_Mistaken Vanity_
It is told of Père Monsabre, the famous Dominican preacher, that one
day, as he was on the way to officiate in the church, a message came to
him that a lady wanted to see him. She was worrying about an affair of
conscience, she felt that she must see him, she feared that she was
given up to vanity. That very morning, she confessed, she had looked in
her looking-glass, and yielded to the temptation of thinking herself
pretty.
Père Monsabre looked at her and said quietly, “Is that all?”
She confessed that it was.
“Well, my child,” he replied, “you can go away in peace, for to make a
mistake is not a sin.”
_Toast_
In the days before the war, days famous for generous but unostentatious
hospitality in the South, a brilliant party was assembled at dinner in a
country homestead. Across the table wit flashed back and forth, and,
when the merry party had adjourned to the broad veranda, the guests
began to vie with one another in proposing conundrums.
Mr. Alexander H. Stephens offered one which puzzled the whole company.
“What is it that we eat at breakfast and drink at dinner?”
For some time no answer came, and the bright eyes of the Southern orator
began to sparkle with triumph, when Colonel Johnston, taking up the
Commonplace Book of the hostess which lay conveniently by, wrote,
impromptu, upon the fly-leaf the following answer:
“What is eaten for breakfast and drunken at dinner?
Is it coffee or eggs—or butter or meats?
Sure double the stomach of obdurate sinner
Who eats what he drinks and drinks what he eats.
But let us consider—’tis surely not butter,
Nor coffee, nor meats, whether broiled or roast,
Nor boiled eggs, nor poached, nor fried in a batter.
It _must_ then be bread—ah, yes! when ’tis _toast_.”
_The Preferred Beverage_
Near Invermark, on Lord Dalhousie’s estate, a fountain was some years
ago erected to commemorate a visit paid to the place by the Queen. It
bears this inscription, in gold letters, “Rest, stranger, on this lovely
scene, and drink and pray for Scotland’s Queen—Victoria.” A Highlander
was shocked one morning to read the following addenda, traced in a bold
hand, suggestive of the London tourist, immediately underneath the
original: “We’ll pray for Queen Victoria here, but go and drink her
health in beer.”
_Identified_
In a very scarce book, Hal’s “Parochial History of Cornwall,” published
at Exeter in 1750, mention is made of Killigrew, the celebrated Master
of the Revels _temp._ Charles II., though he never was formally
installed as Court Jester. The following anecdote will show that, at all
events, he deserved the appointment, even though he did not get it: When
Louis XIV. showed him his pictures at Paris, the King pointed out to him
a picture of the Crucifixion between two portraits. “That on the right,”
added his Majesty, “is the Pope, and that on the left is myself.” “I
humbly thank your Majesty,” replied the wit, “for the information; for
though I have often heard that the Lord was crucified between two
thieves, I never knew who they were till now.”
_An Uncivil Retort_
The attention of a tourist was attracted to the following epitaph in an
English church-yard:
“Here I lie at the chancel door,
Here I lie because I am poor;
When I rise at the Judgment Day,
I shall be as warm as they.”
Whereupon the irreverent visitor scribbled underneath:
_From a Spirit within._
“’Tis true, old sinner, there you lie,
’Tis true you’ll be as warm as I;
But, restless spirit, why foretell
That when you rise you’ll go to hell?”
_Unmistakable Legality_
On one occasion when Daniel Webster and Rufus Choate were pitted against
each other in court, Mr. Choate had lucidly, with great emphasis, stated
the law. Mr. Webster, than whom a greater master of attitude, gesture,
and facial expression never existed, turned on him the gaze of his great
eyes, as if in mournful, despairing remonstrance, against such a sad and
strange perversion. “That is the law, your Honor,” thundered Mr. Choate,
catching the glance, advancing a step, and looking full in Webster’s
face—“that is the law, in spite of the admonishing and somewhat paternal
look in the eye of my illustrious friend!” And it was the law, as
affirmed by the court.
_A Very Long Bill_
Mr. Nathan Appleton and Mr. Longfellow, travelling in Switzerland,
reached Zurich, where the landlord charged very exorbitant prices for
their entertainment. Mr. Appleton wrote his name on the books and paid
while demurring at the price charged.
“I have put my name on the books,” said Mr. Longfellow, “and if you will
allow me I will treat the innkeeper as he deserves.”
The name of the inn was the “Raven.” He took the book aside, and wrote
these lines:
“Beware of the raven of Zurich,
’Tis a bird of omen ill,
With an ugly, unclean nest,
And a very, very long bill.”
_Whittier’s Impromptu_
John G. Whittier often wrote impromptu verses in albums and elsewhere,
bright with a gayety that does not often appear in his more important
works. In the album of a young lady—who with her friends had been
rallying him on his bachelorhood—he wrote the following lines:
Ah, ladies, you love to levy a tax
On my poor little paper parcel of fame;
Yet strange it seems that among you all
Not one is willing to take my name—
To write and rewrite, till the angels pity her,
The weariful words, Thine truly, WHITTIER.
_Seeing is Believing_
“I should like to see any man kiss me,”
The prudish young Boston maid cries.
Miss Innocence answers, “Why, bless me!
Do you usually close your eyes?”
_A Killarney Echo_
A good-natured Anglican parson was riding one day in a jaunting-car near
the Lakes of Killarney, whose famous echoes sometimes repeat a sound as
many as eight times. Wishing to “take a rise out of the driver,” the
clergyman said,—
“Do you know, Pat, that there are none but Protestant echoes here?”
“No, sir, I niver h’ard it, and I don’t believe it aither,” was the
reply.
“Well, you shall hear it very soon,” said the Anglican. Arriving at a
favorable spot he called out softly, raising his voice to a loud pitch
on the last word: “Do you believe in Pio Nono?” and the echo replied,—
“No, no! No, no! No, no!”