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

That all-softening over-powering knell,
The tocsin of the soul--the dinner-bell.

LORD BYRON, _Don Juan_.

Now Darwin proves as clear as mud,
That, endless ages ere the Flood,
The Coming Man's primeval form
Was simply an Ascidian worm:
And having then the habit got
Of passing liquor down his throat,
He keeps it still, and shows full well
That Man--was--once----a leather bottèl.

LORD NEAVES, _Songs and Verses_.

"The ancients," quoth Paul, "were very great
men, Mr. MacGrawler."
"They were so, sir," returned the critic;
"we make it a rule in our profession to assert that fact."
"But, sir," said Paul, "they are wrong now and then."
"Never, Ignoramus, never."
"They praised poverty, Mr. MacGrawler," said Paul,
with a sigh.
"Hem," quoth the critic, a little staggered; but presently
recovering his characteristic acumen, he observed,
"It is true, Paul, but that was the poverty of other
people."

LORD LYTTON, _Paul Clifford_.

Yes, Fortune deserves to be chidden,
It is a coincidence queer--
Whenever one wants to be hidden
Some blockhead is sure to appear!

FREDERICK LOCKER, _London Lyrics_.

One day in the country [Sheridan Knowles] said to
Abbot, with whom he had been acting there,
"My dear fellow, I'm off to-morrow. Can I
take any letters for you?" "You're very kind," answered
Abbot; "but where are you going to?" "_I haven't
made up my mind._"

J. R. PLANCHÉ, _Recollections_.

_BLUE STOCKINGS._

The newspapers lately have taught us to know
How some strong-minded hens are beginning to crow.
But, dear ladies, beware: take the word of a friend,
That when rivalry comes, all affection must end.
With the brightest of _spoons_ would be war to the _knife_
In political contests 'twixt husband and wife;
And the sentence of doom might be sudden and brief
If a feminine subaltern jilted her chief.
We men take a pride in concealing our chains,
And would like to be thought to monopolize brains;
So I'll give you this maxim, my counsels to crown--
_If the stockings are blue, keep the petticoats down._

_Once a Week._

Talking of Kean, I mentioned his having told
me that he had eked out his means of living,
before he emerged from obscurity, by teaching
dancing, fencing, elocution, and boxing. "Elocution
and boxing!" (repeated Bobus Smith)--"a word and a
blow."

THOMAS MOORE, _Diary_.

_MILITARY._

Smart soldiers like to be well tightened in:
Loose habits would destroy all discipline.

H. J. BYRON, in _English Epigrams_.

Fontaine, the architect, who built the triumphal
arch in the Carrousel, placed upon it an empty
car, drawn by the famous bronze Venetian
horses. Talleyrand asked him, "_Qui avez vous l'intention
de mettre dans le char?_" The answer was, "_L'Empereur
Napoléon, comme de raison_." Upon which Talleyrand
said, "_Le char l'attend_."

GRONOW, _Recollections_.

'Tis doubtless well to be sometimes awake--
Awake to duty, and awake to truth,--
But when, alas! a nice review we take
Of our best deeds and days, we find, in sooth,
The hours that leave the slightest cause to weep
Are those we passed in childhood or asleep!

JOHN GODFREY SAXE, _Poems_.

_Sir Toby._ "Does not our life consist of the four
elements?"
_Sir Andrew._ "Faith, so they say; but I think
it rather consists of eating and drinking."

_Twelfth Night_, Act II., Scene 3.

She thought "Wives and Daughters" "_so_ jolly;"
"Had I read it?" She knew that I had:
Like the rest, I should dote upon "Molly;"
And "poor Mrs. Gaskell--how sad!"
"Like Browning?" "But so-so." His proof lay
Too deep for her frivolous mood,
That preferred your mere metrical _soufflé_
To the stronger poetical food;
Yet at times he was good--"as a tonic:"
Was Tennyson writing just now?
And was this new poet Byronic,
And clever, and naughty, or how?

AUSTIN DOBSON, _Vignettes in Rhyme_.

Old friends are best. King James used to call for
his old shoes; they were easiest for his feet.

SELDEN, _Table Talk_.

Let a coach be called,
And let the man who called it be the caller;
And in his calling let him nothing call,
But coach, coach, coach! Oh for a coach, ye gods!

CAREY, _Chrononhotonthologos_.

If you could make a pudding wi' thinking o' the
batter, it 'ud be easy getting dinner.

_Mrs. Poyser_, in GEORGE ELIOT's _Adam Bede_.

There's somewhat on my breast, father,
There's somewhat on my breast;
The livelong day I sigh, father,
And at night I cannot rest.
'Tis not the lack of gold, father,
Nor want of worldly gear;
My lands are broad, and fair to see,
My friends are kind and dear.

'Tis not that Janet's false, father,
'Tis not that she's unkind;
Though busy flatterers swarm around,
I know her constant mind.
'Tis not her coldness, father,
That chills my labouring breast:
It's that confounded cucumber
I've eat and can't digest.

R. H. BARHAM, _Ingoldsby Lyrics_.

Insolence is a charming quality, when, like
mercy, it is not strained.

_Once a Week._

Ancient Phillis has young graces,
'Tis a strange thing, but a true one!
Shall I tell you how?
She, herself, makes her own faces,
And each morning wears a new one;
Where's the wonder now?

_Lord Froth_, in CONGREVE's _Double Dealer_.

Célébrité--l'avantage d'être connu de ceux que
vous ne connaissez pas.

CHAMFORT, _Maximes_.

'Tis past all bearing, when a husband slights his bride,
Who last Christmas still was blushing at her elder sister's side;
Still on some minute allowance finding collars, boots, and gloves,
Still to cousinly flirtations limiting her list of loves,
Still by stern domestic edict charged on no account to read
Any of Miss Brontë's novels, or to finish _Adam Bede_.

_First Lady_, in TREVELYAN's _Ladies in Parliament_.

I differ from all the ordinary biographers of
that independent gentleman Don't Care. I
believe Don't Care came to a good end. At any
rate he came to some end. Whereas numbers of people
never have beginning, or ending, of their own.

_Ellesmere_, in HELPS's _Friends in Council_.

_DISTICH._

Wisely a woman prefers to a lover a man who neglects her.
This one may love her some day; some day the lover will not.

JOHN HAY, _Poems_.

One morning [Jerrold and Compton] proceeded
together to view the pictures in the Gallery of
Illustration. On entering the ante-room, they
found themselves opposite to a number of very long
looking-glasses. Pausing before one of these, [Compton]
remarked to Jerrold, "You've come here to admire
works of art! Very well, first feast your eyes on that
work of nature!"--pointing to his own figure reflected
in the glass; "look at it, there's a picture for you!"
"Yes," said Jerrold, regarding it intently, "very fine,
very fine indeed!" Then, turning to his friend: "Wants
hanging, though!"

_Memoir of Henry Compton._

Sing for the garish eye,
When moonless brandlings cling!
Let the froddering crooner cry,
And the braddled sapster sing.
For never, and never again,
Will the tottering beechlings play,
For bratticed wrackers are singing aloud,
And the throngers croon in May!

W. S. GILBERT.

Sydney Smith said of a certain quarrelsome
person that his very face was a breach of the
peace.

J. T. FIELDS, _Yesterdays with Authors_.

Kerchief in hand I saw them stand;
In every kerchief lurked a lunch;
When they unfurl'd them it was grand
To watch bronzed men and maidens crunch
The sounding celery-stick, or ram
The knife into the blushing ham.

Dash'd the bold fork through pies of pork;
O'er hard-boil'd eggs the saltspoon shook;
Leapt from its lair the playful cork:
Yet some there were, to whom the brook
Seemed sweetest beverage, and for meat
They chose the red root of the beet.