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

Lady, very fair are you,
And your eyes are very blue,
And your hose;
And your brow is like the snow,
And the various things you know
Goodness knows.

MORTIMER COLLINS, _Ad Chloen, M.A._

The Jacobins, in realizing their systems of fraternization,
always contrived to be the elder
brothers.

_Guesses at Truth._

Careless rhymer, it is true
That my favourite colour's blue;
But am I
To be made a victim, sir,
If to puddings I prefer
Cambridge [Greek: p]?

MORTIMER COLLINS, _Chloe, M.A._

Candide
Found life most tolerable after meals.

LORD BYRON, _Don Juan_.

Women, and men who are like women, mind the
binding more than the book.

LORD CHESTERFIELD, _Letters to his Son_.

There was gorging Jack and guzzling Jimmy,
And the youngest he was little Billee.
Now when they got as far as the Equator
They'd nothing left but one split pea.

Says gorging Jack to guzzling Jimmy,
"I am extremely hungaree."
To gorging Jack says guzzling Jimmy,
"We've nothing left, us must eat we."

Says gorging Jack to guzzling Jimmy,
"With one another we shouldn't agree!
There's little Bill he's young and tender,
We're old and tough, so let's eat he."

W. M. THACKERAY.

"_WHAT AILS HIM AT THE LASSIE?_"

A friend tells me a funny little story of Mrs. ----
(the grandmother of Colonel M----), who was
shown a picture of Joseph and Potiphar's wife,
in which of course the patriarch showed his usual desire
to withdraw himself from her society. Mrs. ---- looked
at it for a little while, and then said, "Eh, now, and what
ails him at the lassie?"

FREDERICK LOCKER, _Patchwork_.

In his last illness, reduced as he was to a skeleton,
[Hood] noticed a very large mustard poultice
which Mrs. Hood was making for him, and exclaimed,
"O Mary! Mary! that will be a great deal of
mustard to a very little meat!"

J. R. PLANCHÉ, _Recollections_.

_THE LATEST DECALOGUE._

Thou shalt have one God only: who
Would be at the expense of two?
No graven images may be
Worshipped, except the currency:
Swear not at all; for, for thy curse,
Thine enemy is none the worse:
At church on Sunday to attend
Will serve to keep the world thy friend:
Honour thy parents; that is, all
From whom advancement may befall:
Thou shalt not kill; but needst not strive
Officiously to keep alive:
Do not adultery commit;
Advantage rarely comes of it:
Thou shalt not steal; an empty feat,
When it's so lucrative to cheat:
Bear not false witness; let the lie
Have time on its own wings to fly:
Thou shalt not covet, but tradition
Approves all forms of competition.

A. H. CLOUGH, _Poems_.

Mr. MacCulloch, the eminent political
economist, in dining with us, a few days after
[an aeronautical friend had made an ascent],
was most anxious to learn where he had descended
on this occasion. The answer was, "Amongst the flats
of Essex." "A most appropriate locality," said my
distinguished countryman, "and one which shows how
true it is that 'birds of a feather flock together.'"

MARK BOYD, _Reminiscences._

He said that I was proud, mother,--that I looked for rank and gold;
He said I did not love him,--he said my words were cold;
He said I kept him off and on, in hopes of higher game,--
And it may be that I did, mother; but who hasn't done the same?

You may lay me in my bed, mother,--my head is throbbing sore;
And, mother, prithee, let the sheets be duly aired before;
And if you'd do a kindness to your poor desponding child,
Draw me a pot of beer, mother--and, mother, draw it mild!

_Bon Gaultier Ballads._

Voltaire was a very good Jesus Christ--for the
French.

CHARLES LAMB, _apud_ LEIGH HUNT.

_ON A THEATRICAL NUISANCE:_

Perched in a box which cost her not a _sou_,
Giglina chatters all the evening through,
Fidgets with opera-glass, and flowers, and shawls,
Annoys the actors, irritates the stalls.
Forgive her harmless pride--the cause is plain--
She wants us all to know she's had champagne.

SHIRLEY BROOKS, _Wit and Humour_.

O, I know the way o' wives; they set one on
to abuse their husbands, and then they turn
round on one and praise 'em as if they wanted
to sell 'em.

_Priscilla Lammeter_, in GEORGE ELIOT's _Mill on the Floss_.

"And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!"
He chortled in his joy.

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogroves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

LEWIS CARROLL, _Through the Looking-Glass_.

Mrs. Wordsworth and a lady were walking
once in a wood where the stock-dove was
cooing. A farmer's wife coming by, said, "Oh,
I do like stock-doves!" Mrs. Wordsworth, in all her
enthusiasm for Wordsworth's beautiful address to the
stock-dove, took the old woman to her heart. "But,"
continued the old woman, "some like 'em in a pie; for
my part there's nothing like 'em stewed in onions!"

B. R. HAYDON, _Diary_.

_TO AN AUTHOR._

In spite of hints, in spite of looks,
Titus, I send thee not my books.
The reason, Titus, canst divine?
I fear lest thou shouldst send me thine.

MARTIAL, trans. by R. GARNETT.

A friend, who was about to marry the natural
daughter of the Duke de ----, was expatiating
at great length on the virtues, good qualities,
and talents of his future wife, but without making allusion
to her birth. "A t'entendre," observed Montrond, "on
dirait que tu épouses une fille surnaturelle."

GRONOW, _Recollections_.

Reading new books is like eating new bread:
One can bear it at first, but by gradual steps he
Is brought to death's door of a mental dyspepsy.

J. R. LOWELL, _A Fable for Critics_.

Casey mentioned to me a parody of his on two
lines in the "Veiled Prophet":--
"He knew no more of fear than one who dwells
Beneath the tropics knows of icicles."

The following is his parody, which, bless my stars, none
of my critics were lively enough to hit upon, for it would
have stuck by me:--
"He knew no more of fear than one who dwells
On Scotia's mountains knows of shoe-buckles."

THOMAS MOORE, _Diary_.

Why mourns my Eugene? In his dark eye of blue
Why trembles the tear-drop to sympathy due?
Ah, why must a bosom so pure and refin'd
Thus vibrate, all nerve, at the woes of mankind?

Like a sunbeam the clouds of the tempest between,
A smile lights the eye of the pensive Eugene;
And thus, in soft accents, the mourner replies,
"Hang your mustard! it brings the tears in my eyes!"

R. H. BARHAM, _Ingoldsby Lyrics_.

Dress does not make a man, but it often makes a
successful one. What all men should avoid is
the "shabby genteel." No man ever gets over
it. You had better be in rags.

_Vigo_, in LORD BEACONSFIELD's _Endymion_.

In moss-prankt dells which the sunbeams flatter
(And Heaven it knoweth what that may mean;
Meaning, however, is no great matter)
Where woods are a-tremble, with rifts atween;

Thro' God's own heather we wonn'd together,
I and my Willie (O love, my love!):
I need hardly remark it was glorious weather,
And flitter-bats waver'd alow, above.

Boats were curtsying, rising, bowing
(Boats in that climate are so polite),
And sands were a ribbon of green endowing,
And O the sun-dazzle on bark and bight.

Thro' the rare red heather we danced together,
(O love, my Willie!) and smelt for flowers:
I must mention again it was glorious weather,
Rhymes are so scarce in this world of ours.