The introduction of Ben Jonson into the party was
wholly appropriate, if one may call to witness some
of Jonson’s writings. The subject under
discussion was one that Jonson was acquainted with,
in The Alchemist:
Act. I, Scene I,
Face: Believe’t I will.
Subtle: Thy worst. I fart at thee.
Dol common: Have you your wits?
Why, gentlemen, for love——
Act. 2, Scene I,
Sir epicure mammon: ....and then
my poets, the same that writ so subtly of the fart,
whom I shall entertain still for that subject and again
in Bartholomew Fair
Nightengale: (sings a ballad)
Hear for your love,
and buy for your money.
A delicate ballad o’
the ferret and the coney.
A preservative again’
the punk’s evil.
Another goose-green
starch, and the devil.
A dozen of divine points,
and the godly garter
The fairing of good
counsel, of an ell and three-quarters.
What is’t you
buy?
The windmill blown down
by the witche’s fart,
Or Saint George, that,
O! did break the dragon’s heart.
That certain types of English society have not changed
materially in their freedom toward breaking wind in
public can be noticed in some comparatively recent
literature. Frank Harris in My Life, Vol. 2,
Ch. XIII, tells of Lady Marriott, wife of a judge
Advocate General, being compelled to leave her own
table, at which she was entertaining Sir Robert Fowler,
then the Lord Mayor of London, because of the suffocating
and nauseating odors there. He also tells of
an instance in parliament, and of a rather brilliant
bon mot spoken upon that occasion.
“While Fowler was speaking Finch-Hatton had
shewn signs of restlessness; towards the end of the
speech he had moved some three yards away from the
Baronet. As soon as Fowler sat down Finch-Hatton
sprang up holding his handkerchief to his nose:
“‘Mr. Speaker,’ he began, and was
at once acknowledged by the Speaker, for it was a
maiden speech, and as such was entitled to precedence
by the courteous custom of the House, ’I know
why the Right Honourable Member from the City did
not conclude his speech with a proposal. The
only way to conclude such a speech appropriately would
be with a motion!’”
But society had apparently degenerated sadly in modern
times, and even in the era of Elizabeth, for at an
earlier date it was a serious—nay, capital—offense
to break wind in the presence of majesty. The
Emperor Claudius, hearing that one who had suppressed
the urge while paying him court had suffered greatly
thereby, “intended to issue an edict, allowing
to all people the liberty of giving vent at table to
any distension occasioned by flatulence:”
