Chapter C: S. CALVERLEY, Fly Leaves

'Tis ridiculous for a lord to print verses. It is well
enough to make them to please himself, but to
make them public is foolish. If a man in his
private chamber twirls his bandstrings, or plays with a
rush to please himself, 'tis well enough, but if he should
go into Fleet Street, and sit upon a stall, and twirl
a bandstring, or play with a rush, then all the boys in
the street would laugh at him.

SELDEN, _Table Talk_.

Here, in the grassy hollow, would be spread
The snowy cloth--dimpled with various viands.
Ah! cleanly damask of our native land!
Ah! pleasant memory of pigeon-pie,
Short-crusted--savoury-jellied--flow'ry-yolked!
Ah! fair white-bosomed fowl with tawny tongue
Well married! lobster-salad, crisp and cool,
With polished silver from clean crockery
Forked up--washed down with drinks that make me now
Thirsty to think of.
Yes, with ginger-pop
These crags should echo.
Ah! rare golden gleam
Of sack in silver goblets gilt within!--
Bright evanescent raptures of champagne--
Brisk bottled stout in pewters creamy-crowned!

G. J. CAYLEY, _Las Alforgas_.

Say, as the witty Duke of Buckingham did to the
dog that bit him, "I wish you were married, and
went to live in the country."

_Ellesmere_, in HELPS' _Friends in Council_.

Croquet--
A dainty and difficult sport in its way.
Thus I counsel the sage, who to play at it stoops,
_Belabour thy neighbour and spoon through thy hoops_.

FREDERICK LOCKER, _London Lyrics_.

We are never so thoroughly tired of the company of
any one else as we are sometimes of our own.

W. HAZLITT, _Characteristics_.

_ON A VERY TRIFLING FELLOW BEING KNIGHTED._

What! Dares made a knight! No, don't be frighted;
He only lost his way, and was be-nighted.

RICHARD GRAVES (1715-1804).

Satan was a blunderer, an introducer of _novità_,
who made a stupendous failure. If he had succeeded,
we should all have been worshipping
him, and his portrait would have been more flattered.

_Machiavelli_, in GEORGE ELIOT's _Romola_.

You see the goodly hair that Galla wears;
'Tis certain her own hair: who would have thought it?
She swears it is her own, and true she swears,
For hard by Temple Bar last day she bought it.

SIR JOHN HARYNGTON (1561-1612).

The worst of human maladies are the most transient
also--love that is half despairing, and seasickness
that is quite so.

_Leslie_, in MALLOCK's _New Republic_.

_ON A SMALL EATER._

Simplicity is best, 'tis true,
But not in every mortal's power:
If thou, O maid, canst live on dew,
'Tis proof thou art indeed a flower.

R. GARNETT, _Idylls and Epigrams_.

On Walpole's remarking that, of two pictures mentioned,
one was "a shade above the other in
point of merit," [Hook] replied: "I presume you
mean to say it was a _shade over_ (_chef d'oeuvre_)."

R. H. BARHAM, _Diary_.

The nightingales are all about--
Their song is everywhere--
Their notes are lovely (though they're out
So often in the air).

The zephyr, dancing through the tops
Of ash and poplar, weaves
Low melodies, and scarcely stops
To murmur "By your leaves!"

Night steeps the passions of the day
In quiet, peace, and love.
Pale Dian, in her tranquil way,
Kicks up a shine above.

H. S. LEIGH, CAROLS OF COCKAYNE.

Tinder--a thin rag; such, for instance, as the
dresses of modern females, intended to catch the
sparks, raise a flame, and light up a match.

HORACE SMITH, _The Tin Trumpet_.

_ON DRESS._

He who a gold-finch strives to make his wife
Makes her, perhaps, a wag-tail all her life.

_A Collection of Epigrams_ (1727).

[Of Lafayette]: The world is surprised that there
was once an honest man: the situation remains
vacant.

HEINRICH HEINE, _Thoughts and Fancies_.

_ON AILING AND ALE-ING._

Come, come, for trifles never stick:
Most servants have a failing;
Yours, it is true, are sometimes sick,
But mine are always ale-ing.

HENRY LUTTRELL.

Sir George Rose, being introduced one day
to two charming young ladies, whose names were
Mary and Louisa, instantly added, with a bow,
"Ah, yes! _Marie-Louise_--the sweetest _pear_ I know!"

_Macmillan's Magazine._

_TO A CRUEL FAIR ONE._

'Tis done; I yield; adieu, thou cruel fair!
Adieu, th' averted face, th' ungracious cheek!
I go to die, to finish all my care,
To hang--to hang?--yes, round another's neck.

LEIGH HUNT (from the French).

_Bishop (reproving delinquent Page)._ "Wretched
boy! _Who_ is it that sees and hears all we do,
and before whom _even I_ am but as a crushed
worm?"
_Page._ "The Missus, my Lord!"

_Punch._

_ON DRUNKEN COURAGE._

Who only in his cups will fight is like
A clock that must be oil'd well ere it strikes.

THOMAS BANCROFT (_circa_ 1600).

Talking to ---- is like playing long whist.

LADY ASHBURTON, _apud_ LORD HOUGHTON.

_CERBERUS._

My dog, who picks up everything one teaches,
Has got "three heads," like Mr. Gladstone's speeches,
But, as might naturally be expected,
His are considerably more connected.

H. J. BYRON, in _English Epigrams_.

Blessed be the word "nice"!--it is the copper
coin of commendation. Without it, we should
have to praise more handsomely.

CHARLES BUXTON, _Notes of Thought_.

_ON NEWGATE WINDOWS._

All Newgate windows bay windows they be;
All lookers out there stand at bay we see.

JOHN HEYWOOD (1506-1565).

It was a grand scene, Mr. Artemus Ward standing
on the platform; many of the audience sleeping
tranquilly in their seats; others leaving the
room and not returning; others crying like a child at
some of the jokes,--all, all formed a most impressive scene,
and showed the powers of this remarkable orator. And
when he announced that he should never lecture in that
town again, the applause was absolutely deafening.