Part 3 (1/2)

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_.

Celebrite--l'avantage d'etre 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 blus.h.i.+ng 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 Bronte'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 Ill.u.s.tration. On entering the ante-room, they found themselves opposite to a number of very long looking-gla.s.ses. 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 gla.s.s; ”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.