The first Protestant Duke of Norfolk, carrying the sword of state before James II. to his chapel, stopped at the door, and would go no further. The king said, “Your father would have gone farther:” to which the Duke answered, “Your father would not have gone so far.”
Hugh Peters, the puritan, preaching on the Devil entering the swine, said, – “My beloved, for conclusion, I shall give three observations on the text; which, for your better remembrance, I shall clothe in three English proverbs. 1. The Devil went from men into swine: he had rather play at small game than stand out. 2. When he possessed them, they ran down a bank into the sea: they must needs go whom the Devil drives. 3. They were all, no less than two thousand, drowned in the sea: the Devil brought his hogs to a fair market.”
Hugh Peters, preaching a sermon to one of the Companies of London, the object of which was to exhort them to love and unity, he concluded by expressing a wish, that they might all join in concord, accord, or any other cord, so that they might all hang together.
Sir Isaac Newton was once riding over Salisbury Plain, when a boy keeping sheep called to him, “Sir, you had better make haste on, or you will get a wet jacket.” Newton, looking round and observing neither clouds nor a speck on the horizon, jogged on, taking very little notice of the rustic’s information. He had made but a few miles, when a storm suddenly arising, drenched him to the skin. Surprised at the circumstance, and determined, if possible, to ascertain how an ignorant boy had attained a precision and knowledge in the weather of which the wisest philosophers would be proud, he rode back, wet as he was. “My lad,” said Newton, “I’ll give thee a guinea, if thou wilt tell me how thou canst foretell the weather so truly.” “Will ye, sir? I will then!” and the boy, scratching his head, and holding out his hand for the guinea; “Now, sir,” having received the money, and pointing to his sheep, “when you see that black ram turn his tail towards the wind, ’tis a sure sign of rain within an hour.” “What!” exclaimed the philosopher, “must I, in order to foretell the weather, stay here and watch which way that black ram turns his tail?” “Yes, sir.” Off rode Newton, quite satisfied with his discovery.
Sheridan was one day accosted by a gentlemanly looking elderly man, who had forgotten the name of the street to which he was going, when the following dialogue ensued:
Stranger. “Sir, I wish to go to a street the name of which I have forgotten; it is a very uncommon name; pray, sir, can you tell me of any such street near?”
Sheridan. “Perhaps, sir, you mean John Street?”
Stranger. “No; it is a street with an unusual name.”
Sheridan. “It can’t be Charles Street?”
Stranger (a little impatiently). “It is not a common name – the most unusual name for a street.”
Sheridan. “Surely, sir, you are not looking for King Street?”
Stranger (growing more impatient). “I tell you, sir, it is a street with a very odd name.”
Sheridan. “Bless me, sir, it is not Queen Street, is it?”
Stranger (evincing some degree of irritation). “Queen Street! no, no! it is a sort of a curious name, I tell you.”
Sheridan. “I wish, sir, I could assist you: let me think. It may be Oxford Street?”
Stranger (getting testy). “Sir, for Heaven’s sake, think; I keep telling you, that it is a street with any thing but a common name; any body knows Oxford Street.”
Sheridan. “Perhaps, the street has no name after all.”
Stranger. “No name, sir! Why, I tell you it has, – confound the name!”
Sheridan. “Really, sir, I am very sorry that I am unable to assist you; but let me suggest Piccadilly.”
The stranger could no longer restrain his irritation, but bounced away, exclaiming, “Oh, damn it, what a thick-headed fellow!” Sheridan, calling to him and bowing, replied, “Sir, I envy your admirable memory;” then walked on, enjoying his joke.1
Between Tickell and Sheridan there was a never-ending “skirmish of wit,” both verbal and practical; and the latter kind, in particular, was carried on between them with all the waggery, and, not unfrequently, the malice of school-boys.
On one occasion, Sheridan having covered the floor of a dark passage, leading from the drawing-room, with all the plates and dishes of the house, ranged closely together, provoked his unconscious play-fellow to pursue him into the midst of them. Having left a path for his own escape, he passed through easily, but Tickell falling at full length into the ambuscade, was very much cut in several places. The next day, Lord John Townshend, on paying a visit to the bedside of Tickell, found him covered with patches, and indignantly vowing vengeance against Sheridan for his unjustifiable trick. In the midst of his anger, however, he could not help exclaiming, with the true feeling of an amateur of this sort of mischief, “But how amazingly well done it was!”
Stevens (who died gravedigger of Clerkenwell, in 1768, at the age of ninety), was once on an examination before one of the courts in Westminster Hall, relative to some parochial affairs, when, being asked who he was, he replied “I am gravedigger of the parish of St. James’s, Clerkenwell, at your honour’s service.”
An anecdote is told of Mr. Roger of Werndee, in Monmouthshire, which exhibits the pride of ancestry in a striking point of view. His house was in such a state of dilapidation, that the proprietor was in danger of perishing under the ruins of the ancient mansion, which he venerated even in decay. A stranger, whom he accidently met at the foot of the Skyrrid, made various inquiries respecting the country, the prospects, and the neighbouring houses, and among others, asked, “Whose is this antique mansion before us?” “That, sir, is Werndee, a very ancient house; for out of it came the Earls of Pembroke of the first line, and the Earls of Pembroke of the second line; the Lords Herberts of Cherbury, the Herberts of Coldbrook, Ramsay, Cardiff, and York; the Morgans of Acton; the Earl of Hunsdon; the houses of Ircowm and Lanarth, and all the Powells. Out of this house, also, by the female line, came the Duke of Beaufort.” “And pray, sir, who lives there now?” “I do sir.” “Then pardon me, and accept a piece of advice; come out of it yourself, or you’ll soon be buried in the ruins of it.”
George Selwyn one day dining at the Duke of Richmond’s, a French marquis was declaiming on the ingenuity of his countryman; “who,” he said, “were de grande artistes for de modes and de fashions, pour tout le monde. For instance,” said he, “look at de roffel (ruffle), dat fine ornament for de hand and for de breast: de Frenchman invent it, and all de oder nations in Europe quickly adopt de same plan.” “True,” replied Mr. Selwyn, “we allow that your countrymen have great merit in invention; but you must at the same time admit, that, though the English are not an inventive, they are at least an improving people: for example, to the very articles which you mention they have made a very important and useful addition.” “Les Anglois, Mistare Selvin,” returned the Frenchman, stroking and pulling down the ruffles on his breast and hands, “are, sans doute, ver clevar men; mais je ne connois pas quelle improvement dey could make to de roffel; que ce la, Monsieur?” “Why, by adding a shirt to it,” replied Selwyn.
A Russian officer, named Valensky, who had a command in the Persian expedition, had once been beaten