upon a very stingy, but rich old widow, was asked by her in desultory conversation, pour passer le temps—
“Do you draw, Mr. Larkins?”
“Oh, in my way I do,” replied that gentleman.
“I should really like to see a specimen,” said the widow.
“Well,” replied the amateur, “just order a bottle of claret, and I’ll see what I can do at a cork, and you may as well tell John to bring up a biseuit, for it’s about lunch-time I fancy.”
The widow did as requested, and gave John orders for a perpetual “not at home,” to Mr. Larkins’s morning calls for the future.
A poor man, who had a termagant wife, after a long dispute, in which she was resolved to have the last word, told her, “If she spoke one more crooked word, he’d beat her brains out.” “Why then, ram’s-horn, you rogue,” said she, “if I die for it.
A Captain of the royal navy, one of the old school, being at a ball at Portsmouth, had been accepted by a beautiful partner, a lady of rank, who, in the most delicate manner possible, hinted to him the propriety of putting on a pair of gloves. “Oh!” was the elegant reply; “never mind me, ma’am: I shall wash my hands when I’ve done dancing.”
was promenading a fashionable street with a bright little boy at his side, when the little fellow called out, “Oh, pa, there goes an editor!” “Hush, son,” said the father, “don’t make fun of the poor man — God only knows what you may come to yet.”
who was sent to call a gentleman to dinner, found him engaged in using a tooth-brush. “Well, is he coming?” said the lady of the house as the servant returned.—”Yes, ma’am, directly,” was the reply, “he’s just sharpening his teeth.”
that he would be virtuous for his own sake, though nobody were to know it; as he would be clean for bis own sake, though nobody were to see him.
pronounced one of his orations with a blanket around his shoulders, more people would have laughed at his dress than would have admired his eloquence.
was recently overtaken by a “train of thought.” Through skillful medical treatment it is hoped he may survive the shock.
In Llangollen churchyard, North Wales, on the tomb of Morris and Catherine Jones, is the following curious epitaph:
Our life is but a winter’s day—
Some only breakfast and away.
Others to dinner stay and are well fed,
The oldest man sups and goes to bed.
Large is his debt who lingers out the day;
Who goes the soonest has the least to pay.