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

I've read the poets of our land,
Who sing of beauty and of love,
Who rave about a dimpled hand,
And write sweet sonnets on a glove.
But sweeter far than maiden's kiss,
And fairer far than Jouvin's best,
Is one red-labelled quart, I wis,
With Bass's well-known mark imprest.

And years may come, and years may go,
And fortune change as fortune will,
But may my Burton fountain flow,
In shade and sunshine clearly still,
And till life's night is closing grey,
My heart shall ever hold most dear
The liquor that I sing to-day--
My childhood's friend! my Bass's beer!

H. SAVILE CLARKE.

Women are much more like each other than men;
they have, in truth, but two passions: vanity and
love: these are their universal characteristics.

LORD CHESTERFIELD, _Letters to his Son_.

"After all, are not women necessary to your
happiness?"

"Alas!" sighed Maximilian, "it is but too
true. But women have unfortunately only one way of
making us happy, whilst they have thirty thousand
different modes of rendering us miserable."

HEINRICH HEINE, _The Florentine Nights_.

I love you! ay! it seems absurd,
Altho' to prove it I was sedulous;
The _ink_ is _black_ that writes the word,
Yet you will read it all _inc-red_-ulous.
Where was my sense, once so acute,
To dream myself a hopeful suitor?
I should have been much more _astute_;
I came to you, you know, _as tutor_!
My passion on an instant grew--
(Spontaneous love is scarce a crime!).
How swift those early minutes flew!
And, _odd_ to say, 'twas _even_-time!
Maddened with love, I penned a note,
And placed it where 'twould catch your sight;
Alas for me! but when I _wrote_,
Of course I thought that I _did right_!

ROBERT REECE, in _Comic Poets_.

The most dreadful thing against women is the
character of the men that praise them.

LADY ASHBURTON, _apud_ LORD HOUGHTON.

There's one Thomas Buckle, a London youth,
Who taught that the world was blind
Till he was born to proclaim the truth,
That matter is moulder of mind;
But I really can't fancy at all
How wheat, rice, and barley,
Made Dick, Tom, and Charlie
So tidy and trim,
Without help from Him
Who was preached both by Plato and Paul.

J. S. BLACKIE, _Musa Burschicosa_.

Sheridan's answer to Lord Lauderdale was excellent,
on the latter saying he would repeat
some good thing I had mentioned to him:
"Pray don't, my dear Lauderdale; a joke in your mouth
is no laughing matter."

THOMAS MOORE, _Diary_.

Do you know why the rabbits are caught in the snare,
Or the tabby cat's shot on the tiles?
Why the tigers and lions creep out of their lair?
Why an ostrich will travel for miles?
Do you know why a sane man will whimper and cry,
And weep o'er a ribbon or glove?
Why a cook will put sugar for salt in a pie?
Do you know? Well, I'll tell you--it's Love.

_Flapper_, in H. P. STEPHENS's _Billee Taylor_.

I remember Curran once--in an action for
breach of promise of marriage, in which he was
counsel for the defendant, a young clergyman--thus
appealing to the jury: "Gentlemen, I entreat of
you not to ruin this young man by a vindictive verdict,
for though he has talents, and is in the Church, he may
rise!"

PHILLIPS, _Life of Curran_.

There are female women, and there are male
women.

CHARLES BUXTON, _Notes of Thought_.

I own fair faces not more fair
In Ettrick than in Portman Square,
And silly danglers just as silly
In Sherwood, as in Piccadilly.

W. M. PRAED.

I heard an anecdote at Oxford, of a porter encountering
on his rounds two undergraduates,
who were without their gowns, or out of bounds,
or out of hours. He challenged one: "Your name and
college?" They were given. Turning to the other: "And
pray, sir, what might your name be?" "Julius Cæsar,"
was the reply. "What, sir, do you mean to say your
name is Julius Cæsar?" "Sir, you did not ask me what
it is, but what it _might_ be."

W. H. HARRISON, _Reminiscences_.

I always can tell a
Preoccupied man by his tumbled umbrella.

_Lady Matilda_, in G. O. TREVELYAN's _Ladies in Parliament_.

Talking of Doctor [Parr's] illegible manuscript,
"Ay," said [Basil Montagu], "his letters are
illegible, except they contain a commission or an
announcement that he is coming to see you, and then no
man can write plainer."

MISS MITFORD, _Life and Letters_.

I never nursed a dear gazelle;
But I was given a parroquet--
(How I did nurse him if unwell!)
He's imbecile, but lingers yet.
He's green, with an enchanting tuft;
He melts me with his small black eye;
He'd look inimitable stuff'd,
And knows it--but he will not die!