Each running at the other in a fright, Each trying to get before the other, and crying. And flying, and stumbling, tumbling, wrong or right;-- One sets her knee There where her foot should be; One has her hands and dress All smother’d up with mud in a fine mess; And one gets trampled on by two or three. What’s gathered is let fall About the wood, and not pick’d up at all. The wreaths of flowers are scatter’d on the ground, And still as, screaming, hustling, without rest, They run this way and that and round and round, She thinks herself in luck who runs the best. I stood quite still to have a perfect view, And never noticed till I got wet through. --_Translated by Rossetti._ This brings us to Benvenuto Cellini, who, though not classed among the humorists, gives us many flashes of wit and humor in his celebrated Biography. _A COMPULSORY MARRIAGE AT SWORD’S POINT_ One of those busy personages who delight in spreading mischief came to inform me that Paolo Micceri had taken a house for his new lady and her mother, and that he made use of the most injurious and contemptuous expressions regarding me, to wit: “Poor Benvenuto! he paid the piper while I danced; and now he goes about boasting of the exploit. He thinks I am afraid of him--I, who can wear a sword and dagger as well as he. But I would have him to know my weapons are as keen as his. I, too, am a Florentine, and come of the Micceri, a much better house than the Cellini any time of day.” In short, the vile informer painted the things in such colors to my disadvantage that it fired my whole blood. I was in a fever of the most dangerous kind. And feeling it must kill me unless it found vent, I had recourse to my usual means on such occasions. I called to my workman, Chioccia, to accompany me, and told another to follow me with my horse. On reaching the wretch’s house, finding the door half open, I entered abruptly in. There he sat with his precious “lady-love,” his boasted sword and dagger beside him, in the very act of jesting with the elder woman upon my affairs. To slam the door, draw my sword and present the point to his throat, was the work of a moment, giving him no time to think of defending himself: “Vile poltroon, recommend thy soul to God! Thou art a dead man!” In the excess of his terror he cried out thrice, in a feeble voice, “Mama! mama! mama! Help, help, help!”