Irish Wit and Humor Part 3

WISDOM.

Wisdom (said the Dean) is a _fox_, who, after long hunting, will at last cost you the pains to dig out: it is a _cheese_, which, by how much the richer, has the thicker, the homelier, and the coa.r.s.er coat, and whereof to a judicious palate the maggots are the best; it is a _sack-posset_, wherein the deeper you go you will find it the sweeter. Wisdom is a _hen_, whose cackling we must value and consider, because it is attended with an egg; but then, lastly, it is a _nut_, which, unless you choose with judgment, may cost you a tooth, and pay you with nothing but a worm.

EPITAPH ON JUDGE BOAT.

Here lies Judge _Boat_ within a coffin, Pray, gentlefolks, forbear your scoffin'; A _Boat_ a judge! yes, where's the blunder A _wooden_ Judge is no such wonder!

And in his robes you must agree, No _Boat_ was better _dekt_ than he.

'Tis needless to describe him fuller, In short he was an able _sculler_.

ON STEPHEN DUCK, THE THRESHER AND FAVORITE POET.

The thresher Duck could o'er the Queen prevail, The proverb says, "_no fence against a flail_."

From _threshing_ corn he turns to _thresh his brains_, For which her Majesty allows him gains.

Though 'tis confest, that those who ever saw His poems, think them all not worth a straw!

Thrice happy Duck, employed in threshing _stubble_, Thy toil is lessen'd and thy profits double.

DIALOGUE BETWEEN SWIFT AND HIS LANDLORD.

The three towns of Navan, Kells, and Trim, which lay in Swift's route on his first journey to Laracor, seem to have deeply arrested his attention, for he has been frequently heard to speak of the beautiful situation of the first, the antiquity of the second, and the time-shaken towers of the third. There were three inns in Navan, each of which claims to this day the honor of having entertained Dr. Swift. It is probable that he dined at one of them, for it is certain that he slept at Kells, in the house of Jonathan Belcher, a Leicestershire man, who had built the inn in that town on the English model, which still exists, and, in point of capaciousness and convenience, would not disgrace the first road in England. The host, whether struck by the commanding sternness of Swift's appearance, or from natural civility, showed him into the best room, and waited himself at table. The attention of Belcher seems to have won so far upon Swift as to have produced some conversation. "You're an Englishman, Sir?" said Swift. "Yes, Sir." "What is your name?" "Jonathan Belcher, Sir." "An Englishman and Jonathan too, in the town of Kells--who would have thought it! What brought you to this country?" "I came with Sir Thomas Taylor, Sir; and I believe I could reckon fifty Jonathans in my family, Sir." "Then you are a man of family?" "Yes, Sir; I have four sons and three daughters by one mother, a good woman of true Irish mould." "Have you been long out of your native country?" "Thirty years, Sir." "Do you ever expect to visit it again?" "Never." "Can you say that without a sigh?" "I can, Sir; my family is my country!" "Why, Sir, you are a better philosopher than those who have written volumes on the subject. Then you are reconciled to your fate?" "I ought to be so; I am very happy; I like the people, and, though I was not born in Ireland, I'll die in it and that's the same thing." Swift paused in deep thought for near a minute, and then with much energy repeated the first line of the preamble of the noted Irish statute--_Ipsis Hibernis Hiberniores!_--"(_The English) are more Irish than the Irish themselves_."

ROGER c.o.x.

What perhaps contributed more than any thing to Swift's enjoyment, was the constant fund of amus.e.m.e.nt he found in the facetious humor and oddity of the parish clerk, Roger c.o.x. Roger was originally a hatter in the town of Cavan, trot, being of a lively jovial temper, and fonder of setting the fire-side of a village alehouse in a roar, over a tankard of ale or a bowl of whiskey, with his flashes of merriment and jibes of humor, than pursuing the dull routine of business to which fate had fixed him, wisely forsook it for the honorable function of a parish clerk, which he considered as an office appertaining in some wise to ecclesiastical dignity; since by wearing a band, no small part of the ornament of the Protestant clergy, he thought he might not unworthily be deemed, as it were, "_a shred of the linen vestment of Aaron_." Nor was Roger one of those worthy parish clerks who could be accused of merely humming the psalms through the nostrils as a sack-b.u.t.t, but much oftener instructed and amused his fellow-parishioners with the amorous ditties of the _Waiting Maid's Lamentation_, or one of those national songs which awake the remembrance of glorious deeds, and make each man burn with the enthusiasm of the conquering hero. With this jocund companion Swift relieved the tediousness of his lonesome retirement; nor did the easy freedom which he indulged with Roger ever lead his humble friend beyond the bounds of decorum and respect.

Roger's dress was not the least extraordinary feature of his appearance.

He constantly wore a full-trimmed scarlet waistcoat of most uncommon dimensions, a light grey coat, which altogether gave him an air of singularity and whim as remarkable as his character.

To repeat all the anecdotes and witticisms which are recorded of the prolific genius of Roger in the simple annals of Laracor, would fill a little volume. He died at the good old age of ninety.

Soon after Swift's arrival at Laracor, he gave public notice that he would read prayers every Wednesday and Friday. On the first of those days after he had summoned his congregation, he ascended the desk, and after sitting some time with no other auditor than his clerk Roger, he rose up and with a composure and gravity that, upon this occasion, were irresistibly ridiculous, began--"Dearly beloved Roger, the Scripture moveth you and me in sundry places," and so proceeded to the end of the service. The story is not quite complete. But the fact is, that when he went into the church he found Roger _alone_, and exclaimed with evident surprise, "_What, Roger! none here but you_?" "_Yes, sir_," replied Roger drily (turning over the book to find the lessons, for the day), "_sure you are here too_."

ROGER AND THE POULTRY.

There happened, while Swift was at Laracor, the sale of a farm and stock, the farmer being dead. Swift chanced to walk past during the auction just as a pen of poultry had been put up. Roger bid for them, and was overbid by a farmer of the name of Hatch. "What, Roger, won't you buy the poultry?" exclaimed Swift. "No, sir," said Roger, "I see they are _just a'going to Hatch_."

KELLY THE BLACKSMITH.

Although Roger took the lead, he did not monopolize all the wit, of the parish. It happened that Swift, having been dining at some little distance from Laracor, was returning home on horseback in the evening, which was pretty dark. Just before he reached Kellistown, a neighboring village, his horse lost a shoe. Unwilling to run the risk of laming the animal by continuing his ride in that condition, he stopped at one Kelly's, the blacksmith of the village, where, having called the man, he asked him if he could shoe a horse with a _candle_. "No," replied the s.m.u.tty son of Vulcan, "but I can with a _hammer_." Swift, struck with the reply, determined to have a little more conversation with him.

Accordingly, he alighted and went into the cabin, which was literally rotten, but supported, wherever it had given way at different times, with pieces of timber. Swift, as was usual with him, began to rate poor Kelly soundly for his indolence in not getting his house put into better repair, in which the wife joined. "Hold, Doctor, for one moment!"

exclaimed Kelly, "and tell me, whether you ever saw a _rotten_ house _better_ supported in all your life."

BIRTH-DAY PRESENTS.

It was for many years a regular custom with Swift's most intimate friends to make him some presents on his birth day. On that occasion, 30th November, 1732, Lord Orrery presented him with a paper book, finely bound, and Dr Delany with a silver standish, accompanied with the following verses;--

TO DR. SWIFT, WITH A PAPER BOOK, BY JOHN, EARL OF ORRERY

To thee, Dear Swift, those spotless leaves I send; Small is the present, but sincere the friend.

Think not so poor a book below thy care; Who knows the price that thou canst make it bear?

Tho' tawdry now, and like Tyralla's face, The s.p.a.cious front shines out with borrow'd grace; Tho' pasteboards, glitt'ring like a tinsell'd coat, A _rasa tabula_ within denote; Yet if a venal and corrupted age, And modern vices should provoke thy rage; If, warn'd once more by their impending fate, A sinking country and an injured state Thy great a.s.sistance should again demand, And call forth Reason to defend the land; Then shall we view these sheets with glad surprise Inspired with thought, and speaking to our eyes: Each vacant s.p.a.ce shall then, enrich'd, dispense True force of eloquence and nervous sense; Inform the judgment, animate the heart, And sacred rules of policy impart.

The spangled cov'ring, bright with splendid ore, Shall cheat the sight with empty show no more; But lead us inward to those golden mines, Where all thy soul in native l.u.s.tre shines.

So when the eye surveys some lovely fair, With bloom of beauty, graced with shape and air, How is the rapture heightened when we find The form excelled by her celestial mind!

VERSES LEFT WITH A SILVER STANDISH ON THE DEAN'S DESK, BY DR. DELANY.

Hither from Mexico I came, To serve a proud Iernian dame; Was long submitted to her will, At length she lost me at Quadrille.

Through various shapes I often pa.s.sed, Still hoping to have rest at last; And still ambitious to obtain Admittance to the patriot Dean; And sometimes got within his door, But soon turn'd out to serve the poor; Not strolling idleness to aid, But honest industry decay'd.

At length an artist purchased me, And wrought me to the shape you see.

This done, to Hermes I applied: "O Hermes! gratify my pride!

Be it my fate to serve a sage, The greatest genius of his age; That matchless pen let me supply, Whose living lines will never die!"

"I grant your suit," the G.o.d replied, And here he left me to reside.

VERSES BY SWIFT, ON THE OCCASION.

A paper Book is sent by _Boyle,_ Too neatly gilt for me to soil: Delany sends a Silver Standish, When I no more a pen can brandish.

Let both around my tomb be placed, As trophies of a muse deceas'd: And let the friendly lines they writ, In praise of long departed wit, Be graved on either side in columns, More to my praise than all my volumes; To burst with envy, spite, and rage, The Vandals of the present age.

THE DEAN'S CONTRIBUTORY DINNER.

Dean Swift once invited to dinner several of the first n.o.blemen and gentlemen in Dublin. A servant announced the dinner, and the Dean led the way to the dining-room. To each chair was a servant, a bottle of wine, a roll, and an inverted plate. On taking his seat, the Dean desired the guests to arrange themselves according to their own ideas of precedence, and fall to. The company were astonished to find the table without a dish or any provisions. The Lord Chancellor, who was present, said, "Mr. Dean, we do not see the joke." "Then I will show it you,"

answered the Dean, turning up his plate, under which was half-a-crown and a bill of fare from a neighboring tavern. "Here, sir," said he, to his servant, "bring me a plate of goose." The company caught the idea, and each man sent his plate and half-a-crown. Covers, with everything that the appet.i.tes of the moment dictated, soon appeared. The novelty, the peculiarity of the manner, and the unexpected circ.u.mstances, altogether excited the plaudits of the n.o.ble guests, who declared themselves particularly gratified by the Dean's entertainment. "Well,"

said the Dean, "gentlemen, if you have dined, I will order _dessert_." A large roll of paper, presenting the particulars of a splendid dinner, was produced, with an estimate of expense. The Dean requested the accountant-general to deduct the half-crowns from the amount, observing, "that as his n.o.ble guests were pleased to express their satisfaction with the dinner, he begged their advice and a.s.sistance in disposing of the _fragments_ and _crumbs_," as he termed the balance mentioned by the accountant-general--which was two hundred and fifty pounds. The company said, that no person was capable of instructing the Dean in things of that nature. After the circulation of the finest wines, the most judicious remarks on charity and its abuse were introduced, and it was agreed that the proper objects of liberal relief were well-educated families, who from affluence, or the expectation of it, were reduced through misfortune to silent despair. The Dean then divided the sum by the number of his guests, and addressed them according to their respective private characters, with which no one was, perhaps, better acquainted. "You, my Lords," said the Dean to several young n.o.blemen, "I wish to introduce to some new acquaintance, who will at least make their acknowledgment for your favors with sincerity. You, my reverend Lords,"

addressing the bishops present, "adhere so closely to the spirit of the Scriptures, that your left hands are literally ignorant of the beneficence of your right. You, my Lord of Kildare, and the two n.o.ble lords near you, I will not entrust with any part of this money, as you have been long in the _usurious_ habits of lending your own on such occasions; but your a.s.sistance, my Lord of Kerry, I must entreat, as charity covereth a mult.i.tude of sins."

SWIFT AND BETTESWORTH.

Dean Swift having taken a strong dislike to Sergeant Bettesworth, revenged himself by the following lines in one of his poems:

So at the bar the b.o.o.by Bettesworth, Tho' half-a-crown outpays his sweat's worth, Who knows in law nor text nor margent, Calls Singleton his brother sergeant.

The poem was sent to Bettesworth, when he was in company with some of his friends. He read it aloud, till he had finished the lines relating to himself. He then flung it down with great violence, trembled and turned pale. After some pause, his rage for a while depriving him of utterance, he took out his penknife, and swore he would cut off the Dean's ears with it. Soon after he went to seek the Dean at his house; and not finding him at home, followed him to a friend's, where he had an interview with him. Upon entering the room, Swift desired to know his commands. "Sir," says he, "I am Sergeant Bet-tes-worth;" in his usual pompous way of p.r.o.nouncing his name in three distinct syllables. "Of what regiment, pray?" says Swift. "O, Mr. Dean, we know your powers of raillery; you know me well enough, that I am one of his majesty's sergeants-at-law." "What then, sir?" "Why then, sir, I am come to demand of you, whether you are the author of this poem (producing it), and the villanous lines on me?" at the same time reading them aloud with great vehemence of emphasis, and much gesticulation. "Sir," said Swift, "it was a piece of advice given me in my early days by Lord Somers, never to own or disown any writing laid to my charge; because, if I did this in some cases, whatever I did not disown afterwards would infallibly be imputed to me as mine. Now, sir, I take this to have been a very wise maxim, and as such have followed it ever since; and I believe it will hardly be in the power of all your rhetoric, as great a master as you are of it, to make me swerve from that rule." Bettesworth replied, "Well, since you will give me no satisfaction in this affair, let me tell you, that your gown is alone your protection," and then left the room.

The sergeant continuing to utter violent threats against the Dean, there was an a.s.sociation formed and signed by all the princ.i.p.al inhabitants of the neighborhood, to stand by and support their generous benefactor against any one who should attempt to offer the least injury to his person or fortune. Besides, the public indignation became so strong against the sergeant, that although he had made a considerable figure at the bar, he now lost his business, and was seldom employed in any suit afterwards.

SWIFT AMONG THE LAWYERS.