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

One persuaded his friend to marry a little woman,
because of evils the least was to be chosen.

_Conceits, Clinches_, etc. (1639).

Charles Kemble used to tell a story about
some poor foreigner, dancer or pantomimist in
the country, who, after many annual attempts
to clear his expenses, came forward one evening with a
face beaming with pleasure and gratitude, and addressed
the audience in these words:--"Dear Public! moche
oblige. Ver good benefice--only lose half-a-crown. I
come again!"

J. R. PLANCHÉ, _Recollections_.

"Let's show," said M'Clan, "to this Sassenach loon
That the bag-pipes _can_ play him a regular tune.
Let's see," said M'Clan, as he thoughtfully sat,
"'In my Cottage' is easy--I'll practise at that."

He blew at his "Cottage," and blew with a will,
For a year, seven months, and a fortnight, until
(You'll hardly believe it) M'Clan, I declare,
Elicited something resembling an air.

It was wild--it was fitful--as wild as the breeze--
It wandered about into several keys;
It was jerky, spasmodic, and harsh, I'm aware;
But still it distinctly suggested an air.

W. S. GILBERT, _Bab Ballads_.

All men are brothers--Cains and Abels.

ANON.

The blameless king
Rising again (to Lancelot's discontent,
Who held all speeches a tremendous bore),
Said, "If one duty to be done remains,
And 'tis neglected, all the rest is nought
But Dead Sea apples and the acts of Apes."

Smiled Guinevere, and begged him not to preach;
She knew that duty, and it should be done;
So what of pudding on that festal night
Was not consumed by Arthur and his guests,
The queen upon the following morning fried.

SHIRLEY BROOKS, _Wit and Humour_.

One way of getting an idea of our fellow-countrymen's
miseries is to go and look at their
pleasures.

GEORGE ELIOT, _Felix Holt_.

_TO A RICH LADY._

I will not ask if thou canst touch
The tuneful ivory key,--
Those silent notes of thine are such
As quite suffice for me.

I'll make no question if thy skill
The pencil comprehends;--
Enough for me, love, if thou still
Canst draw--thy dividends.

_Punch._

At the Duke of Wellington's funeral, the little child
of a friend of mine was standing with her mother
at Lord Ashburton's window to see the mournful
pageant. During the passage of the procession, she
made no remark until the duke's horse was led by, its
saddle empty, and his boots reversed in the stirrups,
when she looked up in her mother's face and said,
"Mamma, when we die, will there be nothing left of us
but boots?"

J. C. YOUNG, _Diary_.

Such power hath Beer. The heart which Grief hath canker'd
Hath one unfailing remedy--the tankard.