852. Some soldiers at Chelsea were bragging of the privations they had often undergone; when one of them said, he had slept for weeks on rough boards, with a wooden pillow; the other observed, that was a comfort to what he endured, having slept night after night, in Italy, on marble. An Irish fisherman, who was in company, observed, It was all bother and nonsense, for he had often slept on a bed of oysters. 853. A droll fellow, who got a livelihood by fiddling at fairs and about the country, was one day met by an acquaintance that had not seen him a great while, who accosted him thus: Bless me! what, are you alive? Why not? answered the fiddler; did you send anybody to kill me? No, replied the other, but I was told you were dead. Ay, so it was reported, it seems, said the fiddler, but I knew it was false as soon as I heard it. 854. Mr. M―, the artist, was reading the paper the other day, while his boy, who had the daily task of preparing his palette for him, was rubbing in the various tints, when the boy suddenly stopped, and, with an anxious look, said, Pray, sir, I have heard so much about it, will you have the goodness to tell me what is the Color o’ Morbus? 855. Milton, the British Homer, and prince of modern poets, in his latter days, and when he was blind―(a thing some men do with their eyes open), married a shrew. The Duke of Buckingham one day, in Milton’s hearing, called her a rose. I am no judge of flowers, observed Milton, but it may be so, for I feel the thorns daily. 856. One of the wooden mitres, carved by Gui. Gibbon, over one of the stalls, in the cathedral church of Canterbury, happening to become loose, Jessy White, the surveyor of that edifice, inquired of the dean whether he should make it fast; for, perhaps, said Jessy, it may fall on your reverence’s head. Well, Jessy, suppose it does, answered the humorous Cantab, suppose it does fall on my head, I don’t know that a mitre falling on my head would hurt it. 857. A gentleman of Magdalen College, whose name was Nott, returning late from his friend’s rooms in rather a merry mood, and, not quite able to preserve his centre of gravity, in his way home, attracted the attention of the proctor, who demanded his name and college. I am Nott of Maudlin, was the hiccuping reply. Sir, said the proctor, in an angry tone, I did not ask of what college you are not, but of what college you are. I am Nott of Maudlin, was again the broken reply. The proctor, enraged at what he considered contumely, insisted on accompanying him to Maudlin, whither having arrived, he demanded of the porter whether he knew the gentleman. Know him, sir, said the porter, yes, it is Mr. Nott, of this college. The proctor now perceived his error in not understanding the gentleman, and, laughing heartily at the affair, wished him a good night.