Chapter C: S. CALVERLEY, Fly Leaves

Practice does not always make perfect. Curran,
when told by his physician that he seemed
to cough with more difficulty, replied, "That
is odd enough, for I have been practising all night."

HORACE SMITH, _The Tin Trumpet_.

We talk little if we do not talk about ourselves.

W. HAZLITT, _Characteristics_.

And how was the Devil drest?
O, he was in his Sunday's best;
His jacket was red and his breeches were blue,
And there was a hole where the tail came through.

_The Devil's Walk._

A closed glass bookcase provoked from Dr. Drake
the remark that he never could stand "Locke
on the Human Understanding."

LORD TEIGNMOUTH, _Reminiscences_.

There was a time, ere Trollope learned to spell,
When S. G. O. wrote seldom or wrote well;
When Swinburne only lusted after tarts,
When Beales was yet a Bachelor of Arts;
Ere Broad Church rose to make logicians stare,
That medley of St. Paul and St. Voltaire.

RICHARD CRAWLEY, _Horse and Foot_.

[Redmond Barry] said once to Corry, who
was praising Crompton's performance of some
particular character a night or two before,
"Yes, he played the part pretty well; he hadn't time to
study it!"

THOMAS MOORE, _Diary_.

If a daughter you have, she's the plague of your life,
No peace shall you know, though you've buried your wife!
At twenty she mocks at the duty you've taught her--
O, what a plague is an obstinate daughter!
Sighing and whining,
Dying and pining,
O, what a plague is an obstinate daughter!

When scarce in their teens, they have wit to perplex us,
With letters and lovers for ever they vex us;
While each still rejects the fair suitor you've brought her;
O, what a plague is an obstinate daughter!
Wrangling and jangling,
Flouting and pouting,
O, what a plague is an obstinate daughter!

R. B. SHERIDAN, _The Duenna_.

_Kitty_: What is your ladyship so fond of?
_Lady Bab's Servant_: Shickspur. Did you
never read Shickspur?
_Kitty_: Shickspur! Shickspur! Who wrote it? No,
I never read Shickspur.

_High Life Below Stairs_, Act II. Scene 1.

Nul n'est content de sa fortune
Ni mécontent de son esprit.

MADAME DESHOULIÈRES, _Réflexions_.

In courtship suppose you can't sing
Your Cara, your Liebe, your Zoë,
A kiss and a sight of the ring
Will more quickly prevail with your Chloe.

Or if you in twenty strange tongues
Could call for a beef-steak and bottle,
A purse with less learning and lungs
Would bring them much nearer your throttle.

LORD NEAVES, _Songs and Verses_.

The father of C----, a distinguished artist, was
complimented by a friend on the talents and
reputation of his son, and on the comfort he
must be to his father. "Yes," was the reply, "he is a
very good son--a very good son, if he did not swear at
his mother so."

W. H. HARRISON, _University Magazine_.

The old, old tale! ay, there's the smart;
Her heart, or what she call'd her heart,
Was hard as granite:
Who breaks a heart, and then omits
To gather up the broken bits
Is heartless, Janet.

FREDERICK LOCKER, _London Lyrics_.

The French don't know what they want, and will
never be satisfied till they get it.

WILLIAM HARNESS, _Life_.

She played the accordion divinely--accordionly I
praised her.