"Now allow _me_ to read you a scene, and then the present company can
judge between your favourite, Mr. Boz, and Dr. Johnson."
She read one of the conversations between Rasselas and Imlac, in a
high-pitched, majestic voice; and when she had ended, she said, "I
imagine I am now justified in my preference of Dr. Johnson as a writer
of fiction." The captain screwed his lips out, and drummed on the table,
but he did not speak. She thought she would give a finishing blow or
two.
"I consider it vulgar, and below the dignity of literature, to publish
in numbers."
"How was the _Rambler_ published, ma'am?" asked Captain Brown, in a low
voice, which I think Miss Jenkyns could not have heard.
"Dr. Johnson's style is a model for young beginners. My father
recommended it to me when I began to write letters--I have formed my own
style upon it; I recommend it to your favourite."
"I should be very sorry for him to exchange his style for any such
pompous writing," said Captain Brown.
Miss Jenkyns felt this as a personal affront, in a way of which the
Captain had not dreamed. Epistolary writing she and her friends
considered as her _forte_. Many a copy of many a letter have I seen
written and corrected on the slate, before she "seized the half-hour
just previous to post-time to assure" her friends of this or of that;
and Dr. Johnson was, as she said, her model in these compositions. She
drew herself up with dignity, and only replied to Captain Brown's last
remark by saying, with marked emphasis on every syllable, "I prefer Dr.
Johnson to Mr. Boz."
It is said--I won't vouch for the fact--that Captain Brown was heard to
say, _sotto voce,_ "D----n Dr. Johnson!" If he did, he was penitent
afterwards, as he showed by going to stand near Miss Jenkyns's
arm-chair, and endeavouring to beguile her into conversation on some
more pleasing subject. But she was inexorable. The next day she made the
remark I have mentioned about Miss Jessie's dimples.
SALLY SIMPKIN'S LAMENT; OR JOHN JONES'S KIT-CAT-ASTROPHE
[Sidenote: _Hood_]
"Oh! what is that comes gliding in,
And quite in middling haste?
It is the picture of my Jones,
And painted to the waist.
"It is not painted to the life,
For where's the trousers blue?
Oh, Jones, my dear!--Oh dear! my Jones,
What is become of you?"
"Oh! Sally dear, it is too true,--
The half that you remark
Is come to say my other half
Is bit off by a shark!
"Oh! Sally, sharks do things by halves,
Yet most completely do!
A bite in one place seems enough,
But I've been bit in two.
"You know I once was all your own,
But now a shark must share!
But let that pass--for now to you
I'm neither here nor there.
"Alas! death has a strange divorce
Effected in the sea,
It has divided me from you,
And even me from me.
"Don't fear my ghost will walk o' nights,
To haunt, as people say;
My ghost _can't_ walk, for oh! my legs
Are many leagues away!
"Lord! think, when I am swimming round,
And looking where the boat is,
A shark just snaps away a half
Without a quarter's notice.
"One half is here, the other half
Is near Columbia placed:
Oh! Sally, I have got the whole
Atlantic for my waist.
"But now adieu--a long adieu!
I've solved death's awful riddle,
And would say more, but I am doomed
To break off in the middle."
TABLE-TALK OF JOHN SELDEN
[Sidenote: _John Selden_]
Old friends are best. King James used to call for his old shoes; they
were easiest for his feet.
* * * * *
'Tis sometimes unreasonable to look after respect and reverence, either
from a man's own servant, or other inferiors. A great lord and a
gentleman talking together, there came a boy by, leading a calf with
both his hands: says the lord to the gentleman, "You shall see me make
the boy let go his calf"; with that he came towards him, thinking the
boy would have put off his hat, but the boy took no notice of him. The
lord seeing that, "Sirrah," says he, "do you not know me, that you use
no reverence?" "Yes," says the boy, "if your Lordship will hold my calf,
I will put off my hat."
* * * * *
King James said to the fly, "Have I three kingdoms, and thou must needs
fly into my eye?"
HOW MARK WAS SOLD
[Sidenote: _Mark Twain_]
It is seldom pleasant to tell on one's self, but sometimes it is a sort
of relief to a man to make a sad confession. I wish to unburden my mind
now, and yet I almost believe that I am moved to do it more because I
long to bring censure upon another man than because I desire to pour
balm upon my wounded heart. (I don't know what balm is, but I believe it
is the correct expression to use in this connection--never having seen
any balm.) You may remember that I lectured in Newark lately for the
young gentlemen of the Clayonian Society? I did, at any rate. During the
afternoon of that day I was talking with one of the young gentlemen just
referred to, and he said he had an uncle who, from some cause or other,
seemed to have grown permanently bereft of all emotion. And, with tears
in his eyes, this young man said, "Oh, if I could only see him laugh
once more! Oh, if I could only see him weep!" I was touched. I could
never withstand distress.