Part 47 (1/2)

Nous ne trouvons guere de gens de bons sens que ceux qui sont de notre avis.

LA ROCHEFOUCAULD, _Reflexions_.

_FRENCH AND ENGLISH._

The French excel us very much in millinery; They also bear the bell in matters culinary.

The reason's plain: French beauty and French meat With English cannot of themselves compete.

Thus, an inferior article possessing, Our neighbours help it by superior dressing; They dress their dishes, and they dress their dames, Till Art, almost, can rival Nature's claims.

LORD NEAVES, _Songs and Verses_.

Priority is a poor recommendation in a husband if he has got no other.

_Mrs. Cadwallader_, in GEORGE ELIOT's _Middlemarch_.

If spirits you would lighten Consult good Doctor Brighton, And swallow his prescriptions and abide by his decree: If nerves be weak or shaken Just try a week with Bacon, His physic soon is taken-- At our London-by-the-Sea.

J. ASHBY STERRY, _Boudoir Ballads_.

The then Duke of c.u.mberland (the foolish Duke, as he was called) came one night into Foote's green-room at the Haymarket Theatre. ”Well, Foote,” said he, ”here I am, ready, as usual, to swallow your good things.” ”Upon my soul,” replied Foote, ”your Royal Highness must have an excellent digestion, for you never bring any up again.”

ROGERS, _Table Talk_.

There's folks born to property, and there's folks catch hold on it; and the law's made for them as catch hold.

_Tommy Trounsem_, in GEORGE ELIOT's _Felix Holt_.

Examining one of the Sunday school boys at Addington, I asked him what a prophet was.

He did not know. ”If I were to tell you what would happen to you this day twelve month, and it should come to pa.s.s, what would you call me then, my little man?” ”A fortune-teller, sir.”

R. H. BARHAM, _Diary_.

Some take a lover, some take drams or prayers; Some play the devil, and then write a novel.

LORD BYRON, _Don Juan_.

Being one day at Trinity College, at dinner, [Donne] was asked to write a motto for the College snuff-box, which was always circulating on the dinner-table. ”Considering where we are,” said Donne, ”there could be nothing better than 'Quicunque vult.'”

CRABB ROBINSON, _Diary_.

Critics tell me, soon There'll be no singing in a song, No melody in tune.

But birds will warble in the trees, Nor for the critics care; And in the murmur of the breeze We yet may find some air.