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."
He blew at his "Cottage," and blew with a will,
For a year, seven months, and a fortnight, until
(You'll hardly believe it) M'Clan, I declare,
Elicited something resembling an air.
It was wild--it was fitful--as wild as the breeze--
It wandered about into several keys;
It was jerky, spasmodic, and harsh, I'm aware;
But still it distinctly suggested an air.
W. S. GILBERT, _Bab Ballads_.
All men are brothers--Cains and Abels.
ANON.
The blameless king
Rising again (to Lancelot's discontent,
Who held all speeches a tremendous bore),
Said, "If one duty to be done remains,
And 'tis neglected, all the rest is nought
But Dead Sea apples and the acts of Apes."
Smiled Guinevere, and begged him not to preach;
She knew that duty, and it should be done;
So what of pudding on that festal night
Was not consumed by Arthur and his guests,
The queen upon the following morning fried.
SHIRLEY BROOKS, _Wit and Humour_.
One way of getting an idea of our fellow-countrymen's
miseries is to go and look at their
pleasures.
GEORGE ELIOT, _Felix Holt_.
_TO A RICH LADY._
I will not ask if thou canst touch
The tuneful ivory key,--
Those silent notes of thine are such
As quite suffice for me.
I'll make no question if thy skill
The pencil comprehends;--
Enough for me, love, if thou still
Canst draw--thy dividends.
_Punch._
At the Duke of Wellington's funeral, the little child
of a friend of mine was standing with her mother
at Lord Ashburton's window to see the mournful
pageant. During the passage of the procession, she
made no remark until the duke's horse was led by, its
saddle empty, and his boots reversed in the stirrups,
when she looked up in her mother's face and said,
"Mamma, when we die, will there be nothing left of us
but boots?"
J. C. YOUNG, _Diary_.
Such power hath Beer. The heart which Grief hath canker'd
Hath one unfailing remedy--the tankard.
C. S. CALVERLEY, _Verses and Translations_.
Dined with Mr. (Sydney) Smith. He told me of
the motto he had proposed for Bishop Burgess's
arms, in allusion to his brother, the well-known
fish-sauce projector:
"_Gravi_ jamdudum _saucia_ curâ."
R. H. BARHAM, _Life_.
One's self-satisfaction is an untaxed kind of
property which it is very unpleasant to find
depreciated.
GEORGE ELIOT, _Middlemarch_.
"My lord cannot stand Treeby more than two days,
and Treeby cannot stand my lord for a longer
period, and that is why they are such friends."
"A sound basis of agreement," said Lord Roehampton.
"I believe absence is a great element of charm."
LORD BEACONSFIELD, _Endymion_.
_SALAD._
O cool in the summer is salad,
And warm in the winter is love;
And a poet shall sing you a ballad
Delicious thereon and thereof.
A singer I am, if no sinner,
My muse has a marvellous wing,
And I willingly worship at dinner
The Sirens of Spring.
Take Endive--like love it is bitter,
Take beet--for like love it is red,
Crisp leaf of the lettuce shall glitter,
And cress from the rivulet's bed:
Anchovies, foam-born, like the lady
Whose beauty has maddened this bard;
And olives, from groves that are shady;
And eggs--boil 'em hard.
MORTIMER COLLINS, _The British Birds_.
Query, whether churches are not dormitories of
the living as well as of the dead?
SWIFT, _Thoughts_.
The Mock Turtle said, "No wise fish would go
anywhere without a porpoise."
"Wouldn't it, really?" said Alice, in a tone of
great surprise.
"Of course not," said the Mock Turtle; "why, if a
fish came to _me_, and told me he was going a journey, I
should say, 'With what porpoise?'"
"Don't you mean 'purpose?'" said Alice.
"I mean what I say," the Mock Turtle replied, in an
offended tone.
LEWIS CARROLL, _Alice in Wonderland_.
Vill'st dou learn de Deutsche Sprache?
If a shendleman dou art,
Denn strike right indo Deutschland,
Und get a schveetes-heart.
From Schwabenland or Sachsen,
Vhere now dis writer pees;
Und de bretty girls all wachsen
Shoost like aepples on de drees.
Boot if dou bee'st a laty,
Denn, on de oder hand,
Take a blonde moustachioed lofer
In de vine green Sherman land.
Und if you shoost kit married
(Vood mit vood soon makes a vire),
You'll learn to sprechen Deutsch, mein kind,
Ash fast ash you tesire.
C. G. LELAND, _Breitmann Ballads_.
The Bishop of St. David's has been studying Welsh
all the summer; it is a difficult language, and I
hope he will be careful,--it is so easy for him to
take up the Funeral Service and read it over the next
wedding-party, or to make a mistake in a tense in a
Confirmation, and the children will have renounced their
godfathers and godmothers and got nothing in their
place.
SYDNEY SMITH, _apud_ LORD HOUGHTON.
Beautiful soup, so rich and green,
Waiting in a hot tureen!
Who for such dainties would not stoop?
Soup of the evening, beautiful soup!
Soup of the evening, beautiful soup!
Beautiful soup! Who cares for fish,
Game, or any other dish?
Who would not give all else for two p
Ennyworth only of beautiful soup?
Pennyworth only of beautiful soup?
LEWIS CARROLL, _Alice in Wonderland_.
Writing to Manning, Charles Lamb says: "----
says he could write like Shakespeare if he had a
_mind_--so you see nothing is wanting but the
_mind_."
CRABB ROBINSON, _Diary_.
_ON BALLS AND OPERAS._
If by their names we things should call,
It surely would be properer
To term a singing-piece a _bawl_,
A dancing-piece a _hopperer_!
ANON.
Among all forms of mistake, prophecy is the most
gratuitous.
GEORGE ELIOT, _Middlemarch_.
_ON LOVE._
Love levels all--it elevates the clown,
And often brings the fattest people down.
H. J. BYRON, in _English Epigrams_.
The Hanoverian squires are asses who can talk of
nothing but horses.
HEINRICH HEINE, _Thoughts and Fancies_.
Sir George Warrender was once obliged to put off
a dinner-party in consequence of the death of
a relative, and sat down to a haunch of venison
by himself. While eating, he said to his butler, "John,
this will make a capital hash to-morrow." "Yes, Sir
George, if you leave off _now_!"
R. H. BARHAM, _Life_.
_TO CHLORIS._
Chloris, I swear, by all I ever swore,
That from this hour I shall not love thee more.
"What! love no more? oh, why this altered vow?"
Because I _cannot_ love thee _more_--than _now_.
THOMAS MOORE.
You close your petition with the words: "And we
will ever pray." I think you had better--you
need to do it.
MARK TWAIN, _Choice Works_.
Husbands, more covetous than sage,
Condemn this china-buying rage;
They count that woman's prudence little
Who sets her heart on things so brittle.
JOHN GAY, _Poems_.
Umbrella--an article which, by the morality of
society, you may steal from friend or foe, and
which, for the same reason, you should not lend
to either.
HORACE SMITH, _The Tin Trumpet_.
La curiosité n'est que la vanité. Le plus souvent
on ne veut savoir que pour en parler.
PASCAL, _Pensées_.
O how unlike our shores,
Where with ten thousand tongues each city roars!
There to all men, whate'er their age or walk,
Life's one great solemn business is to talk.
There what the penny press by morning write
Is echoed for a halfpenny at night:
There stump young Ministers; old Maids debate;
There loud Professors scold like Billingsgate:
There, as the World into the Church expands,
A moral Atheist spouts in parson's bands;
And poets, doubtful of the parts of speech,
Desperate of rhyme, acquire the art to preach.
_Windbag_, in COURTHOPE's _Paradise of Birds_.
Prince Metternich said to Lord Dudley,
"You are the only Englishman I know who
speaks good French. It is remarked, the
common people in Vienna speak better than the educated
men in London." "That may well be," replied
Lord Dudley. "Your Highness should recollect that
Buonaparte has not been twice in London to teach
them."
CRABB ROBINSON, _Diary_.
When a felon's not engaged in his employment,
Or maturing his felonious little plans,
His capacity for innocent enjoyment
Is just as great as any honest man's.
W. S. GILBERT, _Pirates of Penzance_.
She's an angel in a frock
With a fascinating cock
To her nose.
FREDERICK LOCKER, _London Lyrics_.
To speak highly of one with whom we are intimate
is a species of egotism.
W. HAZLITT, _Characteristics_.
The annals of our native land were lapsed in doubt and mystery,
Till Mr. Freeman t'other day discovered English History,
And now admonishes the world it is his fixed intention
To make it a monopoly and patent the invention.
F. D., in _Pall Mall Gazette_.
"It is rather sad," sighed Virginia, as she dived
into a box of French chocolate-creams, "to
think that all the poor people are drowned
that these things belonged to."
"They are not dead," said the Professor: "they still
live on this holy and stupendous earth. They live in
the use we are making of all they had got together. The
owner of those chocolate-creams is immortal because you
are eating them."
Virginia licked her lips, and said, "Nonsense!"
"It is not nonsense," said the Professor. "It is the
religion of Humanity."
W. H. MALLOCK, _The New Paul and Virginia_.
The sort of fun
I witnessed there _was_ "awful;"
Buffoonery devoid of all
That makes an art of folly,
Music that was "most music-hall,"
To hear "most melancholy."
J. R. PLANCHÉ, _Songs and Poems_.
You are a woman; you must never speak what
you think: your words must contradict your
thoughts: but your actions may contradict your
words. So, when I ask you if you can love me, you
must say no; but you must love me too. If I tell you
you are handsome, you must deny it, and say I flatter
you; and you must think yourself more charming than
I speak you, and like me for the beauty I say you have,
as much as if I had it myself.
_Tattle_, in CONGREVE's _Love for Love_.
Dear Poet, do not rhyme at all!
But if you must, don't tell your neighbour,
Or five in six, who cannot scrawl,
Will dub you donkey for your labour.
Be patient, but be sure you won't
Win vogue without extreme vexation;
Yet hope for sympathy,--but don't
Expect it from a near relation.
FREDERICK LOCKER, _London Lyrics_.
Nous pardonnons souvent à ceux qui nous ennuient;
mais nous ne pouvons pardonner à ceux qui
nous ennuyons.
LA ROCHEFOUCAULD, _Réflexions_.
There is a phrase we oft have seen
On bottle-labels writ,
And those who invalids have been
Best know the drift of it;
It may embody in a line
A world of chemic lore,
And skill to portion and combine--
_The mixture as before_.
This will apply to many things,
To oratory most,
Addresses made to kings and queens,
And wedding speech and toast;
For commonplace and compliment
Are mingled o'er and o'er;
_This_ saves the trouble to invent--
_The mixture as before_.
_Songs of Singularity._
I had forgotten to mention that essay, Miss
Daylmer; that is our essay on cookery,--the
one we always begin with in reading to ladies;
as Milverton said, "entirely within their province." I
wish they paid more attention to it; but people seldom
do attend to things within their province.
_Ellesmere_, in HELPS's _Friends in Council_.
There was an old waiter at Wapping
Drew corks for a week without stopping;
Cried he, "It's too bad!
The practice I've had!
Yet cannot prevent them from popping!"
There was an old priest of Peru,
Who dreamt he converted a Jew;
He woke in the night
In a deuce of a fright,
And found it was perfectly true.
There was an old witch of Malacca,
Who smoked such atrocious tob_acca_,
When tigers came near,
They trembled with fear,
And didn't attempt to att_acca_.
_Songs of Singularity._
A woman dictates before marriage in order that
she may have an appetite for submission afterwards.
GEORGE ELIOT, _Middlemarch_.
Sydney Smith, speaking of his being shampooed
at Mahomet's Baths at Brighton in 1840,
said they "squeezed enough out of him to make
a lean curate."
R. H. BARHAM, _Life_.
Now brim your glass, and plant it well
Beneath your nose on the table,
And you will find what philosophers tell
Of I and non-I is no fable.
Now listen to wisdom, my son!
Myself am the subject,
This wine is the object:
These things are two,
But I'll prove to you
That subject and object are one.
I take this glass in my hand, and stand
Upon my legs, if I can,
And look and smile benign and bland,
And feel that I am a man.
Now stretch all the strength of your brains!
I drink--and the object
Is lost in the subject,
Making one entity
In the identity
Of me, and the wine in my veins!
J. S. BLACKIE, _Musa Burschicosa_.
Punsters being abused, and the old joke
repeated that "He who puns will pick a pocket,"
some one said, "Punsters themselves have no
pockets." "No," said Lamb, "they carry only a
_ridicule_."
CRABB ROBINSON, _Diary_.
It is always a pleasure to me when two of my
friends like each other, just as I am always glad
when two of my enemies take to fighting with each
other.
HEINRICH HEINE, _Preface to Don Quixote_.
He stood on his head on the wild sea-shore,
And joy was the cause of the act,
For he felt as he never had felt before,
Insanely glad, in fact.
And why? In that vessel that left the bay
His mother-in-law had sail'd
To a tropical country far away,
Where tigers and snakes prevail'd.
_Songs of Singularity._
[Berkeley] had no ear for music himself, but
music was an enthusiasm in the family, and he
retained the well-known Signor Pasquilino for
years to teach his children. It was then that the Signor,
who had been learning English from a dictionary, exclaimed
in an outbreak of gratitude, "May God _pickle_
your lordship!"
A. C. FRASER, _Berkeley_.
Women always did, from the first, make a muss in
a garden.
C. D. WARNER, _My Summer in a Garden_.
_GOOD ADVICE._
This gardener's rule applies to youth and age:
When young "sow wild oats," but when old "grow sage."
H. J. BYRON, in _English Epigrams_.
The sacred slow harmonium bring,
The gentler pianette,
The cymbals, with sonorous ring,
The dulcet flageolet.
Nor be the voice of glory dumb,
Of conquest and of strife,
Bring forth the stirring trump and drum,
The shrill and piercing fife.
Ay, bring them all, my soul with glee
To music I'll devote;
Bring all--for all are one to me,--
I cannot play a note!
_Songs of Singularity._
We sometimes hate those who differ from us in
opinion worse than we should for an attempt to
injure us in the most serious point. A favourite
theory is a possession for life; and we resent any attack
upon it proportionably.
W. HAZLITT, _Characteristics_.
When Mrs. M'Gibbon was preparing to act Jane
Shore, at Liverpool, her dresser, an ignorant
country girl, informed her that a woman had
called to request two box orders, because she and her
daughter had walked four miles on purpose to see the
play. "Does she know me?" inquired the mistress.
"Not at all," was the reply. "What a very odd request!"
exclaimed Mrs. M'G. "Has the good woman got her
faculties about her?" "I think she have, ma'am, for I
see she ha' got summut tied up in a red silk handkercher."
HORACE SMITH, _The Tin Trumpet_.
A clerke ther was, a puissant wight was hee,
Who of ye Wethere hadde ye maisterie;
Alway it was his mirthe and his solace
To put eche seson's wethere out of place.
Whaune that Aprille shoures wer our desyre,
He gaf us Julye sonnes as hotte as fyre;
But sith ye summere togges we donned agayne,
Eftsoons ye wethere chaunged to colde and rayne.
_Songs of Singularity._
I shouldn't like to be a man--to cough so
loud, and stand straddling about on a wet day,
and be so wasteful with meat and drink. They're
a coarse lot, I think.
_Denner_, in GEORGE ELIOT's _Felix Holt_.
Once the mastodon was: pterodactyls were common as cocks:
Then the Mammoth was God: now is He a prize ox.
Parallels all things are: yet many of these are askew:
You are certainly I: but certainly I am not you.
Springs the rock from the plain, shoots the stream from the rock:
Cocks exist for the hen: but hens exist for the cock.