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.
858. Bishop Sherlock and Hoadly were both fresh-men of the same year, at Catherine Hall, Cambridge. The classical subject in which they were first lectured, was Tully’s Offices, and it so happened, one morning, that Hoadly received a compliment from the tutor for the excellence of his construing. Sherlock, a little vexed at the preference shown to his rival (for such they then were), and, thinking to bore Hoadly by the remark, said, when they left the lecture-room, Ben, you made good use of L’Estrange’s translation to-day. Why, no, Tom, retorted Hoadly, I did not, for I had not got one; and I forgot to borrow yours, which is the only one in the college.
859. A cockney sportsman, being out one day amusing himself with shooting, happened to fire through a hedge, on the other side of which was a man, standing or leaning, no matter which. The shot passed through the man’s hat, but missed the bird. Did you fire at me, sir? he hastily asked. O no, sir, said the shrewd sportsman, I never hit what I fire at.
860. Some persons broke into the stables belonging to a troop of horse, which was quartered at Carlisle, and wantonly docked the tail of every horse close to the rump. The captain, relating the circumstance next day, to a brother officer, said he was at a loss what to do with the horses. I fancy you must dispose of them by wholesale, was the reply. Why by wholesale? Because you’ll certainly find it impossible to retail them.
861. At one of the Holland House Sunday dinner-parties, a few years ago, Crockford’s club, then forming, was talked of; and the noble hostess observed, that the female passion for diamonds was surely less ruinous than the rage for play among men. In short, you think, said Mr. Rogers, that clubs are worse than diamonds. This joke excited a laugh, and when it had subsided, Sydney Smith wrote the following impromptu sermonet—most appropriately on a card;
Thoughtless that “all that’s brightest fades,”
Unmindful of that Knave of Spades,
The Sexton and his Subs: