A SONNET
[Sidenote: _J.K. Stephen_]
Two voices are there: one is of the deep;
It learns the storm-cloud's thunderous melody,
Now roars, now murmurs with the changing sea,
Now bird-like pipes, now closes soft in sleep:
And one is of an old half-witted sheep
Which bleats articulate monotony,
And indicates that two and one are three,
That grass is green, lakes damp, and mountains steep:
And, Wordsworth, both are thine: at certain times
Forth from the heart of thy melodious rhymes,
The form and pressure of high thoughts will burst:
At other times--good Lord! I'd rather be
Quite unacquainted with the A.B.C.
Than write such hopeless rubbish as thy worst.
EPIGRAMS
[Sidenote: _Matthew Prior_]
To John I ow'd great obligation;
But John, unhappily, thought fit
To publish it to all the nation:
Sure John and I are more than quit.
Yes, every poet is a fool:
By demonstration Ned can show it:
Happy, could Ned's inverted rule
Prove every fool to be a poet.
DR. JOHNSON AT COURT
[Sidenote: _Boswell_]
In February, 1767, there happened one of the most remarkable incidents
of Johnson's life, which gratified his monarchical enthusiasm, and which
he loved to relate with all its circumstances, when requested by his
friends. This was his being honoured by a private conversation with his
Majesty, in the library at the Queen's House. He had frequently visited
those splendid rooms, and noble collection of books, which he used to
say was more numerous and curious than he supposed any person could have
made in the time which the King had employed. Mr. Barnard, the
librarian, took care that he should have every accommodation that could
contribute to his ease and convenience, while indulging his literary
taste in that place--so that he had here a very agreeable resource at
leisure hours.
His Majesty having been informed of his occasional visits, was pleased
to signify a desire that he should be told when Dr. Johnson came next to
the library. Accordingly, the next time that Johnson did come, as soon
as he was fairly engaged with a book, on which, while he sat by the
fire, he seemed quite intent, Mr. Barnard stole round to the apartment
where the King was, and, in obedience to his Majesty's commands,
mentioned that Dr. Johnson was then in the library. His Majesty said
that he was at leisure, and would go to him: upon which Mr. Barnard
took one of the candles that stood on the King's table, and lighted his
Majesty through a suite of rooms, till they came to a private door into
the library, of which his Majesty had the key. Being entered, Mr.
Barnard stepped forward hastily to Dr. Johnson, who was still in a
profound study, and whispered him, "Sir, here is the King." Johnson
started up, and stood still. His Majesty approached him, and at once was
courteously easy.
His Majesty began by observing that he understood he came sometimes to
the library: and then mentioned his having heard that the Doctor had
been lately at Oxford, asked him if he was not fond of going thither. To
which Johnson answered, that he was indeed fond of going to Oxford
sometimes, but was likewise glad to come back again. The King then asked
him what they were doing at Oxford. Johnson answered, he could not much
commend their diligence, but that in some respects they were mended, for
they had put their press under better regulations, and were at that time
printing Polybius. He was then asked whether there were better libraries
at Oxford or Cambridge. He answered, he believed the Bodleian was larger
than any they had at Cambridge; at the same time adding, "I hope,
whether we have more books or not than they have at Cambridge, we shall
make as good use of them as they do." Being asked whether All-Souls or
Christ Church library was the largest he answered, "All-Souls library is
the largest we have, except the Bodleian." "Aye," said the King, "that
is the public library."
His Majesty inquired if he was then writing anything. He answered he was
not, for he had pretty well told the world what he knew, and must now
read to acquire more knowledge. The king, as it should seem with a view
to urge him to rely on his own stores as an original writer, and to
continue his labours, then said, "I do not think you borrow much from
anybody." Johnson said he thought he had already done his part as a
writer. "I should have thought so too," said the king, "if you had not
written so well." Johnson observed to me, upon this, that "no man could
have paid a handsomer compliment; and it was fit for a king to pay. It
was decisive." When asked by another friend, at Sir Joshua Reynolds's,
whether he made any reply to this high compliment, he answered, "No,
sir. When the King had said it, it was to be so. It was not for me to
bandy civilities with my sovereign." Perhaps no man who had spent his
whole life in courts could have shown a more nice and dignified sense of
true politeness than Johnson did in this instance....
During the whole of this interview, Johnson talked to his Majesty with
profound respect, but still in his firm, manly manner, with a sonorous
voice, and never in that subdued tone which is commonly used at the
levee and in the drawing-room. After the king withdrew, Johnson showed
himself highly pleased with his Majesty's conversation and gracious
behaviour. He said to Mr. Barnard, "Sir, they may talk of the king as
they will; but he is the finest gentleman I have ever seen." And he
afterwards observed to Mr. Langton, "Sir, his manners are those of as
fine a gentleman as we may suppose Louis the Fourteenth or Charles the
Second."
At Sir Joshua Reynolds's, where a circle of Johnson's friends was
collected round him to hear his account of this memorable conversation,
Dr. Joseph Warton, in his frank and lively manner, was very active in
pressing him to mention the particulars. "Come now, sir, this is an
interesting matter; do favour us with it." Johnson, with great good
humour, complied.
He told them, "I found his Majesty wished I should talk, and I made it
my business to talk. I find it does a man good to be talked to by his
sovereign. In the first place, a man cannot be in a passion--" Here some
question interrupted him, which is to be regretted, as he certainly
would have pointed out and illustrated many circumstances of advantage,
from being in a situation where the powers of the mind are at once
excited to vigorous exertion and tempered by reverential awe.
LANDORISMS
[Sidenote: _Landor_]
From you, Ianthe, little troubles pass
Like little ripples down a sunny river;
Your pleasures spring like daisies in the grass,
Cut down, and up again as blithe as ever.
* * * * *
Metellus is a lover: one whose ear
(I have been told) is duller than his sight.
The day of his departure had drawn near;
And (meeting her beloved over-night)
Softly and tenderly Corinna sigh'd:
"Won't you be quite as happy now without me?"
Metellus, in his innocence replied,
"Corinna! O Corinna! can you doubt me?"
* * * * *
One leg across his wide arm-chair,
Sat Singleton, and read Voltaire;
And when (as well he might) he hit
Upon a splendid piece of wit,
He cried: "I do declare now, this
Upon the whole is not amiss."
And spent a good half-hour to show
By metaphysics why 'twas so.
* * * * *
"Why do I smile?" To hear you say,
"One month, and then the shortest day!"
The shortest, whate'er month it be,
Is the bright day you pass with me.
* * * * *
Each year bears something from us as it flies,
We only blow it farther with our sighs.
WIT AND LAUGHTER
[Sidenote: _Hazlitt_]
There is nothing more ridiculous than laughter without a cause, nor
anything more troublesome than what are called laughing people. A
professed laugher is as contemptible and tiresome a character as a
professed wit: the one is always contriving something to laugh at, the
other is always laughing at nothing. An excess of levity is as
impertinent as an excess of gravity. A character of this sort is well
personified by Spenser, in the "Damsel of the Idle Lake":
Who did assay
To laugh at shaking of the leavès light.
Any one must be mainly ignorant, or thoughtless, who is surprised at
everything he sees; or wonderfully conceited, who expects everything to
conform to his standard of propriety. Clowns and idiots laugh on all
occasions; and the common failing of wishing to be thought satirical
often runs through whole families in country places, to the great
annoyance of their neighbours. To be struck with incongruity in whatever
comes before us does not argue great comprehension or refinement of
perception, but rather a looseness and flippancy of mind and temper,
which prevents the individual from connecting any two ideas steadily or
consistently together. It is owing to a natural crudity and
precipitateness of the imagination, which assimilates nothing properly
to itself. People who are always laughing, at length laugh on the wrong
side of their faces; for they cannot get others to laugh with them. In
like manner, an affectation of wit by degrees hardens the heart, and
spoils good company and good manners. A perpetual succession of good
things puts an end to common conversation. There is no answer to a jest,
but another; and even where the ball can be kept up in this way without
ceasing, it tires the patience of the bystanders, and runs the speakers
out of breath. Wit is the salt of conversation, not the food.
LOVE IN WINTER
[Sidenote: _Austin Dobson_]
Between the berried holly-bush
The blackbird whistled to the thrush:
"Which way did bright-eyed Bella go?
Look, Speckle-breast, across the snow,--
Are those her dainty tracks I see,
That wind beside the shrubbery?"
The throstle pecked the berries still.
"No need for looking, Yellowbill;
Young Frank was there an hour ago,
Half frozen, waiting in the snow;
His callow beard was white with rime,--
'Tchuck,--'tis a merry pairing-time!"
"What would you?" twittered in the wren;
"These are the reckless ways of men.
I watched them bill and coo as though
They thought the sign of spring was snow;
If men but timed their loves as we,
'Twould save this inconsistency."
"Nay, gossip," chirped the robin, "nay;
I like their unreflective way.
Besides, I heard enough to show
Their love is proof against the snow:--
'Why wait,' he said, 'why wait for May,
When love can warm a winter's day?'"
MENTAL PHOTOGRAPHS
[Sidenote: _Mark Twain_]
I have received from the publishers, New York, a neatly-printed page of
questions, with blanks for answers, and am requested to fill those
blanks. These questions are so arranged as to ferret out the most secret
points of a man's nature without his ever noticing what the idea is
until it is all done, and his "character" gone for ever. A number of
these sheets are bound together and called a Mental Photograph Album.
Nothing could induce me to fill those blanks but the asseveration of my
pastor, that it will benefit my race by enabling young people to see
what I am, and giving them an opportunity to become like somebody else.
This overcomes my scruples. I have but little character, but what I have
I am willing to part with for the public good. I do not boast of this
character, further than that I built it up by myself, at odd hours,
during the last thirty years, and without other educational aid than I
was able to pick up in the ordinary schools and colleges. I have filled
the blanks as follows:
What is your favourite...
Colour?--Anything but dun.
Tree?--Any that bears forbidden fruit.
Hour in the Day?--The leisure hour.
Perfume?--Cent, per cent.
Style of Beauty?--The Subscriber's.
Names, Male and Female?--_M'aimez_ (Maimie) for a female, and Tacus and
Marius for males.
Painters?--Sign-painters.
Poet?--Robert Browning, when he has a lucid interval.
Poetess?--Timothy Titcomb.
Prose Author?--Noah Webster, LL.D.
Characters in Romance?--The Napoleon Family.
In History?--King Herod.
Book to take up for an hour?--Rothschild's pocket-book.
If not yourself, who would you rather be?--The Wandering Jew, with a
nice annuity.
What is your idea of happiness?--Finding the buttons all on.
Your idea of Misery?--Breaking an egg in your pocket.