Whether it was owing to the commotions of the Civil War in which "fears and jealousies had soured the people's blood, and politics and polemics had almost driven mirth and good humour out of the nation," or whether it was from a dearth of eminent talent, humour seems to have made little progress under the Restoration. The gaiety of the Merry Monarch and his companions had nothing intellectual in it, and although "Tom" Brown[61] tells us that "it was during the reign of Charles II. that learning in general flourished, and the Muses, like other ladies, met with the civilest sort of entertainment," his own works show that the best wits of the day could not soar much above the attempts of Sedley and Rochester. Had Brown not acquired in his day the character of a humorist, we should think that he equally well deserved that of a man of learning, for whereas he shows an acquaintance with the classics and modern languages, his writings, which are of considerable length, contain little Attic salt. He was born in 1663, the son of a substantial Shropshire farmer, and was sent to Christ Church, Oxford, where he became as remarkable for his quickness and proficiency, as for the irregularity of his conduct. On one occasion, owing to his having been guilty of some objectionable frolic, he was about to be expelled, when, upon his writing a penitential letter, the Dean, who seems to have known his talent, promised to forgive him on his translating extempore the epigram of Martial.

"Non amo te, Zabidi, nec possum dicere quare;
Hoc tantum possum dicere non amo te."

The young delinquent replied in words now better known than the original,

"I do not love you, Dr. Fell,
But why I cannot tell,
But this I know full well,
I do not love you, Dr. Fell."

At this period he occasionally indulged in such silly effusions as the "Adverbial Declaration," which he first wrote in Latin, on "Mother Warner's bellows at Oxford."

Brown was finally obliged to leave the University, and went up to London to seek his fortune. The unpromising and reckless spirit in which he set out, is probably reflected in one of his pieces entitled "A Dialogue between two Oxford scholars."

We need scarcely say that Brown failed in his shrewd scheming; and he was soon fain to take the humble position of a schoolmaster at Kingston upon Thames, for which his acquirements qualified him. But his literary ambition would not allow him to remain long at this drudgery, and we soon find him wandering up again to town, where he was again unfortunate. At this time, men of letters expected little from the sale of books; but often obtained patrons who conferred valuable appointments upon them. Brown's temper and position rendered him ineligible for this sort of promotion. Not being a gentleman by birth, he had no good introductions, nor would he have been very acceptable in the houses of the great. His coarseness in writing—excessive even in that day—was probably reflected in his manners and language, and he had so little prudence that he ridiculed not only the clergy, but was always ready to lose a friend rather than a joke. Mere literary talent will not procure success in society.

Brown wrote a variety of essays, generally rather admonitory than humorous. His "Pocket-book of Common Places" resembles a collection of Proverbs or good sayings. It commences,

"To see the number of churches and conventicles open every Sunday, a stranger would fancy London all religion. But to see the number of taverns, ale-houses, &c., he would imagine Bacchus was the only God that is worshipped there. If no trades were permitted but those which were useful and necessary, Lombard Street, Cheapside, and the Exchange might go a-begging. For more are fed by our vanities and vices than by our virtues, and the necessities of Nature."

But his favourite and characteristic mode of writing was under the form of letters. We have "Letters Serious and Comical," "Diverting Letters to Gentlemen." One letter is to four ladies with whom the author was in love at the same time.

He probably took his idea of "Letters from the Dead to the Living," from Lucian. He never spares Dissenters, and comically makes a Quaker relate his warm reception in the lower world:—

"A parcel of black spiritual Janissaries saluted me as intimately as if I had been resident in these parts during the term of an apprenticeship; at last, up comes a swinging, lusty, overgrown, austere devil, armed with an ugly weapon like a country dung-fork, looking as sharp about the eyes as a Wood Street officer, and seemed to deport himself after such a manner that discovered he had ascendancy over the rest of the immortal negroes, and as I imagined, so 'twas quickly evident; for as soon as he espied me leering between the diminutive slabbering-bib and the extensive rims of my coney-wood umbrella, he chucks me under the chin with his ugly toad-coloured paw, that stunk as bad of brimstone as a card-match new-lighted, saying, 'How now, Honest Jones, I am glad to see thee on this side the river Styx, prithee, hold up thy head, and don't be ashamed, thou art not the first Quaker by many thousands that has sworn allegiance to my government; besides, thou hast been one of my best benefactors on earth, and now thou shalt see, like a grateful devil, I'll reward thee accordingly.' 'I thank your excellence kindly,' said I, 'pray, what is it your infernal protectorship will be pleased to confer upon me?' To which his mighty ugliness replied, 'Friend Naylor, I know thou hast been very industrious to make many people fools in the upper world, which has highly conduced to my interest.' Then turning to a pigmy aËrial, who attended his commands as a running footman, 'Haste, Numps,' says he, 'and fetch me the painted coat,' which was no sooner brought, but by Lucifer's command I was shoved into it, neck and shoulders, by half a dozen swarthy valets de chambre, and in a minute's time found myself tricked up in a rainbow-coloured coat, like a merry-Andrew. 'Now, friend,' says the ill-favoured prince of all the hell-born scoundrels, 'for the many fools you have made above, I now ordain you mine below;' so all the reward truly of my great services was to be made Lucifer's jester, or fool in ordinary to the devil; a pretty post, thought I, for a man of my principles, that from a Quaker in the outer world I should be metamorphosed into a jack-adam in the lower one."

The occupation of people in the Nether world is described after Rabelais, thus:—"Cardinal Mazarin keeps a nine-holes; Mary of Medicis foots stockings; and Katharine of Sweden cries 'Two bunches a penny card-matches—two bunches a penny!' Henry the Fourth of France carries a raree-show, and Mahomet sells mussels. Seneca keeps a fencing-school, and Julius CÆsar a two-penny ordinary."

At the present day it is rather amusing to read, "A Comical View of London and Westminster"—a weekly prophecy intended to ridicule the increasing use of barometers and other scientific instruments for predicting changes of weather.

"Wednesday October 16th. Cloudy, foggy weather at Garraway's and Jonathan's, and at most coffee-houses at about twelve. Crowds of people gather at the Exchange by one; disperse by three. Afternoon, noisy and bloody at her Majesty's bear-garden at Hockly-in-the-Hole. Night—sober with broken chaplains and others that have neither credit nor money. This week's transactions censured by the virtuosos at Child's from morning till night.

"Thursday 17th. Coffee and water-gruel to be had at the Rainbow and Nando's at four. Hot furmity at Bride-bridge at seven. Justice to be had at Doctor's Commons, when people can get it. A lecture at Pinner's hall at ten. Excellent pease-pottage and tripe in Baldwin's Gardens at twelve. A constable and two watchmen killed, or near being so in Westminster; whether by a lord or lord's footman, planets don't determine.

"Friday. Damsels whipped for their good nature at Bridewell about ten. Several people put in fear of their lives by their god-fathers at the Old Bailey at eleven. Great destruction of Herrings at one. Much swearing at three among the horse-coursers at Smithfield; if the oaths were registered as well as the horses, good Lord, what a volume 'twould make! Several tails turned up at St. Paul's School, Merchant Taylors, &c. for their repetitioning. Night very drunk, as the two former.

"Saturday 19th. Twenty butchers' wives in Leadenhall and Newgate markets overtaken with sherry and sugar by eight in the morning. Shop-keepers walk out at nine to count the trees in Moorfields, and avoid duns. People's houses cleansed in the afternoon, but their consciences we don't know when. Evening pretty sober.

"Sunday. Beggars take up their posts in Lincoln's Inn Fields and other places by seven, that they may be able to praise God in capon and March beer at night. Great jingling of bells all over the city from eight to nine. Parish clerks liquor their throats plentifully at eight, and chaunt out Hopkins most melodiously about ten. Sextons, men of great authority most part of the day, whip dogs out of the church for being obstreperous. Great thumping and dusting of the cushion at Salter's Hall about eleven; one would almost think the man was in earnest he lays so furiously about him. A most refreshing smell of garlic in Spittlefield's and Soho at twelve. Country fellows staring at the two wooden men at St. Dunstan's from one to two, to see how notably they strike the quarters. The great point of Predestination settled in Russell-court about three; and the people go home as wise as they came. Afternoon sleepy in most churches. Store of handkerchiefs stolen at St. Paul's. Night, not so sober as might be wished...."

The following are some of the best specimens of Brown's poems—squibs on the fashions and occurrences of the day—

"The emblem of the nation, so grave and precise,
On the emblem of wisdom has laid an excise;
Pray tell me, grave sparks, and your answer don't smother,
Why one representative taxes another?
The Commons on salt a new impost have laid
To tax wisdom too, they most humbly are pray'd;
For tell me ye patrons of woollen and crape,
Why the type should be fined and the substance escape?"

A song in ridicule of a famous musician, who was caught serenading his mistress with his bass-viol on a very frosty night:—

Look down, fair garreteer bestow
One glance upon your swain,
Who stands below in frost and snow.
And shaking sings in pain.
Thaw with your eyes the frozen street,
Or cool my hot desire,
I burn within, altho' my feet
Are numbed for want of fire.
Chorus.
Thrum, thrum, thrum, thrum,
Come, come, come, come,
My dearest be not coy,
For if you are (zit, zan, zounds) I
Must without your favour die.

The sentiment in the following is easily appreciated, but is there not also some slight essence of humour?

On Flowers in a Lady's Bosom.
Behold the promised land, where pleasures flow!
See how the milk-white hills do gently rise,
And beat the silken skies!
Behold the valley spread with flowers below!
The happy flowers, how they allure my sense!
The fairer soil gives them the nobler hue
Her breath perfumes them too:
Rooted i' th' heart they seem to spring from thence,
Tell, tell me why, thou fruitful virgin breast,
Why should so good a soil lie unpossest?

Brown's humour partook of the coarseness of most of the writers of his times, and scandalized the more religious and decent muse of Sir Richard Blackmore, who endeavoured to correct this general failing in his "Satire upon Wit." This called forth many sarcastic replies, and critiques on Blackmore's works; such as Brown's "Epigram occasioned by the news that Sir R——d B——e's paraphrase upon Job was in the Press—"

"When Job contending with the devil I saw
It did my wonder, not my pity draw;
For I concluded that without some trick,
A saint at any time could match old Nick.
Next came a fiercer fiend upon his back,
I mean his spouse, stunning him with her clack,
But still I could not pity him, as knowing
A crab tree cudgel soon would send her going.
But when the quack engaged with Job I spy'd,
The Lord have mercy on poor Job I cry'd.
What spouse and Satan did attempt in vain
The quack will compass with his murdering pen,
And on a dunghill leave poor Job again,
With impious doggrel he'll pollute his theme,
And make the saint against his will blaspheme."

Upon the knighting of Sir R——d B——e.

"Be not puffed up with knighthood, friend of mine,
A merry prince once knighted a Sir-loin,
And if to make comparisons were safe
An ox deserves it better then a calf.
Thy pride and state I value not a rush
Thou that art now Knight Phyz, wast once King Ush."

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 Petition 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 petitioner 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 destitution 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—

"Sextus, 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 petition
Thus stands my condition,
I am closely blocked up in a garret,
Where I scribble and smoke,
And sadly invoke
The powerful assistance 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 embarrassments 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 nobleman 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 Parnassus,
To think tall lines, run up to seed,
Should ever tamely pass us.
"Thou write Pindaricks and be damned
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 CÆsar,' 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]—

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 Gods," 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 Ambassador
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 God,
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 vassal 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 snatched 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 hell,
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 fishing—

"Of all the world's enjoyments,
That ever valu'd were,
There's none of our employments,
With fishing can compare;
Some preach, some write,
Some swear, some fight,
All golden lucre courting,
But fishing 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, Dick bowls,
No greater pleasure wishing,
But Tom that tells what sport excels,
Gives all the praise to fishing.
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,
Cocks, 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 nobility.

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 embarrassments 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 sex as jack-boots would do.

Val. Custom would bring them as much in fashion 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. Well, cousin, might I advise you should bestow your fortune in founding a college for the study of philosophy, where none but women should be admitted; and to immortalize your name, they should be called Valerians;—ha! ha! ha!

Val. What you make a jest of, I'd execute, were fortune in my power.