Part 22 (1/2)

R. H. BARHAM, _Life_.

There is safety in numbers, especially in odd numbers. The Three Graces never married, neither did the Nine Muses.

_Kenelm Chillingly_, in LORD LYTTON's novel.

_DISTICH._

There are three species of creatures who when they seem coming are going, When they seem going they come: Diplomats, women, and crabs.

JOHN HAY, _Poems_.

If a man might know The ill he must undergo, And shun it so, Then were it good to know.

But if he undergo it, Though he know it, What boots him know it?

He must undergo it.

SIR JOHN SUCKLING.

Barry Cornwall told me that when he and Charles Lamb were once making up a dinner-party together, Charles asked him not to invite a certain lugubrious friend of theirs. ”Because,” said Lamb, ”he would cast a damper even over a funeral.”

J. T. FIELDS, _Yesterdays with Authors_.

L'amour plait plus que le mariage, par la raison que les romans sont plus amusants que l'histoire.

CHAMFORT, _Maximes_.

The farmers daughter hath frank blue eyes; (_b.u.t.ter and eggs and a pound of cheese_) She hears the rooks caw in the windy skies, As she sits at her lattice and sh.e.l.ls her peas.

The farmer's daughter hath ripe red lips; (_b.u.t.ter and eggs and a pound of cheese_) If you try to approach her, away she skips Over tables and chairs with apparent ease.

The farmer's daughter hath soft brown hair; (_b.u.t.ter and eggs and a pound of cheese_) And I met with a ballad, I can't say where, Which wholly consisted of lines like these.

C. S. CALVERLEY, _Fly Leaves_.

Macready told a story of George B----, the actor, who, it seems, was not popular in the profession, being considered a sort of time-server: ”There goes Georgius,” said some one. ”Not Georgium Sidus?” replied Keeley. ”Yes,” added Power, ”Georgium _Any_-sidus.”

R. H. BARHAM, _Life_.

I'm weary, and sick, and disgusted With Britain's mechanical din; Where I'm much too well known to be trusted, And plaguily pestered for tin; Where love has two eyes for your banker, And one chilly flame for yourself; Where souls can afford to be franker, But where they're well garnished with pelf.

I'm sick of the whole race of poets, Emasculate, misty, and fine; They brew their small beer, and don't know its Distinction from full-bodied wine.

I'm sick of the prosers, that house up At drowsy St. Stephen's--ain't you?