Carolyn Wells - A Satire Anthology

O Boswell, Bozzy, Bruce, what’re thy name,
Thou mighty shark for anecdote and fame,
Thou jackal, leading lion Johnson forth
To eat Macpherson midst his native north,
To frighten grave professors with his roar,
And shake the Hebrides from shore to shore,
All hail!
Triumphant thou through time’s vast gulf shalt sail,
The pilot of our literary whale;
Close to the classic Rambler shalt thou cling,
Close as a supple courtier to a king;
Fate shall not shake thee off with all its power,
Stuck like a bat to some old ivied tower.
Nay, though thy Johnson ne’er had blessed thy eyes,
Paoli’s deeds had raised thee to the skies:
Yes, his broad wing had raised thee (no bad hack),
A tomtit twittering on an eagle’s back.

WAS once a hen of wit not small
(In fact, ’twas not amazing),
And apt at laying eggs withal,
Who, when she’d done, would scream and bawl,
As if the house were blazing.
A turkey-cock, of age mature,
Felt thereat indignation;
’Twas quite improper, he was sure —
He would no more the thing endure;
So, after cogitation,
He to the lady straight repaired,
And thus his business he declared:
“Madam, pray, what’s the matter,
That always, when you’ve laid an egg,
You make so great a clatter?
I wish you’d do the thing in quiet.
Do be advised by me, and try it.”
“Advised by you!” the lady cried,
And tossed her head with proper pride;
“And what do you know, now I pray,
Of the fashion of the present day,
You creature ignorant and low?
However, if you want to know,
This is the reason why I do it:
I lay my egg, and then review it!”

WE bipeds, made up of frail clay,
Alas! are the children of sorrow;
And, though brisk and merry to-day,
We may all be unhappy to-morrow.
For sunshine’s succeeded by rain;
Then, fearful of life’s stormy weather,
Lest pleasure should only bring pain,
Let us all be unhappy together.

I grant the best blessing we know
Is a friend, for true friendship’s a treasure;
And yet, lest your friend prove a foe,
Oh, taste not the dangerous pleasure.
Thus, friendship’s a flimsy affair;
Thus, riches and health are a bubble;
Thus, there’s nothing delightful but care,
Nor anything pleasing but trouble.

If a mortal could point out that life
Which on earth could be nearest to heaven,
Let him, thanking his stars, choose a wife
To whom truth and honour are given.
But honour and truth are so rare,
And horns, when they’re cutting, so tingle,
That, with all my respect to the fair,
I’d advise him to sigh, and live single.

It appears from these premises plain,
That wisdom is nothing but folly;
That pleasure’s a term that means pain,
And that joy is your true melancholy;
That all those who laugh ought to cry;
That ’tis fine frisk and fun to be grieving;
And that, since we must all of us die,
We should taste no enjoyment while living.

I AM a friar of orders gray,
And down in the valleys I take my way;
I pull not blackberry, haw, or hip;
Good store of venison fills my scrip;
My long bead-roll I merrily chant;
Where’er I walk no money I want;
And why I’m so plump the reason I tell:
Who leads a good life is sure to live well.
What baron or squire,
Or knight of the shire,
Lives half so well as a holy friar?

After supper, of heaven I dream,
But that is a pullet and clouted cream;
Myself by denial I mortify —
With a dainty bit of a warden-pie;
I’m clothed in sackcloth for my sin —
With old sack wine I’m lined within;
A chirping cup is my matin song,
And the vesper’s bell is my bowl, ding-dong.
What baron or squire,
Or knight of the shire,
Lives half so well as a holy friar?

A COUNTRY squire, of greater wealth than wit
(For fools are often bless’d with fortune’s smile),
Had built a splendid house, and furnish’d it
In splendid style.

“One thing is wanted,” said a friend; “for, though
The rooms are fine, the furniture profuse,
You lack a library, dear sir, for show,
If not for use.”

“’Tis true; but, zounds!” replied the squire with glee,
“The lumber-room in yonder northern wing
(I wonder I ne’er thought of it) will be
The very thing.

“I’ll have it fitted up without delay
With shelves and presses of the newest mode.
And rarest wood, befitting every way
A squire’s abode.

“And when the whole is ready, I’ll despatch
My coachman – a most knowing fellow – down,
To buy me, by admeasurement, a batch
Of books in town.”

But ere the library was half supplied
With all its pomp of cabinet and shelf,
The booby squire repented him, and cried
Unto himself:

“This room is much more roomy than I thought;
Ten thousand volumes hardly would suffice
To fill it, and would cost, however bought,
A plaguy price.

“Now, as I only want them for their looks,
It might, on second thoughts, be just as good,
And cost me next to nothing, if the books
Were made of wood.

“It shall be so. I’ll give the shaven deal
A coat of paint – a colourable dress,
To look like calf or vellum, and conceal
Its nakedness.

And gilt and letter’d with the author’s name,
Whatever is most excellent and rare
Shall be, or seem to be (’tis all the same),
Assembled there.“

The work was done; the simulated hoards
Of wit and wisdom round the chamber stood.
In bindings some; and some, of course, in boards,
Were all of wood.

From bulky folios down to slender twelves,
The choicest tomes in many an even row,
Display’d their letter’d backs upon the shelves,
A goodly show.

With such a stock, which seemingly surpass’d
The best collection ever form’d in Spain,
What wonder if the owner grew at last
Supremely vain?

What wonder, as he paced from shelf to shelf,
And conn’d their titles, that the Squire began,
Despite his ignorance, to think himself
A learned man?

Let every amateur, who merely looks
To backs and bindings, take the hint, and sell
His costly library; for painted books
Would serve as well.

BEYOND the sunny Philippines
An island lies, whose name I do not know;
But that’s of little consequence, if so
You understand that there they had no hens,
Till, by a happy chance, a traveller,
After a while, carried some poultry there.
Fast they increased as anyone could wish,
Until fresh eggs became the common dish.