(Because, you see, I never tried);
But, had it known and loved me well,
No doubt the creature would have died.
My rich and aged uncle John
Has known me long and loves me well,
But still persists in living on--
I would he were a young gazelle.
I never loved a tree or flower;
But, if I _had_, I beg to say
The blight, the wind, the sun, or shower,
Would soon have wither'd it away.
I've dearly loved my uncle John,
From childhood till the present hour,
And yet he will go living on,--
I would he were a tree or flower!
H. S. LEIGH, _Carols of Cockayne_.
A domestic woman.--A woman like a
domestic.
ANNE EVANS, _Poems and Music_.
"The time has come," the Walrus said,
"To talk of many things;
Of shoes--and ships--and sealing-wax--
Of cabbages--and kings--
And why the sea is boiling hot--
And whether pigs have wings."
"But wait a bit," the Oysters cried,
"Before we have our chat;
For some of us are out of breath,
And all of us are fat!"
"No hurry!" said the Carpenter:
They thanked him much for that.
LEWIS CARROLL, _Through the Looking-Glass_.
Ignorance is not so damnable as humbug, but
when it prescribes pills it may happen to do
more harm.
_Felix Holt_, in GEORGE ELIOT's novel.
I push aside the blinding books;
The reverend pages seem to wink;
Each _letter_ like a _dozen_ looks,
Which _doesn't let a_ student think.
Within my ears I hear a "thrum;"
Before my eyes there floats a haze;
And mocking shadows flit and come,
And make my _nights_ a constant _daze_!
ROBERT REECE, in _Comic Poets_.
Orthodoxy is at a low ebb. Only two clergymen
accepted my offer to come and help hoe
my potatoes for the privilege of using my
vegetable total-depravity figure about the snake-grass,
or quash-grass, as some call it; and these two did not
bring hoes. There seems to be a lack of disposition to
hoe among our educated clergy.
C. D. WARNER, _My Summer in a Garden_.
_HOME THEY BROUGHT._
Home they brought her lap-dog dead,
Just run over by a fly;
Jeames to Buttons, winking, said,
"Won't there be a row? oh my!"
Then they called the flyman low,
Said his baseness could be proved,
How she to the Beak should go,--
Yet she neither spoke nor moved.
Said her maid (and risked her place)
"In the 'ouse it should have kept,
Flymen drives at such a pace"--
Still the lady's anger slept.
Rose her husband, best of dears,
Laid a bracelet on her knee,
Like a playful child she boxed his ears,--
"Sweet old pet!--let's have some tea!"
SHIRLEY BROOKS, _Wit and Humour_.
_ON BLESSED IGNORANCE._
He is most happy, sure, that knoweth nought,
Because he knows not that he knoweth not.
ROBERT HEATH (_circa_ 1585-1607).
Alone amid the festive throng
One infant brow is sad!
One cherub face is wet with grief,--
What ails you, little lad?
Why still with scarifying sleeve
That woful visage scrub?
Ah, much I fear, my gentle boy,
You don't enjoy your grub.
Here, on a sympathetic heart,
Your tale of suffering pour.
Come, darling! Tell me all. "_Boo--boo--
I can't eat any more!_"
H. CHOLMONDELEY PENNELL, _Puck on Pegasus_.
Never take a sheet-bath--never. Next to meeting
a lady acquaintance who, for reasons best known
to herself, don't see you when she looks at you,
and don't know you when she sees you, it is about the
most uncomfortable thing in the world.
MARK TWAIN, _Choice Works_.
The critic's lot is passing hard--
Between ourselves, I think reviewers,
When call'd to truss a crowing bard,
Should not be sparing of the skewers.
FREDERICK LOCKER, _London Lyrics_.
To-morrow the critics will commence. You
know who the critics are? The men who have
failed in literature and art.
_Phoebus_, in LORD BEACONSFIELD's _Lothair_.
That climax of all human ills--
The inflammation of his weekly bills.
LORD BYRON, _Don Juan_.
On n'a guère de défauts qui ne soient plus pardonnables
que les moyens dont on se sert pour les
cacher.
LA ROCHEFOUCAULD, _Réflexions_.
Meeting a friend one day, when the weather had
taken a most sudden and unaccountable turn
from cold to warmth, the subject was mooted
as usual, and characterized by the gentleman as being
"most extraordinary." "Yes," replied [Compton], "it
is a most unheard of thing; we've jumped from winter
into summer without a spring."
_Memoir of Henry Compton._
"Pray what is this Permissive Bill,
That some folks rave about?
I can't with all my pains and skill,
Its meaning quite make out?"
O! it's a little simple Bill,
That seeks to pass _incog._,
To _permit_ ME--to _prevent_ YOU--
From having a glass of grog.
LORD NEAVES, _Songs and Verses_.
Quelque mal qu'un homme puisse penser des
femmes, il n'y a pas de femme qui n'en pense
encore plus mal que lui.
CHAMFORT, _Maximes_.
With thy fogs, all so thick and so yellow,
The most approved tint for _ennui_,
Oh, when shall a man see thy fellow,
November, for _felo-de-se_?
J. R. PLANCHÉ, _Songs and Poems_.
"Life," continued Mr. Rose, "is a series of
moments and emotions."
"And a series of absurdities, too, very
often," said Dr. Jenkinson.
"Life is a solemn mystery," said Mr. Stocks, severely.
"Life is a damned nuisance," muttered Leslie to himself.
W. H. MALLOCK, _The New Republic_.
The world's an ugly world. Offend
Good people, how they wrangle!
Their manners that they never mend,--
The characters they mangle!
They eat, and drink, and scheme, and plod,--
They go to church on Sunday;
And many are afraid of God--
And more of _Mrs. Grundy_.
FREDERICK LOCKER, _London Lyrics_.
I went away the first, in order to give the men an
opportunity of abusing me; for whenever the
men abuse, the women, to support alike their
coquetry and the conversation, think themselves called
upon to defend.
_Pelham_, in LORD LYTTON's novel.
There's one John Bright, a Manchester man,
Who taught the Tories to rule,
By setting their stamp on his patent plan
For renewing the youth of John Bull;
But I say that it won't do at all.
To seek for salvation
By mere numeration
Of polls would surprise,
If they were to rise,
Not a little both Plato and Paul.
J. S. BLACKIE, _Musa Burschicosa_.
Une femme vertueuse a dans le coeur une fibre du
moins ou de plus que les autres femmes; elle est
stupide ou sublime.
BALZAC, _Physiologie du Mariage_.
_ON SCOTCH WEATHER._
Scotland! thy weather's like a modish wife;
Thy winds and rains for ever are at strife;
Like thee the termagants their blustering try,
And, when they can no longer scold, they cry.
AARON HILL (1685-1750).
Went with Lamb to Richman's. Richman produced
one of Chatterton's forgeries. In one
manuscript there were seventeen different kinds
of e's. "Oh," said Lamb, "that must have been written
by one of the--
'Mob of gentlemen who write with _ease_.'"
CRABB ROBINSON, _Diary_.
_SCIRE TUUM NIHIL FIT._
To have a thing is little, if you're not allowed to show it,
And to know a thing is nothing, unless others know you know it.
LORD NEAVES.
You're at an evening party, with
A group of pleasant folks,--
You venture quietly to crack
The least of little jokes,--
A lady doesn't catch the point,
And begs you to explain,--
Alas! for one who drops a jest
And takes it up again!
You drop a pretty _jeu-de-mot_
Into a neighbour's ears,
Who likes to give you credit for
The clever things he hears;
And so he hawks your jest about,
The old, authentic one,
Just breaking off the point of it,
And leaving out the pun!
JOHN GODFREY SAXE, _Poems_.
[Montrond's] death was a very wretched one.
Left alone to the tender mercies of a well-known
"lorette" of those days, Desirée R----,
as he lay upon his bed, between fits of pain and drowsiness,
he could see his fair friend picking from his shelves
the choicest specimens of his old Sèvres china, or other
articles of _vertu_. Turning to his doctor, he said, with a
gleam of his old fun, "Qu'elle est attachante, cette
femme-là!"
GRONOW, _Recollections_.
We love thee, Ann Maria Smith,
And in thy condescension
We see a future full of joys
Too numerous to mention.
There's Cupid's arrow in thy glance,
That by thy love's coercion
Has reached our melting heart of hearts,
And asked for one insertion.
There's music in thy honest tone,
And silver in thy laughter;
And truth--but we will give the full
Particulars hereafter.
R. H. NEWELL, _Orpheus C. Kerr Papers_.
"Of course you know the three reasons which take
men into society in London?" I said, after a
pause.
"No, I don't. What are they?"
"Either to find a wife, or to look after one's wife, or
to look after somebody else's."
L. OLIPHANT, _Piccadilly_.
_ON ONE WHO HAD A LARGE NOSE AND SQUINTED._
The reason why Doctor Dash squints, I suppose,
Is because his two eyes are afraid of his nose.
ANON., in MOORE's _Diary_.
Never attack whole bodies of any kind. Individuals
forgive sometimes; but bodies and
societies never do.
LORD CHESTERFIELD, _Letters to his Son_.
_ON THE RIGHTS OF MINORITIES._
Sturdy Tom Paine, biographers relate,
Once with his friends engaged in warm debate.
Said they, "Minorities are always right;"
Said he, "The truth is just the opposite."
Finding them stubborn, "Frankly, now," said he,
"In this opinion do ye all agree;
All, every one, without exception?" When
They thus affirmed unanimously, "Then,
Correct," said he, "my sentiment must be,
For I myself am the minority."
R. GARNETT, _Idylls and Epigrams_.
The Indians on the Overland Route live on route
and herbs. They are an intemperate people.
They drink with impunity, or anybody who
invites them.
C. F. BROWNE, _Artemus Ward's Lecture_.
_ON ONE WEARING FALSE HAIR._
They say that thou dost tinge (O monstrous lie!)
The hair that thou so raven-black dost buy.
LUCILIUS, trans. by R. GARNETT.
A nation does wisely if not well, in starving her
men of genius. Fatten them, and they are done
for.
CHARLES BUXTON, _Notes of Thought_.
When the enterprising burglar's not a-burgling,
When the cut-throat isn't occupied with crime
He loves to hear the little brook a-gurgling,
And listen to the merry village chime.
When the coster's finished jumping on his mother,
He loves to lie a-basking in the sun--
Oh! take one consideration with another,
The policeman's lot is not a happy one!
W. S. GILBERT, _Pirates of Penzance_.
The young girl said: "The gentleman must be very
rich, for he is very ugly." The public judges in
a similar manner: "The man must be very
learned, for he is very tiresome."
HEINRICH HEINE, _Thoughts and Fancies_.
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_.