Chapter C: S. CALVERLEY, Fly Leaves

Walking down St. James's Street, Lord Chelmsford
was accosted by a stranger, who exclaimed,
"Mr. Birch, I believe?" "If you believe that,
sir, you'll believe anything," replied the ex-chancellor, as
he passed on.

BERKELEY, _Life and Recollections_.

You snared me, Rose, with ribbons,
Your rose-mouth made me thrall.
Brief--briefer far than Gibbon's,
Was my "Decline and Fall."

AUSTIN DOBSON, _Vignettes in Rhyme_.

The reason we dislike vanity in others is because
it is perpetually hurting our own.

LORD LYTTON's _Pelham_.

Then nymphs had bluer eyes than hose,
England then measured men by blows,
And measured time by candles.

FREDERICK LOCKER, _London Lyrics_.

A woman's choice usually means taking the only
man she can get.

_Mrs. Cadwallader_, in GEORGE ELIOT's _Middlemarch_.

To charm the girls he never spoke--
Although his voice was fine;
He found the most convenient way
Was just to drop a line.

And many a gudgeon of the pond,
If they could speak to-day,
Would own, with grief, this angler had
A mighty "taking" way.

JOHN GODFREY SAXE, _Poems_.

I am always afraid of a fool: one cannot be sure
that he is not a knave as well.

W. HAZLITT, _Characteristics_.

The people is much given to stoning its prophets
that it may worship their reliques with the greater
fervency: dogs that bark at us to-day lick our
bones to-morrow with true canine fidelity.

HEINRICH HEINE, _Ludwig Beorne_.

Money makes a man laugh. A blind fiddler
playing to a company, and playing but scurvily,
the company laughed at him. His boy that led
him, perceiving it, cried, "Father, let us begone; they
do nothing but laugh at you." "Hold peace, boy," said
the fiddler; "we shall have their money presently, and
then we will laugh at them."

SELDEN, _Table Talk_.

In candent ire the solar splendour flames;
The foles, languescent, pend from arid rames;
His humid front the cive, anheling, wipes,
And dreams of erring on ventiferous ripes.

How dulce to vive occult from mortal eyes,
Dorm on the herb with none to supervise,
Carp the suave berries from the crescent vine,
And bibe the flow from longicaudate kine!

Me wretched! Let me curr to quercine shades!
Effund your albid hausts, lactiferous maids!
Oh, might I vole to some umbrageous clump,--
Depart--be off--exude--evade--erump!

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

He slaps me gently on the back. He's stopped too
long in the wine-cellar. A little tasting is a
dangerous thing.

F. C. BURNAND, _Happy Thoughts_.

_THE MAIDENS._

Lovers, we pray you, gaining our consents,
Let us, too, have _our_ mediæval bents;
Give us, for cricket matches, tournaments.

_THE WIDOWERS._

We are stout, nor will uncomfortably truss
Our arms and legs, like fowls; no jousts for us;
In armour we should look ridiculous.

_THE FATHERS._

Of money, tournaments would cost a heap;
Humour your sweethearts, sons, with something cheap;
But look to settlements before you leap.

_Once a Week._

He [Samuel Beazley] suffered considerably a short
time before his decease, and, his usual spirits
occasionally forsaking him, he one day wrote
so melancholy a letter that the friend to whom it was
addressed, observed, in his reply, that it was "like the
first chapter of Jeremiah." "You are mistaken, my
dear fellow," retorted the wit; "it is the last chapter of
Samuel."

J. R. PLANCHÉ, _Recollections_.

No one can perceive, as I'm a sinner,
A very marked improvement in the dinner.
We still consume, with mingled shame and grief,
Veal that is tottering on the verge of beef,
Veal void of stuffing, widowed of its ham,
Or the roast shoulder of an ancient ram.

_Decius Mus_, in G. O. TREVELYAN's _Horace at Athens_.

"As for that," said Waldershare, "sensible men are
all of the same religion."
"And pray what is that?" inquired the
prince.
"Sensible men never tell."

LORD BEACONSFIELD, _Endymion_.

_ON AN OLD LOVE._

Upon the cabin stairs we met, the voyage nearly over;
You leant upon his arm, my pet, from Calais unto Dover!
And _he_ is looking very glad, tho' I am feeling sadder,
That _I'm_ not your companion-lad on that companion-ladder!

J. ASHBY STERRY, in _English Epigrams_.

It strikes me that one mother-in-law is about
enough to have in a family--unless you're very
fond of excitement.