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my sword and present the point to his throat, was the work of a
moment, giving him no time to think of defending himself:
“Vile poltroon, recommend thy soul to God! Thou art a dead man!”
In the excess of his terror he cried out thrice, in a feeble voice,
“Mama! mama! mama! Help, help, help!”
At this ludicrous appeal, so like a girl’s, and the ridiculous manner
in which it was uttered, though I had a mind to kill, I lost half my rage
and could not forbear laughing. Turning to Chioccia, however, I bade
him make fast the door; for I was resolved to inflict the same
punishment upon all three. Still with my sword-point at his throat, and
pricking him a little now and then, I terrified him with the most
desperate threats, and finding that he made no defense, was rather
at a loss how to proceed. It was too poor a revenge—it was nothing
—when suddenly it came into my head to make it effectual, and
compel him to espouse the girl upon the spot.
“Up! Off with that ring on thy finger, villain!” I cried. “Marry her this
instant, and then I shall have my full revenge.”
“Anything—anything you like, provided you will not kill me,” he
eagerly answered.
Removing my sword a little:
“Now, then,” I said, “put on the ring.”
He did so, trembling all the time.
“This is not enough. Go and bring me two notaries to draw up the
contract.” Then, addressing the girl and her mother in French:
“While the notaries and witnesses are coming, I will give you a
word of advice. The first of you that I know to utter a word about my
affairs, I will kill you—all three. So remember.”
I afterward said in Italian to Paolo:
“If you offer the slightest opposition to the least thing I choose to
propose, I will cut you up into mince-meat with this good sword.”
 “It is enough,” he interrupted in alarm, “that you will not kill me. I
will do whatever you wish.”
So this singular contract was duly drawn out and signed. My rage
and fever were gone. I paid the notaries, and went home.—The
Biography.

CRITICISM OF A STATUE OF HERCULES

Bandinello was incensed to such a degree that he was ready to

burst with fury, and turning to me said, “What faults have you to find
with my statues?”
I answered, “I will soon tell them, if you have but the patience to
hear me.”
He replied, “Tell them, then.”
The duke and all present listened with the utmost attention. I
began by promising that I was sorry to be obliged to lay before him
all the blemishes of his work, and that I was not so properly
delivering my own sentiments as declaring what was said of it by the
artistic school of Florence. However, as the fellow at one time said
something disobliging, at another made some offensive gesture with
his hands or his feet, he put me into such a passion that I behaved
with a rudeness which I should otherwise have avoided.
“The artistic school of Florence,” said I, “declares what follows: If
the hair of your Hercules were shaved off, there would not remain
skull enough to hold his brains. With regard to his face, it is hard to
distinguish whether it be the face of a man, or that of a creature
something between a lion and an ox; it discovers no attention to
what it is about; and it is so ill set upon the neck, with so little art and
in so ungraceful a manner, that a more shocking piece of work was
never seen. His great brawny shoulders resemble the two pommels
of an ass’s packsaddle. His breasts and their muscles bear no
similitude to those of a man, but seem to have been drawn from a
sack of melons. As he leans directly against the wall, the small of the
back has the appearance of a bag filled with long cucumbers. It is
impossible to conceive in what manner the two legs are fastened to
this distorted figure, for it is hard to distinguish upon which leg he
stands, or upon which he exerts any effort of his strength; nor does
he appear to stand upon both, as he is sometimes represented by
those masters of the art of statuary who know something of their
business. It is plain, too, that the statue inclines more than one-third
of a cubit forward; and this is the greatest and the most
insupportable blunder which pretenders to sculpture can be guilty of.
As for the arms, they both hang down in the most awkward and
ungraceful manner imaginable; and so little art is displayed in them
that people would be almost tempted to think that you had never
seen a naked man in your life. The right leg of Hercules and that of
Cacus touch at the middle of their calves, and if they were to be
separated, not one of them only, but both, would remain without a
calf, in the place where they touch. Besides, one of the feet of the
Hercules is quite buried, and the other looks as if it stood upon hot
coals.”—The Biography.

SPANISH WIT AND HUMOR

The Spanish literature of this time contains little that can be
quoted as humor.
Hurtado de Mendoza, a novelist, historian and poet, and Lope de
Vega, dramatist, are the principal names among the Spanish writers.
About 1600 there flourished a poet named Baltazar del Alcazar,
whose work shows a rather modern type of humor.
SLEEP
Sleep is no servant of the will;
It has caprices of its own;
When most pursued, ’tis swiftly gone;
When courted least, it lingers still.
With its vagaries long perplext,
I turned and turned my restless sconce,
Till, one fine night, I thought at once
I’d master it. So hear my text.

When sleep doth tarry, I begin

My long and well-accustomed prayer,
 And in a twinkling sleep is there,
Through my bed-curtains peeping in.
When sleep hangs heavy on my eyes,
I think of debts I fain would pay,
And then, as flies night’s shade from day,
Sleep from my heavy eyelids flies.

And, thus controlled, the winged one bends

E’en his fantastic will to me,
And, strange yet true, both I and he
Are friends—the very best of friends.
We are a happy wedded pair,
And I the lord and he the dame;
Our bed, our board, our dreams the same,
And we’re united everywhere.

I’ll tell you where I learned to school

This wayward sleep: a whispered word
From a church-going hag I heard,
And tried it, for I was no fool.
So, from that very hour I knew
That, having ready prayers to pray,
And having many debts to pay,
Will serve for sleep, and waking too.

In 1605 was published the first part of Don Quixote de la Mancha

the celebrated satirical work of Miguel de Cervantes.
Of this book Hallam says, “it is the only Spanish book which can
be said to possess a European reputation.”
Its reputation is world wide and fine translations have given us the
spirit of the original.

HE SECURES SANCHO PANZA AS HIS SQUIRE

In the meantime, Don Quixote tampered with a laborer, a neighbor

of his and an honest man (if such an epithet can be given to one that
is poor), but shallow-brained; in short, he said so much, used so
many arguments and made so many promises, that the poor fellow
resolved to sally out with him and serve him in the capacity of a
squire. Among other things, Don Quixote told him that he ought to be
very glad to accompany him, for such an adventure might, some
time or the other, occur that by one stroke an island might be won,
where he might leave him governor. With this and other promises,
Sancho Panza (for that was the laborer’s name) left his wife and
children and engaged himself as squire to his neighbor. Don Quixote
now set about raising money; and, by selling one thing, pawning
another, and losing by all, he collected a tolerable sum. He fitted
himself likewise with a buckler, which he borrowed of a friend, and,
patching up his broken helmet in the best manner he could, he
acquainted his squire Sancho of the day and hour he intended to set
out, that he might provide himself with what he thought would be
most needful. Above all, he charged him not to forget a wallet, which
Sancho assured him he would not neglect; he said also that he
thought of taking an ass with him, as he had a very good one, and
he was not used to travel much on foot. With regard to the ass, Don
Quixote paused a little, endeavoring to recollect whether any knight-
errant had ever carried a squire mounted on ass-back, but no
instance of the kind occurred to his memory. However, he consented
that he should take his ass, resolving to accommodate him more
honorably, at the earliest opportunity, by dismounting the first
discourteous knight he should meet. He provided himself also with
shirts, and other things, conformably to the advice given him by the
innkeeper.
All this being accomplished, Don Quixote and Sancho Panza,
without taking leave, the one of his wife and children, or the other of
his housekeeper and niece, one night sallied out of the village
unperceived; and they travelled so hard that by break of day they
believed themselves secure, even if search were made after them.
Sancho Panza proceeded upon his ass like a patriarch, with his
wallet and leathern bottle, and with a vehement desire to find himself
governor of the island which his master had promised him. Don
Quixote happened to take the same route as on his first expedition,
over the plain of Montiel, which he passed with less inconvenience
than before; for it was early in the morning, and the rays of the sun,
darting on them horizontally, did not annoy them. Sancho Panza now
said to his master, “I beseech your worship, good Sir Knight-errant,
not to forget your promise concerning that same island, for I shall
know how to govern it, be it ever so large.” To which Don Quixote
answered: “Thou must know, friend Sancho Panza, that it was a
custom much in use among the knights-errant of old to make their
squires governors of the islands or kingdoms they conquered; and I
am determined that so laudable a custom shall not be lost through
my neglect; on the contrary, I resolve to outdo them in it, for they,
sometimes, and perhaps most times, waited till their squires were
grown old; and when they were worn out in their service, and had
endured many bad days and worse nights, they conferred on them
some title, such as count, or at least marquis, of some valley or
province of more or less account; but if you live and I live, before six
days have passed I may probably win such a kingdom as may have
others depending on it, just fit for thee to be crowned king of one of
them. And do not think this any extraordinary matter, for things fall
out to knights by such unforeseen and unexpected ways, that I may
easily give thee more than I promise.” “So, then,” answered Sancho
Panza, “if I were a king, by some of those miracles your worship
mentions, Joan Gutierrez, my duck, would come to be a queen, and
my children infantas!” “Who doubts it?” answered Don Quixote. “I
doubt it,” replied Sancho Panza; “for I am verily persuaded that, if
God were to rain down kingdoms upon the earth, none of them
would set well upon the head of Mary Gutierrez; for you must know,
sir, she is not worth two farthings for a queen. The title of countess
would sit better upon her, with the help of Heaven and good friends.”
“Recommend her to God, Sancho,” answered Don Quixote, “and He
will do what is best for her; but do thou have a care not to debase thy
mind so low as to content thyself with being less than a viceroy.” “Sir,
I will not,” answered Sancho; “especially having so great a man for
my master as your worship, who will know how to give me whatever
is most fitting for me and what I am best able to bear.”

OF THE VALOROUS DON QUIXOTE’S SUCCESS IN THE DREADFUL AND

NEVER-BEFORE-IMAGINED ADVENTURE OF THE WINDMILLS

Engaged in this discourse, they came in sight of thirty or forty

windmills which are in that plain; and as soon as Don Quixote espied
them, he said to his squire, “Fortune disposes our affairs better than
we ourselves could have desired; look yonder, friend Sancho Panza,
where thou mayest discover somewhat more than thirty monstrous
giants, whom I intend to encounter and slay, and with their spoils we
will begin to enrich ourselves; for it is lawful war, and doing God
good service, to remove so wicked a generation from off the face of
the earth.” “What giants?” said Sancho Panza. “Those thou seest
yonder,” answered his master, “with their long arms; for some are
wont to have them almost of the length of two leagues.”
“Look, sir,” answered Sancho, “those which appear yonder are not
giants, but windmills, and what seem to be arms are the sails, which,
whirled about by the wind, make the millstone go.” “It is very
evident,” answered Don Quixote, “that thou art not versed in the
business of adventures. They are giants; and if thou art afraid, get
thee aside and pray, whilst I engage with them in fierce and unequal
combat.” So saying, he clapped spurs to his steed, notwithstanding
the cries his squire sent after him, assuring him that they were
certainly windmills, and not giants. But he was so fully possessed
that they were giants, that he neither heard the outcries of his squire
Sancho, nor yet discerned what they were, though he was very near
them, but went on, crying out aloud, “Fly not, ye cowards and vile
caitiffs! for it is a single knight who assaults you.” The wind now
rising a little, the great sails began to move, upon which Don Quixote
called out, “Although ye should have more arms than the giant
Briareus, ye shall pay for it.”
Thus recommending himself devoutly to his lady Dulcinea,
beseeching her to succor him in the present danger, being well
covered with his buckler and setting his lance in the rest he rushed
on as fast as Rozinante could gallop and attacked the first mill before
him, when, running his lance into the sail, the wind whirled it about
with so much violence that it broke the lance to shivers, dragging
horse and rider after it, and tumbling them over and over on the plain
in very evil plight. Sancho Panza hastened to his assistance as fast
as the ass could carry him; and when he came up to his master he
found him unable to stir, so violent was the blow which he and
Rozinante had received in their fall.
“God save me!” quoth Sancho, “did not I warn you to have a care
of what you did, for that they were nothing but windmills? And
nobody could mistake them but one that had the like in his head.”
 “Peace, friend Sancho,” answered Don Quixote; “for matters of
war are, of all others, most subject to continual change. Now I verily
believe, and it is most certainly the fact, that the sage Freston, who
stole away my chamber and books, has metamorphosed these
giants into windmills, on purpose to deprive me of the glory of
vanquishing them, so great is the enmity he bears me! But his
wicked arts will finally avail but little against the goodness of my
sword.”
“God grant it!” answered Sancho Panza. Then, helping him to
rise, he mounted him again upon his steed, which was almost
disjointed.—Don Quixote.

THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY

Though still serious-minded in the main, the world at the
beginning of the Seventeenth century recognized and appreciated
humor.
And, growing with what it fed upon the vein of humor became
more marked and more important in literature.
Wherefore our outline must from now on be less comprehensive
and more discriminating.
The field is getting too wide, the harvest too bountiful for gleaning,
even for general reaping; we can now only pluck spears of ripened
grain.
An Outline can touch only the high spots, and though many
wonderful flashes of wit and humor occur in the works of the most
serious writers space cannot be given to such, it must be conserved
for the definitely and intentionally humorous writers.
This is greatly to be regretted, for not infrequently the jests of the
serious-minded are more intrinsically witty than those of professed
humorists.
As an example may be mentioned George Herbert, the famous
clergyman who was called Holy George Herbert.
 His religious writings are interspersed with flashes of exquisite wit.
“God gave thy soul brave wings; put not those feathers Into a bed
to sleep out all ill weathers,”
is a most graceful bit of word play.
And so with scores, even hundreds of worthy writers, among
whose pages brilliant shafts of wit are found.
Such excursions we have no room for, and must abide by the
inexorable laws of limitation.
Nor can such a matter as the Ballads be touched upon.
The historical ballads of this time were narrative poems of
exceeding great length and usually, of exceeding great dulness. Fun
they show, here and there, but the bulk of them are destitute of
mirth-provoking lines.
Not so the Ballad Literature intended for social diversion and
lovers of ribaldry. These, in large numbers, were put forth, and were
oftener than not, founded on the old Jest Books, the Merry Tales,
and even the Gesta and Fabliaux of earlier days.
Collections of these include the effusions of the balladists from the
short stanzas, mere epigrams, to the intolerably long tales based on
political or religious matters.
Yet it is at this juncture we must mention the name of Thomas
Hobbes, the Malmesbury Philosopher, and a most important figure of
the seventeenth century.
Not because of his own wit or humor, but of his understanding and
valuation of it.
His observations on laughter, hereinbefore referred to, must be
quoted entire.

From Human Nature

LAUGHTER

There is a passion that hath no name; but the sign of it is that

distortion of the countenance which we call laughter, which is always
joy: but what joy, what we think, and wherein we triumph when we
laugh, is not hitherto declared by any. That it consisteth in wit, or, as
they call it, in the jest, experience confuteth; for men laugh at
mischances and indecencies, wherein there lieth no wit nor jest at
all. And forasmuch as the same thing is no more ridiculous when it
groweth stale or usual, whatsoever it be that moveth laughter, it must
be new and unexpected. Men laugh often—especially such as are
greedy of applause from everything they do well—at their own
actions performed never so little beyond their own expectations as
also at their own jests: and in this case it is manifest that the passion
of laughter proceedeth from a sudden conception of some ability in
himself that laugheth. Also, men laugh at the infirmities of others by
comparison wherewith their own abilities are set off and illustrated.
Also men laugh at jests the wit whereof always consisteth in the
elegant discovering and conveying to our minds some absurdity of
another; and in this case also the passion of laughter proceedeth
from the sudden imagination of our own odds and eminency; for
what is else the recommending of ourselves to our own good
opinion, by comparison with another man’s infirmity or absurdity? For
when a jest is broken upon ourselves, or friends, of whose dishonour
we participate, we never laugh thereat. I may therefore conclude that
the passion of laughter is nothing else but sudden glory arising from
a sudden conception of some eminency in ourselves, by comparison
with the infirmity of others, or with our own formerly; for men laugh at
the follies of themselves past, when they come suddenly to
remembrance, except they bring with them any present dishonour. It
is no wonder, therefore, that men take heinously to be laughed at or
derided—that is, triumphed over. Laughing without offence must be
at absurdities and infirmities abstracted from persons, and when all
the company may laugh together; for laughing to one’s self putteth
all the rest into jealousy and examination of themselves. Besides, it
is vain-glory, and an argument of little worth, to think the infirmity of
another sufficient matter for his triumph.
 Robert Herrick, among the most exquisite of lyric poets, was a
classical scholar, addicted to Martial. His works, neglected for long
years, came into their own about a century ago, and his
spontaneous gayety and tenderness is not frequently equalled.
The temptation is to quote his lyrics, but his whimsical humor is
more clearly shown in his waggish lines.
THE KISS—A DIALOGUE
. Among thy fancies, tell me this:
What is the thing we call a kisse?
. I shall resolve ye, what it is.

It is a creature born and bred

Between the lips, (all cherrie red,)
By love and warme desires fed;
Chorus.—And makes more soft the bridal bed.

. It is an active flame, that flies

First to the babies of the eyes, pupils
And charms them there with lullabies;
Chorus.—And stils the bride too, when she cries.

. Then to the chin, the cheek, the eare

It frisks and flyes; now here, now there;
’Tis now farre off, and then ’tis nere;
Chorus.—And here, and there, and every where.

. Has it a speaking virtue?—2. Yes.

. How speaks it, say?—2. Do you but this,
Part your joyn’d lips, then speaks your kisse;
Chorus.—And this loves sweetest language is.

. Has it a body?—2. Ay, and wings,

With thousand rare encolourings;
And as it flies, it gently sings,
Chorus.—Love honie yeelds, but never stings.

A TERNARY OF LITTLES, UPON A PIPKIN OF JELLY SENT TO A LADY

A little saint best fits a little shrine,
A little prop best fits a little vine;
As my small cruse best fits my little wine.
A little seed best fits a little soil,
A little trade best fits a little toil;
As my small jar best fits my little oil.

A little bin best fits a little bread,

A little garland fits a little head;
As my small stuff best fits my little shed.

A little hearth best fits a little fire,

A little chapel fits a little choir;
As my small bell best fits my little spire.

A little stream best fits a little boat,

A little lead best fits a little float;
As my small pipe best fits my little note.

A little meat best fits a little belly,

As sweetly, lady, give me leave to tell ye,
This little pipkin fits this little jelly.

Thomas Carew, Edmund Waller, Sir John Suckling and Richard

Lovelace all followed more or less in Herrick’s footsteps, and though
each possessed what is called a pretty wit, they were not primarily
humorous writers.
A few poems are given, perhaps of more lyric than witty value.
Richard Lovelace
SONG
Why should you swear I am forsworn,
Since thine I vowed to be?
Lady, it is already morn,
And ’twas last night I swore to thee
That fond impossibility.

Have I not loved thee much and long,

A tedious twelve hours’ space?
I must all other beauties wrong,
And rob thee of a new embrace,
Could I still dote upon thy face.

Not but all joy in thy brown hair

By others may be found;
But I must search the black and fair,
Like skilful mineralists that sound
For treasure in unploughed-up ground.

Then, if when I have loved my round,

Thou prov’st the pleasant she;
With spoils of meaner beauties crowned
I laden will return to thee,
Even sated with variety.

Sir John Suckling

THE CONSTANT LOVER
Out upon it! I have loved
Three whole days together,
And am like to love three more,
If it prove fair weather.

Time shall moult away his wings

Ere he shall discover
In the whole wide world again
Such a constant lover.

But the spite on ’tis, no praise

Is due at all to me:
Love with me had made no stays,
Had it any been but she.

Had it any been but she,

And that very face,
There had been at least ere this
A dozen dozen in her place.

THE REMONSTRANCE
Why so pale and wan, fond lover?
Prithee, why so pale?
Will, when looking well can’t move her,
Looking ill prevail?
Prithee, why so pale?

Why so dull and mute, young sinner?

Prithee, why so mute?
Will, when speaking well can’t win her,
Saying nothing do’t?
 Prithee, why so mute?

Quite, quit, for shame! this will not move,

This cannot take her;
If of herself she will not love,
Nothing can make her:
The devil take her!

John Milton, second only to Shakespeare in all literature, is not

usually looked upon as a humorist.
A wise commentator (of more wisdom than wit), has said, of
Milton, “Few great poets are so utterly without humor; alone among
the greatest poets he has not sung of love.”
We take objection to both these statements, though with the
second we are not now concerned.
But surely no humorless pen could have indited L’Allegro, and as
to less subtle humor, we give in evidence the well known Epitaph on
the Carrier.
FROM L’ALLEGRO
But come, thou goddess fair and free,
In heaven yclep’d Euphrosyne,
And by men, heart-easing Mirth;
Whom lovely Venus, at a birth,
With two sister Graces more,
To ivy-crowned Bacchus bore:
Or whether (as some sages sing)
The frolic wind that breathes the spring,
Zephyr, with Aurora, playing,
As he met her once a-Maying!
There on beds of violets blue,
And fresh-blown roses wash’d in dew,
Fill’d her with thee, a daughter fair,
So buxom, blithe, and debonair.
Haste thee, nymph, and bring with thee
Jest, and youthful jollity,
Quips, and cranks, and wanton wiles,
Nods, and becks, and wreathed smiles,
Such as hang on Hebe’s cheek,
And love to live in dimple sleek;
Sport that wrinkled Care derides,
And Laughter holding both his sides
Come, and trip it, as you go,
On the light fantastic toe;
And in thy right hand lead with thee
The mountain nymph, sweet Liberty;
And if I give thee honor due,
Mirth, admit me of thy crew,
To live with her, and live with thee,
In unreproved pleasures free:

* * * * *

Then to the spicy nut-brown ale,

With stories told of many a feat,
How faery Mab the junkets ate;
She was pinch’d, and pulled, she said;
And he, by friar’s lantern led,
Tells how the drudging goblin sweat
To earn his cream-bowl duly set,
When in one night, ere glimpses of morn,
His shadowy flail had thresh’d the corn,
That ten day-laborers could not end;
Then lies him down, the lubber fiend,
And, stretched out all the chimney’s length,
Basks at the fire his hairy strength;
And, crop-full, out of doors he flings,
Ere the first cock his matin rings.
Thus done the tales, to bed they creep,
By whispering winds soon lull’d asleep.
Tower’d cities please us then,
And the busy hum of men.
Where throngs of knights and barons bold,
In weeds of peace, high triumphs hold,
With store of ladies, whose bright eyes
Rain influence, and judge and prize
Of wit or arms, while both contend
To win her grace, whom all commend.
There let Hymen oft appear
In saffron robes, with taper clear,
And pomp, and feast, and revelry,
With mask and antique pageantry;
Such sights as youthful poets dream
On summer eves by haunted stream.
Then to the well-trod stage anon,
If Jonson’s learned sock be on,
Or sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy’s child,
Warble his native wood-notes wild.
And ever, against eating cares,
Lap me in soft Lydian airs,
Married to immortal verse;
Such as the melting soul may pierce,
In notes with many a winding bout
Of linked sweetness long drawn out,
With wanton heed and giddy cunning,
The melting voice through mazes running,
Untwisting all the chains that tie
The hidden soul of harmony;
That Orpheus’ self may heave his head
From golden slumber on a bed
Of heap’d Elysian flowers, and hear
Such strains as would have won the ear
Of Pluto, to have quite set free
His half-regain’d Eurydice.
These delights if thou canst give,
Mirth, with thee I mean to live.

EPITAPH FOR AN OLD UNIVERSITY CARRIER

Here lieth one who did most truly prove
That he could never die while he could move;
So hung his destiny, never to rot
While he might still jog on and keep his trot;
Made of sphere-metal, never to decay
Until his revolution was at stay.
Time numbers motion, yet (without a crime
’Gainst old truth) motion number’d out his time,
And, like an engine moved with wheel and weight,
His principles being ceased, he ended straight.
Rest, that gives all men life, gave him his death,
And too much breathing put him out of breath.
Nor were it contradiction to affirm,
Too long vacation hastened on his term.
Merely to drive away the time, he sicken’d,
Fainted, died, nor would with ale be quicken’d.
“Nay,” quoth he, on his swooning bed outstretch’d,
“If I mayn’t carry, sure I’ll ne’er be fetch’d,
But vow, though the cross doctors all stood hearers,
For one carrier put down to make six bearers.”
Ease was his chief disease; and, to judge right,
He died for heaviness that his cart went light.
His leisure told him that his time was come,
And lack of load made his life burdensome,
That even to his last breath (there be that say’t),
As he were press’d to death, he cried, “More weight!”
But had his doings lasted as they were,
He had been an immortal carrier.
Obedient to the moon, he spent his date
In course reciprocal, and had his fate
Link’d to the mutual flowing of the seas,
Yet (strange to think) his wain was his increase.
His letters are deliver’d all and gone;
Only remains this superscription.

Samuel Butler, a brilliant and satiric wit, wrote Hudibras, the

immortal Cavalier burlesque of the views and manners of the English
Puritans. In some degree imitated from Don Quixote as to plan, this
burlesque is so full of shrewd wit and felicitous drollery as to hold a
unique place in literature.
Like all such long works, it is difficult to quote from, but some
passages are given, as well as some of Butler’s clever epigrams.
THE RELIGION OF HUDIBRAS
For his religion it was fit
To match his learning and his wit:
Twas Presbyterian true blue;
For he was of that stubborn crew
Of errant saints, whom all men grant
To be the true Church militant;
Such as do build their faith upon
The holy text of pike and gun;
Decide all controversies by
Infallible artillery,
And prove their doctrine orthodox,
By apostolic blows and knocks;
Call fire, and sword, and desolation,
A godly, thorough reformation.
Which always must be carried on,
And still be doing, never done;
As if religion were intended
From nothing else but to be mended;
A sect whose chief devotion lies
In odd perverse antipathies;
In falling out with that or this,
And finding somewhat still amiss;
More peevish, cross, and splenetic,
Than dog distract or monkey sick;
That with more care keep holy-day
The wrong, than others the right way;
Compound for sins they are inclin’d to,
By damning those they have no mind to;
Still so perverse and opposite,
As if they worshipped God for spite;
The self-same thing they will abhor
One way, and long another for;
Free-will they one way disavow,
Another, nothing else allow;
All piety consists therein
In them, in other men all sin;
Rather than fail, they will defy
That which they love most tenderly;
Quarrel with minc’d pies, and disparage
Their best and dearest friend, plum porridge;
Fat pig and goose itself oppose,
And blaspheme custard through the nose.

SAINTSHIP VERSUS CONSCIENCE

“Why didst thou choose that cursed sin,
Hypocrisy, to set up in?”
“Because it is the thriving’st calling,
The only saints’ bell that rings all in;
In which all churches are concern’d,
And is the easiest to be learn’d.”

* * * * *

Quoth he, “I am resolv’d to be

Thy scholar in this mystery;”
“And therefore first desire to know
Some principles on which you go.”
“What makes a knave a child of God,
And one of us?” “A livelihood.”
“What renders beating out of brains,
And murder, godliness?” “Great gains.”
“What’s tender conscience?” “’Tis a botch
That will not bear the gentlest touch;
But, breaking out, despatches more
Than th’ epidemical’st plague-sore.”
“What makes y’ incroach upon our trade,
And damn all others?” “To be paid.”
“What’s orthodox and true believing
Against a conscience?” “A good living.”
“What makes rebelling against kings
A good old cause?” “Administ’rings.”
“What makes all doctrines plain and clear?”
“About two hundred pounds a-year.”
“And that which was proved true before,
Prove false again?” “Two hundred more.”
“What makes the breaking of all oaths
A holy duty?” “Food and clothes.”
“What laws and freedom, persecution?”
“Being out of power, and contribution.”
“What makes a church a den of thieves?”
“A dean and chapter, and white sleeves.”
“And what would serve, if those were gone,
To make it orthodox?” “Our own.”
“What makes morality a crime,
The most notorious of the time—
Morality, which both the saints
And wicked too cry out against?”
“’Cause grace and virtue are within
Prohibited degrees of kin;
And therefore no true saint allows
They shall be suffered to espouse.”

DESCRIPTION OF HOLLAND
A country that draws fifty foot of water,
In which men live as in the hold of Nature,
And when the sea does in upon them break,
And drowns a province, does but spring a leak;
That always ply the pump, and never think
They can be safe but at the rate they stink;
They live as if they had been run aground,
And, when they die, are cast away and drowned;
That dwell in ships, like swarms of rats, and prey
Upon the goods all nations’ fleets convey;
And when their merchants are blown up and crackt,
Whole towns are cast away in storms, and wreckt;
That feed, like cannibals, on other fishes,
And serve their cousin-germans up in dishes:
A land that rides at anchor, and is moored,
In which they do not live, but go aboard.

POETS
It is not poetry that makes men poor;
For few do write that were not so before;
And those that have writ best, had they been rich,
Had ne’er been clapp’d with a poetic itch;
Had loved their ease too well to take the pains
To undergo that drudgery of brains;
But, being for all other trades unfit,
Only t’ avoid being idle, set up wit.

PUFFING
They that do write in authors’ praises,
And freely give their friends their voices,
Are not confined to what is true;
That’s not to give, but pay a due:
For praise, that’s due, does give no more
To worth, than what it had before;
But to commend, without desert,
Requires a mastery of art,
That sets a gloss on what’s amiss,
And writes what should be, not what is.

Samuel Pepys, whose literary work is in Diary form, is no doubt

one of the world’s greatest egoists. But the spontaneity and
naturalness of the account of his daily doings, as told by himself,
have a charm all their own and a unique and inimitable humor.

EXTRACTS FROM THE DIARY

Rose early, and put six spoons and a porringer of silver in my

pocket to give away to-day. To dinner at Sir William Batten’s; and