N ape with a pliable thumb and big brain, When the gift of the gab he had managed to gain, As a lord of creation established his reign, Which nobody can deny. But I'm sadly afraid, if we do not take care, A relapse to low life may our prospects impair, So of beastly propensities let us beware, Which nobody can deny. Their lofty position our children may lose, And, reduced to all-fours, must then narrow their views, Which would shortly unfit them for wearing our shoes, Which nobody can deny. Their vertebræ next might be taken away, When they'd sink to an oyster, or insect, some day, Or the pitiful part of a polypus play, Which nobody can deny.
Lord Neaves, Songs and Verses.
T'S dreadful to think on, people playing with their own insides in that way! And it's flying i' the face o' Providence; for what are the doctors for, if we aren't to call 'em in?
Mrs. Pullet, in George Eliot's Mill on the Floss.
RIEF, in two rules he summed the ends of man— Keep all you have, and try for all you can!
Lord Lytton, King Arthur.
LOVE SONG.
HAT mistress half so dear as mine, Half so well dressed, so pungent, fragrant, Who can such attributes combine, To charm the constant, fix the vagrant? Who can display such varied arts, To suit the taste of saint and sinner, Who go so near to touch their hearts, As thou, my darling dainty dinner? Still my breast holds a rival queen, A bright-eyed nymph of sloping shoulders, Whose ruddy cheeks and graceful mien Entrance the sense of all beholders. Oh! when thy lips to mine are pressed, What transports titillate my throttle! My love can find new life and zest, In thee, and thee alone, my bottle!
Horace Smith, The Tin Trumpet.
ASHION with us is like the man in one of Le Sage's novels, who was constantly changing his servants, and yet had but one suit of livery, which every newcomer, whether he was tall or short, fat or thin, was obliged to wear.
Wormwood, in Lord Lytton's Pelham.
NMARKETABLE maidens of the mart, Who, plumpness gone, fine delicacy feint, And hide your sins in piety and paint.
Alfred Austin, The Season.
EEING O. Smith, the popular melodramatic actor, on the opposite side of the Strand, Knowles rushed across the road, seized him by the hand, and inquired eagerly after his health. Smith, who only knew him by sight, said, "I think, Mr. Knowles, you are mistaken; I am O. Smith." "My dear fellow," cried Knowles, "I beg you ten thousand pardons: I took you for your namesake, T. P. Cooke!"
J. R. Planché, Recollections.
A PRACTICAL ANSWER.
AYS Hyam to Moses, "Let's cut off our noses," Says Moses to Hyam, "Ma tear, who would buy 'em?"
Shirley Brooks, Wit and Humour.
URNIPS should never be pulled: it injures them. It is much better to send a boy up and let him shake the tree.
Mark Twain, Choice Works.
H lived in a cave by the seas, He lived upon oysters and foes, But his list of forbidden degrees An extensive morality shows; Geological evidence goes To prove he had never a pan, But he shaved with a shell when he chose— 'Twas the manner of Primitive Man. He worshipped the rain and the breeze, He worshipped the river that flows, And the dawn, and the moon, and the trees, And bogies, and serpents, and crows; He buried his dead with their toes Tucked-up, an original plan, Till their knees came right under their nose— 'Twas the manner of Primitive Man.
Andrew Lang, Ballades in Blue China.
N ne loue d'ordinaire que pour être loué.
La Rochefoucauld, Réflexions.
OULD you adopt a strong logical attitude, Bear this in mind, and, whatever you do, Always allow your opponent full latitude, Whether or not his assumption be true. Then, when he manifests feelings of gratitude Merely because you've not shut him up flat, Turn his pet paradox into a platitude With the remark, "Oh, of course, we know that!"
Godfrey Turner.
HE gentle reader, who may wax unkind, And, caring little for the author's ease, Insist on knowing what he means—a hard And hapless situation for a bard.
Lord Byron, Beppo.
Y dear, when you have a clergyman in your family you must accommodate your tastes: I did that very early. When I married Humphrey, I made up my mind to like sermons, and I set out by liking the end very much. That soon spread to the middle and the beginning, because I couldn't have the end without them.
Mrs. Cadwallader, in George Eliot's Middlemarch.
REAT theologians, talk not of Trinity: Heretics, plague us no more with your fibs; One question only, Which is the Divinity— Willcox or Gibbs?
Mortimer Collins, The British Birds.
S that the contents you are looking at?" inquired an anxious author, who saw Rogers's eye fixed on a table or list at the commencement of a presentation copy of a new work. "No," said Rogers, pointing to the list of subscribers, "the dis-contents."
