Two little girls of the city of Norwich, one the daughter of a wealthy brewer, the other the daughter of a gentleman of a small fortune, disputing for precedency,—“You are to consider, miss,” said the brewer’s daughter, “that my papa keeps a coach.” “Very true, miss,” said the other, “and you are to consider that he likewise keeps a dray.”
Three ladies meeting at a visit, a grocer’s wife, a cheesemonger’s, and a tobacconist’s, who perhaps stood more upon the punctilios of precedence than some of their betters would have done at the court-end of the town; when they had risen up and taken their leave, the cheesemonger’s wife was going out of the room first; upon which the grocer’s lady, pulling her back by the skirt of her gown, and stepping before her, “No, madam,” says she, “nothing comes after cheese.” “I beg your pardon, madam,” replies the cheesemonger’s wife, pulling the tobacconist’s lady back, who was also stepping before her, “after cheese comes tobacco.”
MY OWN STEWARD.
“I cannot conceive,” said one English nobleman to another, “how it is that you manage. I am convinced you are not of a temper to spend more than your income; and yet though your estate is less than mine, I could not afford to live at the rate you do.” “My Lord,” said the other, “I have a place.” “A place! you amaze me. I never heard of it till now. Pray what place?” “I am my own steward.”
CURE FOR LOVE.
When Mrs. Rogers, the actress, was young and handsome, the Lord North and Grey used to dangle after her; and one night being behind the scenes, standing with his arms folded, in the posture of a desponding lover, he asked her, with a sigh, “What was a cure for love?” “Your lordship,” said she, “the best in the world.”
LORD RICHARDSON AND THE CARMAN.
Lord Richardson, riding abroad in his coach to take the air, and passing by a carman whose horses were of unequal fatness, called out, “Sirrah, sirrah, resolve me one question: why is your foremost horse so lusty and pampered, and the rest such lean jades?” The carman, not knowing the judge, but deeming him a lawyer, from his habit, answered, “Whoy, the reason is plain enough; my fore horse is the counsellor, and all the rest his clients.”
A POT I CARRY.
A fat apothecary having got drunk at a tavern in Fleet Street, was sent home by his companions in a porter’s basket. When the man came to Temple Bar, he was asked by the keeper within what was his business. “A thing of great weight,” was the answer. After being admitted, he was asked what was in his basket. “A pot I carry,” replied the porter.