Tom Brown—­His Prose Works—­Poetry—­Sir Richard Blackmore—­D’Urfey—­Female Humorists—­Carey.

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.”

     A. Well, I see thou art resolved to leave us.  I will not say,
     “Go, and be hanged,” but go and turn country parson.

     B. That’s almost as bad, as the world goes now.  But thanks to my
     stars, I know a better trick than that.

     A. It may be thou art fallen out with mankind, and intendest to
     turn quack; or as they call it in the country, doctor.

     B. No such matter; the French can kill men fast enough, and for
     women thou knowest my kindness.