, Before I'll die a maid.'"

D'Urfey was a disciple of the "gentle art." Addison says "I must not omit that my friend angles for a trout, the best of any man in England.

Mayflies come in late this season, or I myself should have had one of his hooking." We can thus understand his enthusiastic commendation of fis.h.i.+ng--

"Of all the world's enjoyments, That ever valu'd were, There's none of our employments, With fis.h.i.+ng can compare; Some preach, some write, Some swear, some fight, All golden lucre courting, But fis.h.i.+ng still bears off the bell For profit or for sporting.

"_Chorus._--Then who a jolly fisherman, a fisherman will be?

His throat must wet, Just like his net, To keep out cold at sea.

"The country squire loves running A pack of well-mouthed hounds, Another fancies gunning For wild ducks in his grounds; This hunts, that fowls, This hawks, d.i.c.k bowls, No greater pleasure wis.h.i.+ng, But Tom that tells what sport excels, Gives all the praise to fis.h.i.+ng.

Then who, &c.

"A good _Westphalia gammon_ Is counted dainty fare; But what is't to a salmon Just taken from the Ware; Wheat-ears and quailes, c.o.c.ks, snipes and rayles, Are prized while season's lasting, But all must stoop to crawfish soup, Or I've no skill in casting.

Then who, &c.

"And tho' some envious wranglers, To jeer us will make bold, And laugh at patient anglers, Who stand so long i' th' cold; They wait on Miss, We wait on this, And think it easie labour; And if you know, fish profits too, Consult our _Holland_ neighbour.

Then who, &c."

D'Urfey was a favourite with Queen Anne, and many of his poems were written at Knole, Penshurst, and other seats of the n.o.bility.

Up to the time we have now reached, we have not had the opportunity of enrolling the name of a lady among our humorists. Although in society so many of the fair sparkle and overflow with quick and graceful raillery, we find that when they come to impress their thoughts upon paper they are invariably sentimental. Authors are often a contrast to their writings, but no doubt the female mind is generally of a poetical complexion. Thus, in the early part of the last century we meet with only three lady humorists, Mrs. Manley, mostly noted for her scandalous stories: Mrs. Behn, whose humour was crude, chiefly that of rough harlequinade and gross immorality, and Mrs. Centlivre. Early opportunities of study were afforded to the last in a remarkable way.

When flying from the anger of her stepmother, she met Anthony Hammond, then at Cambridge, and went to live with him at the University, disguised in boy's clothes. Remarkable for her beauty, she married, when only fifteen, a nephew of Sir Stephen Fox, and upon his death at sixteen, a Captain Carrol, who was killed in a duel. It was then partly owing to pecuniary embarra.s.sments that she went on the stage and wrote plays--the first of her dramas appearing in her twentieth year. So great was the prejudice then against lady writers, that at her publisher's suggestion her first production was anonymous. But those, who began by deriding her pretensions, ended by acknowledging her merit; she became a great favourite and constant writer for the stage, and an intimate friend of Farquhar and Steele. There is an absence of indelicacy in her plays, but not a little farcical humour, especially in the character of "Marplot" in "The Busybody," and of rich "Mrs. Dowdy" with her vulgarity and admirers in "The Platonic Lady." She often adopts the tone of the day in ridiculing learned ladies. In one place she speaks as if even at that time the founding of a college for ladies was in contemplation--

_Lady Reveller._ Why in such haste, Cousin Valeria?

_Valeria._ Oh! dear Cousin, don't stop me; I shall lose the finest insect for dissection, a huge flesh fly, which Mr. Lovely sent me just now, and opening the box to try the experiment, away it flew.

_Lady._ I am glad the poor fly escaped; will you never be weary of these whimsies?

_Val._ Whimsies! Natural Philosophy a whimsy! Oh! the unlearned world!

_Lady._ Ridiculous learning!

_Mrs. Alpiew._ Ridiculous indeed for women. Philosophy suits our s.e.x as jack-boots would do.

_Val._ Custom would bring them as much in fas.h.i.+on as furbelows, and practice would make us as valiant as e'er a hero of them all; the resolution is in the mind. Nothing can enslave that.

_Lady._ My stars! This girl will be mad--that's certain.

_Val._ Mad! So Nero banished philosophers from _Rome_, and the first discoverer of the _Antipodes_ was condemned for a heretic.

_Lady._ In my conscience, Alpiew, this pretty creature's spoiled.