« 이전계속 »
But he still talked away, spite of coughs and of frowns,
"My voice is for war," asked him, "Which of them, pray?"
One voice for an orator's surely enough.
Reeling homewards, one evening, top-heavy with gin,
One voice for an orator 's surely enough.
"Help, help!" he exclaimed, in his he-and-she tones, Help me out! help me out!
I have broken my bones!" Help you out!" said a Paddy, who passed; "what a bother! Why, there's two of you there; can't you help one another?"
O! O! Orator Puff,
One voice for an orator's surely enough.
XII. THE NEWCASTLE APOTHECARY.
A MEMBER of the Esculapian line lived at Newcastle-uponTyne no man could better gild a pill, or make a bill, or mix a draught, or bleed, or blister; or draw a tooth out of your head; or chatter scandal by your bed; or spread a plaster. His fame full six miles round the country ran; in short, in reputation he was solus all the old women called him "a fine man!" His name was Bolus.
Benjamin Bolus, though in trade (which oftentimes will genius fetter), read works of fancy, it is said, and cultivated the "belles lettres." ""* Bolus loved verse; - and took so much delight in 't, all his prescriptions he resolved to write in 't. No opportunity he e'er let pass of writing the directions on his labels in dapper couplets, like Gay's Fables, or, rather, like the lines in Hudibras.
He had a patient lying at death's door, some three miles from the town, it might be four, to whom, one evening, Bolus sent an article-in pharmacy that's called cathartical: and on the label of the stuff he wrote this verse, which one would think ras clear enough, and terse,
To be well shaken."
In both these French words the s is unsounded.
Next morning early Bolus rose, and to the patient's house he goes, upon his pad, who a vile trick of stumbling had but he arrived, and gave a tap, between a single and a double rap. The servant lets him in, with dismal face, long as a courtier's out of place, portending some disaster. John's countenance as rueful looked and grim, as if the apothecary had physicked him, and not his master.
"Well, how's the patient?" Bolus said. John shook his head. • Indeed! — hum!-ha! - that's very odd! He took the draught?"—John gave a nod. — “ Well?-how ? - what then?-speak out, you dunce!" "Why, then," says John, "we shook him once."-"Shook him! how? how?" friend Bolus stammered out. "We jolted him about."
"What! shake the patient, man!-why, that won't do." "No, sir," quoth John, "and so we gave him two." "Two shakes! O, luckless verse! "Twould make the patient worse!" "It did so, sir, and so a third we tried." Well, and what then?”—“Then, sir, my master - died!"
XIII. THE REMOVAL.
A NERVOUS old gentleman, tired of trade,
For in each dwelt a smith; a more hard-working two
At six in the morning, their anvils, at work,
He offered each Vulcan to purchase his shop;
But, no! they were stubborn, determined to stop:
From morning till night they keep thumping away,-
At length (both his spirits and health to improve)
Agreed!" said the pair; "that will make us amends." "Then come to my house, and let us part friends: You shall dine; and we'll drink on this joyful occasion, That each may live long in his new habitation." He gave the two blacksmiths a sumptuous regale; He spared not provisions, his wine, nor his ale; So much was he pleased with the thought that each guest Would take from him noise, and restore him to rest.
"And now," said he, " tell me, where mean you to move? I hope to some spot where your trade will improve." "Why, sir," replied one, with a grin on his phiz, "Tom Forge moves to my shop, and I move to his!"
XIV. — THE RETORT.
ONE day, a rich man, flushed with pride and wine,
To crack a joke upon his secretary.
"Young man," said he, "by what art, craft, or trade, Did your good father earn his livelihood ? " "He was a saddler, sir," the young man said,
"And in his line was always reckoned good." "A saddler, eh? and had you stuffed with Greek, Instead of teaching you like him to do! And pray, sir, why did not your father make A saddler, too, of you?"
At this each flatterer, as in duty bound,
At length, the secretary, bowing low,
Said (craving pardon if too free he made), "Sir, by your leave, I fain would know
Your father's trade."
My father's trade? Why, sir, but that's too bad!
My father, sir, was never brought so low.
He was a gentleman, I'd have you
not even a mouse:
'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name:
Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer! now, Vixen!
On, Comet! on, Cupid! on, Dunder and Blixen!
He had a broad face, and a little round belly,
CLEMENT C. MOORE