Quips and Quiddities Part 8

O, he was in his Sunday's best; His jacket was red and his breeches were blue, And there was a hole where the tail came through.

_The Devil's Walk._

A closed gla.s.s bookcase provoked from Dr. Drake the remark that he never could stand "Locke on the Human Understanding."

LORD TEIGNMOUTH, _Reminiscences_.

There was a time, ere Trollope learned to spell, When S. G. O. wrote seldom or wrote well; When Swinburne only l.u.s.ted after tarts, When Beales was yet a Bachelor of Arts; Ere Broad Church rose to make logicians stare, That medley of St. Paul and St. Voltaire.

RICHARD CRAWLEY, _Horse and Foot_.

[Redmond Barry] said once to Corry, who was praising Crompton's performance of some particular character a night or two before, "Yes, he played the part pretty well; he hadn't time to study it!"

THOMAS MOORE, _Diary_.

If a daughter you have, she's the plague of your life, No peace shall you know, though you've buried your wife!

At twenty she mocks at the duty you've taught her-- O, what a plague is an obstinate daughter!

Sighing and whining, Dying and pining, O, what a plague is an obstinate daughter!

When scarce in their teens, they have wit to perplex us, With letters and lovers for ever they vex us; While each still rejects the fair suitor you've brought her; O, what a plague is an obstinate daughter!

Wrangling and jangling, Flouting and pouting, O, what a plague is an obstinate daughter!

R. B. SHERIDAN, _The Duenna_.

_Kitty_: What is your ladys.h.i.+p so fond of?

_Lady Bab's Servant_: s.h.i.+ckspur. Did you never read s.h.i.+ckspur?

_Kitty_: s.h.i.+ckspur! s.h.i.+ckspur! Who wrote it? No, I never read s.h.i.+ckspur.

_High Life Below Stairs_, Act II. Scene 1.

Nul n'est content de sa fortune Ni mecontent de son esprit.

MADAME DESHOULIeRES, _Reflexions_.

In courts.h.i.+p suppose you can't sing Your Cara, your Liebe, your Zoe, A kiss and a sight of the ring Will more quickly prevail with your Chloe.

Or if you in twenty strange tongues Could call for a beef-steak and bottle, A purse with less learning and lungs Would bring them much nearer your throttle.

LORD NEAVES, _Songs and Verses_.

The father of C----, a distinguished artist, was complimented by a friend on the talents and reputation of his son, and on the comfort he must be to his father. "Yes," was the reply, "he is a very good son--a very good son, if he did not swear at his mother so."

W. H. HARRISON, _University Magazine_.

The old, old tale! ay, there's the smart; Her heart, or what she call'd her heart, Was hard as granite: Who breaks a heart, and then omits To gather up the broken bits Is heartless, Janet.

FREDERICK LOCKER, _London Lyrics_.

The French don't know what they want, and will never be satisfied till they get it.

WILLIAM HARNESS, _Life_.

She played the accordion divinely--accordionly I praised her.

C. F. BROWNE, _Artemus Ward's Lecture_.

Should yours (kind heaven, avert the omen!) Like the cravats of vulgar, low men, Asunder start--and, yawning wide, Disclose a chasm on either side; Or should it stubbornly persist To take some awkward tasteless twist, Some crease, indelible, and look Just like a dunce's dog-eared book, How would you parry the disgrace?

In what a.s.sembly show your face?

How brook your rival's scornful glance, Or partners' t.i.tter in the dance?

How in the morning dare to meet The quizzers of the park and street?

Your occupation's gone; in vain Hope to dine out, or flirt again.

The ladies from their lists would put you, And even _I_, my friend, must cut you!

H. LUTTRELL, _Letters to Julia_.

A man can never manage a woman. Till a woman marries, a prudent man leaves her to women; when she does marry, she manages her husband, and there's an end of it.

_Kenelm Chillingly_, in LORD LYTTON's novel.

_HOMAGE TO THE SCOTCH RIFLES, BY A SPITEFUL COMPEt.i.tOR._

It seems that the Scots Turn out much better shots At long distance, than most of the Englishmen are: But this we all knew That a Scotchman could do-- Make a small piece of metal go awfully far.

s.h.i.+RLEY BROOKS, _Wit and Humour_.

Some one peevishly complaining, "You take the words out of my mouth," Donaldson replied, "You are very hard to please; would you have liked it better if I had made you swallow them?"

CRABB ROBINSON, _Diary_.

I am lying, we'll say, in the nook I love, Screened from the sunlight's scorching glow, Watching the big clouds up above, And blowing a lazy cloud below;

Blowing a cloud from my meerschaum black, And thinking or not as I feel inclined, With a light alpaca coat on my back, And nothing particular on my mind.