Chapter C: F. BROWNE, Artemus Ward's Lecture

_NURSERY RHYME._

What is an Englishman made of?
Roast beef and jam tart,
And a pint of good Clar't,
And that's what an Englishman's made of.

What is a Frenchman, pray, made of?
Horse steak, and frog fritter,
And absinthe so bitter,
And that's what a Frenchman is made of.

SHIRLEY BROOKS, _Wit and Humour_.

Marriage is a desperate thing. The frogs in
Æsop were extreme wise; they had a great mind
to some water, but they would not leap into the
well, because they could not get out again.

SELDEN, _Table Talk_.

("Don't speak so hard of ----; he lives on your
good graces.") That accounts for his being
so thin.

LADY ASHBURTON, _apud_ LORD HOUGHTON.

We are wise--and we make ourselves hazy;
We are foolish--and so, go to church;
While Sambo but laughs, and is lazy
(Vile discipline! lend me thy birch);
He dreams of no life save the present,
His virtue is but when it suits;
Sometimes, which is not quite so pleasant,
I miss coat or boots.

_Once a Week._

You remember Thurlow's answer to some one complaining
of the injustice of a company, "Why,
you never expected justice from a company, did
you? They have neither a soul to save, nor a body to
kick."

SYDNEY SMITH, _Life and Letters_.

Elliston, the actor, a self-educated man, was
playing cribbage one evening, with Lamb, and
on drawing out his first card, exclaimed, "When
Greek meets Greek, then comes the tug of war." "Yes,"
replied Lamb, "and when _you_ meet Greek, you don't
understand it."

_Life of Rev. W Harness._

To Justice Park's brother, who was a great church-goer,
some one applied the words, "_Parcus_
deorum cultor."

THOMAS MOORE, _Diary_.

"You'll soon get used to her looks," said he,
"And a very nice girl you'll find her;
She may very well pass for forty-three,
In the dusk, with a light behind her!"

_Judge_, in W. S. GILBERT's _Trial by Jury_.

"My brethren," said Swift in a sermon, "there are
three sorts of pride--of birth, of riches, and of
talents. I shall not now speak of the latter,
none of you being liable to that abominable vice."

HORACE SMITH, _The Tin Trumpet_.

No doubt this patience, when the world is damning us,
Is philosophic in our former friends;
It is also pleasant to be deem'd magnanimous,
The more so in obtaining our own ends.
Revenge in person's certainly no virtue,
But then 'tis not _my_ fault if _others_ hurt you.

LORD BYRON, _Don Juan_.

He was not an intellectual Croesus, but his pockets
were full of sixpences.

LORD BEACONSFIELD, _Lothair_.

It's after a dinner at Freemason's Hall
That the orator's talent shines brightest of all;
When his eye becomes glazed, and his voice becomes thick,
And he's had so much hock he can only say _hic_.
So the company leave him to slumber and snore
Till he's put in a hat and conveyed to the door;
And he finds, upon reaching his home in a cab,
That his wife rather shines in the gift of the gab.

H. S. LEIGH, _Carols of Cockayne_.

One of our countrymen having been introduced by
M. de la Rochefoucauld to Mademoiselle Bigottini,
the beautiful and graceful dancer, in the
course of conversation with this gentleman, asked him in
what part of the theatre he was placed; upon which he
replied, "Mademoiselle, _dans un loge róti_," instead of
"_grillé_." The lady could not understand what he meant,
until his introducer explained the mistake, observing,
"_Ces diables d'Anglais pensent toujours à leur Rosbif_."

GRONOW, _Recollections_.

The sea was wet as wet could be,
The sands were dry as dry,
You could not see a cloud, because
No cloud was in the sky:
No birds were flying overhead--
There were no birds to fly.

LEWIS CARROLL, _Through the Looking-Glass_.

A man of business should always have his eyes
open, but must often seem to have them shut.

LORD CHESTERFIELD, _Maxims_.

Next morning twelve citizens came
('Twas the coroner bade them attend)
To the end that it might be determined
How the man had determined his end!

JOHN GODFREY SAXE, _Poems_.

I remember on one occasion acting in "Venice
Preserved." A long and rather drowsy dying
speech of my poor friend Jaffier was "dragging
its slow length along," when one of the gallery, in a tone
of great impatience, called out very loudly, "Ah now, die
at once;" to which another from the other side immediately
replied, "Be quiet, you blackguard," then, turning
with a patronizing tone to the lingering Jaffier, "Take
your time!"

W. C. MACREADY, _Diary_.

The days they grow shorter and shorter,
The town's worse than ever for smoke,
Invention, Necessity's daughter!
How long must we blacken and choke?
Much longer we ne'er can endure it,
The smother each resident damns;
Unless something's done to cure it,
'Twill cure _us_ like so many hams.

J. R. PLANCHÉ, _Songs and Poems_.

A kind Providence furnishes the limpest personality
with a little gum or starch in the form of
tradition.

GEORGE ELIOT, _Middlemarch_.

Oil and water--woman and a secret--
Are hostile properties.

_Baradas_, in LORD LYTTON's _Richelieu_.

At a musical _soirée_ in Paris, a lady, possessing a
magnificent soprano voice and remarkable facility
of execution, sang the great Maestro's well-known
aria, "Una Voce," with great effect, but overladen
with fiorituri of the most elaborate description. Rossini,
at its conclusion, advanced to the piano and complimented
the lady most highly upon her vocal powers, terminating
his encomiums with the cruel inquiry: "Mais
de qui est la musique?"

J. R. PLANCHÉ, _Recollections_.

_ON A BAD SINGER._

Swans sing before they die; 'twere no bad thing
Did certain persons die before they sing.

S. T. COLERIDGE.

"Is life worth living?" That depends upon the
liver.

_The World._

_OLD LOVES._

"Then, you liked little Bowes."--
"And you liked Jane Raby!"
"But you like _me_ now, Rose?"--
"As I liked 'little Bowes'!"
"Am I then to suppose----"
"_Hush!--you mustn't wake baby!_"
"_Did_ you like little Bowes?"--
"If you liked Jane Raby!"

AUSTIN DOBSON, _Proverbs in Porcelain_.

Women, when left to themselves, talk chiefly about
their dress; they think more about their lovers
than they talk about them.

W. HAZLITT, _Characteristics_.

O if billows and pillows, and bowers and flowers,
And all the brave rhymes of an elder day,
Could be furled together, this genial weather,
And carted, or carried on "wafts" away,
Nor ever again trotted out--ah me!
How much fewer volumes of verse there'd be!