MCCX.V.—LORD CHATHAM.
Lord Chatham had settled a plan for some sea expedition he had in view, and sent orders to Lord Anson to see the necessary arrangements taken immediately. Mr. Cleveland was sent from the Admiralty to remonstrate on the impossibility of obeying them. He found his lordship in the most excruciating pain, from one of the most severe fits of the gout he had ever experienced. "Impossible, sir," said he, "don't talk to me of impossibilities": and then, raising himself upon his legs, while the sweat stood in large drops upon his forehead, and every fibre of his body was convulsed with agony, "Go, sir, and tell his lordship, that he has to do with a minister who actually treads on impossibilities."
MCCXVI.—"I CAN GET THROUGH."
In the cloisters of Trinity College, beneath the library, are grated windows, through which many of the students have occasionally, after the gates were locked, taken the liberty of passing, without an exeat, in rather a novel style. A certain Cantab was in the act of drawing himself through the bars, and being more than an ordinary mortal's bulk, he stuck fast. One of the fellows of the college passing, stepped up to the student and asked him ironically, "If he should assist him?"—"Thank you," was the reply, "I can get through!" at the same instant he drew himself back on the outside.
MCCXVII.—MAKING FREE.
Formerly, members of parliament had the privilege of franking letters sent by post. When this was so, a sender on one occasion applied to the post-office to know why some of his franked letters had been charged. He was told that the name on the letter did not appear to be in his handwriting. "It was not," he replied, "precisely the same; but the truth is, I happened to be a little tipsy when I franked them."—"Then, sir, will you be so good in future as to write drunk when you make free?"
MCCXVIII.—FICTION AND TRUTH.
Waller, the poet, who was bred at King's College, wrote a fine panegyric on Cromwell, when he assumed the protectorship. Upon the restoration of Charles, Waller wrote another in praise of him, and presented it to the king in person. After his majesty had read the poem, he told Waller that he wrote a better on Cromwell. "Please your majesty," said Waller, like a true courtier, "we poets are always more happy in fiction than in truth."
MCCXIX.—A TAVERN DINNER.
A party of bon-vivants, having drunk an immense quantity of wine, rang for the bill. The bill was accordingly brought, but the amount appeared so enormous to one of the company (not quite so far gone as the rest) that he stammered out, it was impossible so many bottles could have been drunk by seven persons. "True, sir," said the waiter, "but your honor forgets the three gentlemen under the table."