Chapter C: D. WARNER, My Summer in a Garden

_ON DR. TRAPP'S TRANSLATION OF VIRGIL._

Mind but thy preaching, Trapp; translate no further:
Is it not written, "Thou shall do no murder"?

_The Poetical Farrago_ (1794).

Shortly before his death, being visited by a
clergyman whose features as well as language
were more lugubrious than consoling, Hood
looked up at him compassionately, and said, "My dear
sir! I'm afraid your religion doesn't agree with you."

J. R. PLANCHÉ, _Recollections_.

_ON GRAPES AND GRIPES._

In Spain, that land of monks and apes,
The thing called wine doth come from grapes;
But, on the noble river Rhine,
The thing called gripes doth come from wine.

S. T. COLERIDGE, _apud_ J. C. YOUNG.

Of Diggle, Barham used to tell many absurd stories.
The most amusing of his practical jokes was one
in which Barham had a share. The two boys
having, in the course of one of their walks, discovered a
Quakers' meeting-house, forthwith procured a penny tart
of a neighbouring pastry-cook; furnished with this,
Diggle marched boldly into the building, and, holding up
the delicacy in the midst of the grave assembly, said with
perfect solemnity, "Whoever speaks first shall have this
pie." "Friend, go thy way," commenced a drab-coloured
gentleman, rising, "go thy way, and----" "The pie's
yours, sir!" exclaimed Master Diggle, politely, and
placing it before the astounded speaker, hastily effected
his escape.

R. H. D. BARHAM, _Life of Barham_.

Talking of some poor relations who had been
recipients of his bounty for years, Compton
said, "Yes, sir, the whole tribe of them leaned
on me for years;" and then added, in his own peculiar
manner, "Forty years long was I grieved with this generation."

_Memoir of Henry Compton._

_THE ORANGE._

It ripen'd by the river banks,
Where, mask and moonlight aiding,
Dons Blas and Juan play their pranks,
Dark Donnas serenading.

By Moorish damsel it was pluck'd,
Beneath the golden day there;
By swain 'twas then in London suck'd--
Who flung the peel away there.

He could not know in Pimlico,
As little she in Seville,
That _I_ should reel upon that peel,
And--wish them at the devil.

FREDERICK LOCKER, _London Lyrics_.

Kenny said that Anthony Pasquin (who was a
very dirty fellow) "died of a cold caught by
washing his face."

THOMAS MOORE, _Diary_.

_ON THE PRINCE REGENT'S ILLNESS._

The Regent, sir, is taken ill;
And all depends on Halford's skill;
"Pray what," inquired the sage physician,
"Has brought him to this sad condition?"
When Bloomfield ventured to pronounce,
"A little too much Cherry Bounce,"
The Regent, hearing what was said,
Raised from his couch his aching head,
And cried, "No, Halford, 'tis not so!
_Cure us, O_ doctor,--_Curaçoa!_"

H. LUTTRELL, _apud_ BARHAM.

Brigham Young has two hundred wives. He
loves not wisely, but two hundred well. He's
dreadfully married. He's the most married man
I ever saw in my life. He says that all he wants now is
to live in peace for the remainder of his days, and have
his dying pillow soothed by the loving hands of his
family. Well, that's all right, I suppose; but if all his
family soothe his dying pillow, he'll have to go out-doors
to die.