Part 52 (1/2)

_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 grat.i.tude, and addressed the audience in these words:--”Dear Public! moche oblige. Ver good benefice--only lose half-a-crown. I come again!”

J. R. PLANCHe, _Recollections_.

”Let's show,” said M'Clan, ”to this Sa.s.senach 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.

s.h.i.+RLEY 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 pa.s.sage 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.

C. S. CALVERLEY, _Verses and Translations_.