_Brutus_, in G. O. TREVELYAN's _Horace at Athens_.

The Mormon's religion is singular, and his wives are plural.

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

At morning's call The small-voiced pug-dog welcomes in the sun, And flea-bit mongrels, wakening one by one, Give answer all.

When evening dim Draws round us, then the lovely caterwaul, Tart solo, sour duet, and general squall, These are our hymn.

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

Charles Lamb was sitting next some chattering woman at dinner. Observing he didn't attend to her, "You don't seem," said the lady, "to be at all the better for what I have been saying to you."

"No, ma'am," he answered, "but this gentleman on the other side of me must, for it all came in at one ear and went out at the other."

THOMAS MOORE, _Diary_.

Forty times over let Michaelmas pa.s.s, Grizzling hair the brain doth clear-- Then you know a boy is an a.s.s, Then you know the worth of a la.s.s, Once you have come to Forty Year.

W. M. THACKERAY.

Men are not troubled to hear a man dispraised, because they know, though he be naught, there's worth in others. But women are mightily troubled to hear any one of them spoken against, as if the s.e.x itself were guilty of some untrustworthiness.

SELDEN, _Table Talk_.

_'TWAS EVER THUS._

I never rear'd a young gazelle, (Because, you see, I never tried); But, had it known and loved me well, No doubt the creature would have died.

My rich and aged uncle John Has known me long and loves me well, But still persists in living on-- I would he were a young gazelle.

I never loved a tree or flower; But, if I _had_, I beg to say The blight, the wind, the sun, or shower, Would soon have wither'd it away.

I've dearly loved my uncle John, From childhood till the present hour, And yet he will go living on,-- I would he were a tree or flower!

H. S. LEIGH, _Carols of c.o.c.kayne_.

A domestic woman.--A woman like a domestic.

ANNE EVANS, _Poems and Music_.

"The time has come," the Walrus said, "To talk of many things; Of shoes--and ships--and sealing-wax-- Of cabbages--and kings-- And why the sea is boiling hot-- And whether pigs have wings."

"But wait a bit," the Oysters cried, "Before we have our chat; For some of us are out of breath, And all of us are fat!"

"No hurry!" said the Carpenter: They thanked him much for that.

LEWIS CARROLL, _Through the Looking-Gla.s.s_.

Ignorance is not so d.a.m.nable as humbug, but when it prescribes pills it may happen to do more harm.

_Felix Holt_, in GEORGE ELIOT's novel.

I push aside the blinding books; The reverend pages seem to wink; Each _letter_ like a _dozen_ looks, Which _doesn't let a_ student think.

Within my ears I hear a "thrum;"

Before my eyes there floats a haze; And mocking shadows flit and come, And make my _nights_ a constant _daze_!

ROBERT REECE, in _Comic Poets_.

Orthodoxy is at a low ebb. Only two clergymen accepted my offer to come and help hoe my potatoes for the privilege of using my vegetable total-depravity figure about the snake-gra.s.s, or quash-gra.s.s, as some call it; and these two did not bring hoes. There seems to be a lack of disposition to hoe among our educated clergy.

C. D. WARNER, _My Summer in a Garden_.

_HOME THEY BROUGHT._

Home they brought her lap-dog dead, Just run over by a fly; Jeames to b.u.t.tons, winking, said, "Won't there be a row? oh my!"

Then they called the flyman low, Said his baseness could be proved, How she to the Beak should go,-- Yet she neither spoke nor moved.

Said her maid (and risked her place) "In the 'ouse it should have kept, Flymen drives at such a pace"-- Still the lady's anger slept.

Rose her husband, best of dears, Laid a bracelet on her knee, Like a playful child she boxed his ears,-- "Sweet old pet!--let's have some tea!"

SHIRLEY BROOKS, _Wit and Humour_.

_ON BLESSED IGNORANCE._

He is most happy, sure, that knoweth nought, Because he knows not that he knoweth not.

ROBERT HEATH (_circa_ 1585-1607).

Alone amid the festive throng One infant brow is sad!

One cherub face is wet with grief,-- What ails you, little lad?

Why still with scarifying sleeve That woful visage scrub?

Ah, much I fear, my gentle boy, You don't enjoy your grub.

Here, on a sympathetic heart, Your tale of suffering pour.