"_I suppose" said Lamb, "that Johnson was thinking of Shakespeare making Hector talk about Aristotle when he says, And panting Time toils after him in vain_." * * * * * _A clergyman who had several livings was under discussion. "Why, such fellows look at a cure of souls like a cure of herrings--so much per hundred." "Ah, but the herring cures fulfil their contract," said Jerrold. He called clerical pluralists_ polypi, _parsons with many stomachs and no hearts_. * * * * * _A young prince had just been born and they were firing royal salutes to celebrate the occasion. A bystander exclaimed, "How they do powder these babies!_" * * * * * _In a pompous speech of self-defence the orator wound up by declaring himself the guardian of his own honour. "What a sinecure!" murmured his opponent._ "_How do you like babies, Mr. Lamb?" cried the gushing mother._ "_Boi-boi-boiled," answered the stammering old bachelor._ * * * * * _Foote used to say that the Irish take us in and the Scots turn us out._ * * * * * _A stout duellist once said to his diminutive antagonist, "It is a perfectly unequal contest. It is almost impossible to hit any one of your size, or to miss any one of mine."_ "_I agree," said his opponent. "And I will chalk my size on your body. We will not count the shots that go out of the ring_." * * * * * "_Ah," said Curran, noticing an Irish friend walking along absent-mindedly with his tongue out, "he is evidently trying to catch the English accent_." * * * * * _Sydney Smith was asked his opinion of Newton's portrait of Tom Moore. "Couldn't you," he asked the painter, "put more hostility to the Established Church into the face?_" * * * * * _An intemperate duke asked Foote how he should go to a masquerade. "Go sober," said Foote._ * * * * * "_I'm afraid the salad is gritty," apologised the host. "Gritty!" mumbled the guest, "it's a gravel path with a few weeds in it_." * * * * * "_I never read a book before reviewing it" said Sydney Smith to a friend. "It is so apt to prejudice one_." * * * * * _Bentley, the publisher, said to Jerrold, "I thought of calling my magazine_ The Wits' Miscellany, _but I have decided on_ Bentley's Miscellany." "_My dear fellow," said Jerrold, "why go to the other extreme?_" * * * * * "_What a magnificent-looking man!" said Goldsmith of a stranger; "he ought to be a Lord Chancellor." He was, in fact, a rich baker. "Not Chancellor," whispered a friend; "only Master of the Rolls_." * * * * *