Part 10

And he chirped and sang, and skipped about, and laughed with laughter hearty, He was so wonderfully active for so very stout a party.

And I said, "O gentle pie-man, why so very, very merry? Is it purity of conscience, or your one-and-seven sherry?"

W. S. GILBERT, _Bab Ballads_.

Speculation--a word that sometimes begins with its second letter.

HORACE SMITH, _The Tin Trumpet_.

He remembers the ball at the Ferry, And the ride, and the gate, and the vow, And the rose that you gave him--that very Same rose he is treasuring now (Which his blanket he's kicked on his trunk, Miss, And insists on his legs being free; And his language to me from his bunk, Miss, Is frequent and painful and free).

BRET HARTE, _Complete Works_.

Nous ne trouvons guère de gens de bons sens que ceux qui sont de notre avis.

LA ROCHEFOUCAULD, _Réflexions_.

_FRENCH AND ENGLISH._

The French excel us very much in millinery; They also bear the bell in matters culinary. The reason's plain: French beauty and French meat With English cannot of themselves compete. Thus, an inferior article possessing, Our neighbours help it by superior dressing; They dress their dishes, and they dress their dames, Till Art, almost, can rival Nature's claims.

LORD NEAVES, _Songs and Verses_.

Priority is a poor recommendation in a husband if he has got no other.

_Mrs. Cadwallader_, in GEORGE ELIOT's _Middlemarch_.

If spirits you would lighten Consult good Doctor Brighton, And swallow his prescriptions and abide by his decree: If nerves be weak or shaken Just try a week with Bacon, His physic soon is taken-- At our London-by-the-Sea.

J. ASHBY STERRY, _Boudoir Ballads_.

The then Duke of Cumberland (the foolish Duke, as he was called) came one night into Foote's green-room at the Haymarket Theatre. "Well, Foote," said he, "here I am, ready, as usual, to swallow your good things." "Upon my soul," replied Foote, "your Royal Highness must have an excellent digestion, for you never bring any up again."

ROGERS, _Table Talk_.

There's folks born to property, and there's folks catch hold on it; and the law's made for them as catch hold.

_Tommy Trounsem_, in GEORGE ELIOT's _Felix Holt_.

Examining one of the Sunday school boys at Addington, I asked him what a prophet was. He did not know. "If I were to tell you what would happen to you this day twelve month, and it should come to pass, what would you call me then, my little man?" "A fortune-teller, sir."

R. H. BARHAM, _Diary_.

Some take a lover, some take drams or prayers; Some play the devil, and then write a novel.

LORD BYRON, _Don Juan_.

Being one day at Trinity College, at dinner, [Donne] was asked to write a motto for the College snuff-box, which was always circulating on the dinner-table. "Considering where we are," said Donne, "there could be nothing better than 'Quicunque vult.'"

CRABB ROBINSON, _Diary_.

Critics tell me, soon There'll be no singing in a song, No melody in tune. But birds will warble in the trees, Nor for the critics care; And in the murmur of the breeze We yet may find some air.

J. R. PLANCHÉ, _Songs and Poems_.

Mr. Bentley proposed to establish a periodical publication, to be called "The Wits' Miscellany." [James] Smith objected that the title promised too much. Shortly afterwards the publisher came to tell him he had profited by the hint, and resolved to call it "Bentley's Miscellany." "Isn't that going a little too far the other way?" was the remark.

ABRAHAM HAYWARD, _Essays_.

Break, break, break! My cups and saucers, O scout; And I'm glad that my tongue can't utter The oaths that my soul points out.

It is well for the china-shop man Who gets a fresh order each day; And it's deucedly well for yourself, Who are in the said china-man's pay.

And my stately vases go To your uncle's, I ween, to be cashed; And it's oh for the light of my broken lamp, And the tick of my clock that is smashed.

Break, break, break! At the foot of my stairs in glee; But the coin I have spent in glass that is cracked Will never come back to me.

_The Shotover Papers._

Croly said very smart things, and with surprising readiness. I was at his table one day when one of the guests inquired the name of a pyramidal dish of barley-sugar. Some one replied, "A pyramid _à Macédoine_." "For what use?" rejoined the other. "To give a _Philip_ to the appetite," said Croly.

W. H. HARRISON, _Reminiscences_.

_ON SOME VERSES CALLED TRIFLES._

Paul, I have read your book, and though you write ill, I needs must praise your most judicious title.

ANON.

Mrs. Posh was one of those incomparable wives who have a proper command of tongue, who never reply to angry words at the moment, and who always, with exquisite calm and self-posession, pay off every angry word by an amiable sting at the right moment.

LORD LYTTON, _What will he do with it?_

_TO LADY BROWN._

When I was young and _débonnaire_, The brownest nymph to me was fair; But now I'm old, and wiser grown, The fairest nymph to me is Brown.

GEORGE, LORD LYTTLETON.

When last the Queen was about to be confined, the Prince Consort said to one of his little boys, "I think it very likely, my dear, that the Queen will present you with a little brother or sister; which of the two would you prefer?" The child, pausing--"Well, I think, if it is all the same to mamma, I should prefer a pony."

J. C. YOUNG, _Diary_.

Some ladies now make pretty songs, And some make pretty nurses: Some men are great at righting wrongs,-- And some at writing verses.

FREDERICK LOCKER, _London Lyrics_.

Follow the light of the old-fashioned Presbyterians that I've heard sing at Glasgow. The preacher gives out the Psalm, and then everybody sings a different tune, as it happens to turn up in their throats. It's a domineering thing to set a tune and expect everybody else to follow it. It's a denial of private judgment.

_Felix Holt_, in GEORGE ELIOT's novel.

_ON A CERTAIN RADICAL._

Bloggs rails against high birth. Yes, Bloggs--you see Your ears are longer than your pedigree.

JAMES HANNAY, _Sketches and Characters_.

I like neighbours, and I like chickens; but I do not think they ought to be united near a garden.

C. D. WARNER, _My Summer in a Garden_.

Lady, very fair are you, And your eyes are very blue, And your hose; And your brow is like the snow, And the various things you know Goodness knows.

MORTIMER COLLINS, _Ad Chloen, M.A._

The Jacobins, in realizing their systems of fraternization, always contrived to be the elder brothers.

_Guesses at Truth._

Careless rhymer, it is true That my favourite colour's blue; But am I To be made a victim, sir, If to puddings I prefer Cambridge [Greek: p]?

MORTIMER COLLINS, _Chloe, M.A._

Candide Found life most tolerable after meals.

LORD BYRON, _Don Juan_.

Women, and men who are like women, mind the binding more than the book.

LORD CHESTERFIELD, _Letters to his Son_.

There was gorging Jack and guzzling Jimmy, And the youngest he was little Billee. Now when they got as far as the Equator They'd nothing left but one split pea.

Says gorging Jack to guzzling Jimmy, "I am extremely hungaree." To gorging Jack says guzzling Jimmy, "We've nothing left, us must eat we."

Says gorging Jack to guzzling Jimmy, "With one another we shouldn't agree! There's little Bill he's young and tender, We're old and tough, so let's eat he."

W. M. THACKERAY.

"_WHAT AILS HIM AT THE LASSIE?_"

A friend tells me a funny little story of Mrs. ---- (the grandmother of Colonel M----), who was shown a picture of Joseph and Potiphar's wife, in which of course the patriarch showed his usual desire to withdraw himself from her society. Mrs. ---- looked at it for a little while, and then said, "Eh, now, and what ails him at the lassie?"

FREDERICK LOCKER, _Patchwork_.

In his last illness, reduced as he was to a skeleton, [Hood] noticed a very large mustard poultice which Mrs. Hood was making for him, and exclaimed, "O Mary! Mary! that will be a great deal of mustard to a very little meat!"

J. R. PLANCHÉ, _Recollections_.

_THE LATEST DECALOGUE._

Thou shalt have one God only: who Would be at the expense of two? No graven images may be Worshipped, except the currency: Swear not at all; for, for thy curse, Thine enemy is none the worse: At church on Sunday to attend Will serve to keep the world thy friend: Honour thy parents; that is, all From whom advancement may befall: Thou shalt not kill; but needst not strive Officiously to keep alive: Do not adultery commit; Advantage rarely comes of it: Thou shalt not steal; an empty feat, When it's so lucrative to cheat: Bear not false witness; let the lie Have time on its own wings to fly: Thou shalt not covet, but tradition Approves all forms of competition.

A. H. CLOUGH, _Poems_.

Mr. MacCulloch, the eminent political economist, in dining with us, a few days after [an aeronautical friend had made an ascent], was most anxious to learn where he had descended on this occasion. The answer was, "Amongst the flats of Essex." "A most appropriate locality," said my distinguished countryman, "and one which shows how true it is that 'birds of a feather flock together.'"

MARK BOYD, _Reminiscences._

He said that I was proud, mother,--that I looked for rank and gold; He said I did not love him,--he said my words were cold; He said I kept him off and on, in hopes of higher game,-- And it may be that I did, mother; but who hasn't done the same?

You may lay me in my bed, mother,--my head is throbbing sore; And, mother, prithee, let the sheets be duly aired before; And if you'd do a kindness to your poor desponding child, Draw me a pot of beer, mother--and, mother, draw it mild!

_Bon Gaultier Ballads._

Voltaire was a very good Jesus Christ--for the French.

CHARLES LAMB, _apud_ LEIGH HUNT.

_ON A THEATRICAL NUISANCE:_

Perched in a box which cost her not a _sou_, Giglina chatters all the evening through, Fidgets with opera-glass, and flowers, and shawls, Annoys the actors, irritates the stalls. Forgive her harmless pride--the cause is plain-- She wants us all to know she's had champagne.

SHIRLEY BROOKS, _Wit and Humour_.

O, I know the way o' wives; they set one on to abuse their husbands, and then they turn round on one and praise 'em as if they wanted to sell 'em.

_Priscilla Lammeter_, in GEORGE ELIOT's _Mill on the Floss_.

"And hast thou slain the Jabberwock? Come to my arms, my beamish boy! O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!" He chortled in his joy.

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves Did gyre and gimble in the wabe; All mimsy were the borogroves, And the mome raths outgrabe.

LEWIS CARROLL, _Through the Looking-Glass_.

Mrs. Wordsworth and a lady were walking once in a wood where the stock-dove was cooing. A farmer's wife coming by, said, "Oh, I do like stock-doves!" Mrs. Wordsworth, in all her enthusiasm for Wordsworth's beautiful address to the stock-dove, took the old woman to her heart. "But," continued the old woman, "some like 'em in a pie; for my part there's nothing like 'em stewed in onions!"

B. R. HAYDON, _Diary_.

_TO AN AUTHOR._

In spite of hints, in spite of looks, Titus, I send thee not my books. The reason, Titus, canst divine? I fear lest thou shouldst send me thine.

MARTIAL, trans. by R. GARNETT.

A friend, who was about to marry the natural daughter of the Duke de ----, was expatiating at great length on the virtues, good qualities, and talents of his future wife, but without making allusion to her birth. "A t'entendre," observed Montrond, "on dirait que tu épouses une fille surnaturelle."

GRONOW, _Recollections_.

Reading new books is like eating new bread: One can bear it at first, but by gradual steps he Is brought to death's door of a mental dyspepsy.

J. R. LOWELL, _A Fable for Critics_.

Casey mentioned to me a parody of his on two lines in the "Veiled Prophet":-- "He knew no more of fear than one who dwells Beneath the tropics knows of icicles."

The following is his parody, which, bless my stars, none of my critics were lively enough to hit upon, for it would have stuck by me:-- "He knew no more of fear than one who dwells On Scotia's mountains knows of shoe-buckles."

THOMAS MOORE, _Diary_.

Why mourns my Eugene? In his dark eye of blue Why trembles the tear-drop to sympathy due? Ah, why must a bosom so pure and refin'd Thus vibrate, all nerve, at the woes of mankind?

Like a sunbeam the clouds of the tempest between, A smile lights the eye of the pensive Eugene; And thus, in soft accents, the mourner replies, "Hang your mustard! it brings the tears in my eyes!"

R. H. BARHAM, _Ingoldsby Lyrics_.

Dress does not make a man, but it often makes a successful one. What all men should avoid is the "shabby genteel." No man ever gets over it. You had better be in rags.

_Vigo_, in LORD BEACONSFIELD's _Endymion_.

In moss-prankt dells which the sunbeams flatter (And Heaven it knoweth what that may mean; Meaning, however, is no great matter) Where woods are a-tremble, with rifts atween;

Thro' God's own heather we wonn'd together, I and my Willie (O love, my love!): I need hardly remark it was glorious weather, And flitter-bats waver'd alow, above.

Boats were curtsying, rising, bowing (Boats in that climate are so polite), And sands were a ribbon of green endowing, And O the sun-dazzle on bark and bight.

Thro' the rare red heather we danced together, (O love, my Willie!) and smelt for flowers: I must mention again it was glorious weather, Rhymes are so scarce in this world of ours.

C. S. CALVERLEY, _Fly Leaves_.

'Tis ridiculous for a lord to print verses. It is well enough to make them to please himself, but to make them public is foolish. If a man in his private chamber twirls his bandstrings, or plays with a rush to please himself, 'tis well enough, but if he should go into Fleet Street, and sit upon a stall, and twirl a bandstring, or play with a rush, then all the boys in the street would laugh at him.

SELDEN, _Table Talk_.

Here, in the grassy hollow, would be spread The snowy cloth--dimpled with various viands. Ah! cleanly damask of our native land! Ah! pleasant memory of pigeon-pie, Short-crusted--savoury-jellied--flow'ry-yolked! Ah! fair white-bosomed fowl with tawny tongue Well married! lobster-salad, crisp and cool, With polished silver from clean crockery Forked up--washed down with drinks that make me now Thirsty to think of. Yes, with ginger-pop These crags should echo. Ah! rare golden gleam Of sack in silver goblets gilt within!-- Bright evanescent raptures of champagne-- Brisk bottled stout in pewters creamy-crowned!

G. J. CAYLEY, _Las Alforgas_.

Say, as the witty Duke of Buckingham did to the dog that bit him, "I wish you were married, and went to live in the country."

_Ellesmere_, in HELPS' _Friends in Council_.

Croquet-- A dainty and difficult sport in its way. Thus I counsel the sage, who to play at it stoops, _Belabour thy neighbour and spoon through thy hoops_.

FREDERICK LOCKER, _London Lyrics_.

We are never so thoroughly tired of the company of any one else as we are sometimes of our own.

W. HAZLITT, _Characteristics_.

_ON A VERY TRIFLING FELLOW BEING KNIGHTED._

What! Dares made a knight! No, don't be frighted; He only lost his way, and was be-nighted.

RICHARD GRAVES (1715-1804).

Satan was a blunderer, an introducer of _novità_, who made a stupendous failure. If he had succeeded, we should all have been worshipping him, and his portrait would have been more flattered.

_Machiavelli_, in GEORGE ELIOT's _Romola_.

You see the goodly hair that Galla wears; 'Tis certain her own hair: who would have thought it? She swears it is her own, and true she swears, For hard by Temple Bar last day she bought it.

SIR JOHN HARYNGTON (1561-1612).

The worst of human maladies are the most transient also--love that is half despairing, and seasickness that is quite so.

_Leslie_, in MALLOCK's _New Republic_.

_ON A SMALL EATER._

Simplicity is best, 'tis true, But not in every mortal's power: If thou, O maid, canst live on dew, 'Tis proof thou art indeed a flower.

R. GARNETT, _Idylls and Epigrams_.

On Walpole's remarking that, of two pictures mentioned, one was "a shade above the other in point of merit," [Hook] replied: "I presume you mean to say it was a _shade over_ (_chef d'oeuvre_)."

R. H. BARHAM, _Diary_.

The nightingales are all about-- Their song is everywhere-- Their notes are lovely (though they're out So often in the air).

The zephyr, dancing through the tops Of ash and poplar, weaves Low melodies, and scarcely stops To murmur "By your leaves!"

Night steeps the passions of the day In quiet, peace, and love. Pale Dian, in her tranquil way, Kicks up a shine above.

H. S. LEIGH, CAROLS OF COCKAYNE.

Tinder--a thin rag; such, for instance, as the dresses of modern females, intended to catch the sparks, raise a flame, and light up a match.

HORACE SMITH, _The Tin Trumpet_.

_ON DRESS._

He who a gold-finch strives to make his wife Makes her, perhaps, a wag-tail all her life.

_A Collection of Epigrams_ (1727).

[Of Lafayette]: The world is surprised that there was once an honest man: the situation remains vacant.

HEINRICH HEINE, _Thoughts and Fancies_.

_ON AILING AND ALE-ING._

Come, come, for trifles never stick: Most servants have a failing; Yours, it is true, are sometimes sick, But mine are always ale-ing.

HENRY LUTTRELL.

Sir George Rose, being introduced one day to two charming young ladies, whose names were Mary and Louisa, instantly added, with a bow, "Ah, yes! _Marie-Louise_--the sweetest _pear_ I know!"

_Macmillan's Magazine._

_TO A CRUEL FAIR ONE._

'Tis done; I yield; adieu, thou cruel fair! Adieu, th' averted face, th' ungracious cheek! I go to die, to finish all my care, To hang--to hang?--yes, round another's neck.

LEIGH HUNT (from the French).

_Bishop (reproving delinquent Page)._ "Wretched boy! _Who_ is it that sees and hears all we do, and before whom _even I_ am but as a crushed worm?" _Page._ "The Missus, my Lord!"

_Punch._

_ON DRUNKEN COURAGE._

Who only in his cups will fight is like A clock that must be oil'd well ere it strikes.

THOMAS BANCROFT (_circa_ 1600).

Talking to ---- is like playing long whist.

LADY ASHBURTON, _apud_ LORD HOUGHTON.

_CERBERUS._

My dog, who picks up everything one teaches, Has got "three heads," like Mr. Gladstone's speeches, But, as might naturally be expected, His are considerably more connected.

H. J. BYRON, in _English Epigrams_.

Blessed be the word "nice"!--it is the copper coin of commendation. Without it, we should have to praise more handsomely.

CHARLES BUXTON, _Notes of Thought_.

_ON NEWGATE WINDOWS._

All Newgate windows bay windows they be; All lookers out there stand at bay we see.

JOHN HEYWOOD (1506-1565).

It was a grand scene, Mr. Artemus Ward standing on the platform; many of the audience sleeping tranquilly in their seats; others leaving the room and not returning; others crying like a child at some of the jokes,--all, all formed a most impressive scene, and showed the powers of this remarkable orator. And when he announced that he should never lecture in that town again, the applause was absolutely deafening.

C. F. BROWNE, _Artemus Ward's Lecture_.

_THE REASONS FOR DRINKING._

If all be true that I do think, There are five reasons we should drink: Good wine; a friend; or being dry; Or lest we should be by-and-by; Or any other reason why.

HENRY ALDRICH.

[Barham] having expressed himself in terms of abhorrence of a piece of baseness and treachery which came under his notice, he was addressed by the delinquent with--"Well, sir, perhaps some day you may come to change your opinion of me!" "Perhaps I may, sir," was the reply; "for if I should find any one who holds a more contemptible opinion of you than I do myself, I should lay down my own and take up his."

R. H. D. BARHAM, _Life of Barham_.

_FALSE LOVE'S QUIRK._

"Oh, sweet one!" sighs the lover, "Could I but this discover,-- Thy breast so softly moving, Will it ever cease from loving?"

Says she, her eyes upturning, "The love within me burning No time can ever smother"-- For some one or another!

LORD SOUTHESK, _Greenwood's Farewell_.

Benjamin Constant, on some one asking (with reference to his book on religion) how he managed to reconcile the statements of his latter volumes with those of his first, published so long ago, answered, "Il n'y a rien qui s'arrange aussi facilement que les faits."

THOMAS MOORE, _Diary_.

I'm told that virgins augur some Misfortune if their shoe-strings come To grief on Friday: And so did Di, and then her pride Decreed that shoe-strings so untied Are "so untidy!"

FREDERICK LOCKER, _London Lyrics_.

On one occasion the late Lady Holland took [Luttrell] a drive in her carriage over a rough road; and as she was very nervous, she insisted on being driven at a foot's pace. This ordeal lasted some hours, and when he was at last released, poor Luttrell, perfectly exasperated, rushed into the nearest club-house, and exclaimed, clenching his teeth and hands, "The very funerals passed us!"

GRONOW, _Recollections_.

_TO A YOUNG LADY._

An original something dear maid, you would win me To write, but how shall I begin? For I fear I have nothing original in me-- Excepting Original Sin.

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

La société est un état de guerre, réglé par les lois.

_L'Art de Parvenir._

Perchance it was her eyes of blue, Her cheeks that might the rose have shamed, Her figure in proportion true To all the rules by artists framed; Perhaps it was her mental worth That made her lover love her so, Perhaps her name, or wealth, or birth,-- I cannot tell--I do not know.

He may have had a rival, who Did fiercely gage him to a duel, And being the luckiest of the two Defeated him with triumph cruel; Then _she_ may have proved false, and turned To welcome to her arms his foe, Left _him_ despairing, conquer'd, spurned,-- I cannot tell--I do not know.

_Songs of Singularity._

It is of no use to tell a neighbour that his hens eat your tomatoes: it makes no impression on him, for the tomatoes are not his. The best way is to casually remark to him that he has a fine lot of chickens, pretty well grown, and that you like spring chickens broiled. He will take them away at once.

C. D. WARNER, _My Summer in a Garden_.

One persuaded his friend to marry a little woman, because of evils the least was to be chosen.

_Conceits, Clinches_, etc. (1639).

Charles Kemble used to tell a story about some poor foreigner, dancer or pantomimist in the country, who, after many annual attempts to clear his expenses, came forward one evening with a face beaming with pleasure and gratitude, and addressed the audience in these words:--"Dear Public! moche oblige. Ver good benefice--only lose half-a-crown. I come again!"

J. R. PLANCHÉ, _Recollections_.

"Let's show," said M'Clan, "to this Sassenach loon That the bag-pipes _can_ play him a regular tune. Let's see," said M'Clan, as he thoughtfully sat, "'In my Cottage' is easy--I'll practise at that."