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As quickly as possible I told Tommy the story of my visit to Parelli's, and showed him the card which Latimer had sent me by the waiter. He took it out of my hand, looking at me with a sort of half-sceptical amazement. "You're not joking?" he said. "This is Gospel truth you're telling me?" I nodded. "Humour's a bit out of my line nowadays, Tommy," I answered.
Behold that man, with lanky locks, Which hang in strange confusion o'er his brow; And nicely scan his garments, rent and patch'd, In colours varied, like a pictured map; And watch his restless glance now grave, now gay As saddening thought, or merry humour's flash Sweeps o'er the deep-mark'd lines which care hath left; As when the world is steep'd in blackest night, The forked lightning flashes through the sky, And all around leaps into life and light, To sink again in darkness blacker still.
"An' it were dark, I should think it WAS a king that spoke; there's no denying it, when the humour's upon on him he doth thunder and lighten like your true King; now where got he that trick?
"An' it were dark, I should think it WAS a king that spoke; there's no denying it, when the humour's upon on him he doth thunder and lighten like your true King; now where got he that trick?
Directly he spotted me he was at his antics, standing stock still on the pavement in a crouching attitude, and grasping his umbrella like a tomahawk. His humour's always high-class, but he's the sort of fellow who doesn't care a blow what he does. Chronic in that respect, absolutely. The passers-by couldn't think what he was up to. "Whoop-whoop-whoop!" that's what he said. He did, straight.
Grindley junior sat on the cushioned seat beneath the middle window. Good Humour's sub- editor stood before the fire, her hands behind her back. The case appeared to Peter Hope to be one of exceeding difficulty. "Of course," explained Miss Appleyard, "I shall never marry without my father's consent." Peter Hope thought the resolution most proper.
The prevalence of jokers, moreover, spoils the game of humour; the sputter and sparkle of their made jokes interferes with that luminous contemplation of the incongruities of life and the universe which is humour's essence.
He kept at true good humour's mark The social flow of pleasure's tide: He never made a brow look dark, Nor caused a tear, but when he died. No sorrow round his tomb should dwell: More pleased his gay old ghost would be, For funeral song, and passing bell, To hear no sound but THREE TIMES THREE. Mr Panscope. Mr Escot. I presume, sir, you are one of those who value an authority more than a reason.
The miscreants hitherto have defied all vigilance, and Stirn recommends the employment of a regular nightwatch, with a lanthorn and bludgeon." "That may protect the stocks certainly; but will it keep those detestable tracts out of the beer-house?" "We shall shut the beer-house up the next sessions." "The tracts will break out elsewhere, the humour's in the blood!"
Long, for his loss, shall pensive Mem'ry show, Through Humour's mask, the visage of her woe, Day breathe a darkness that no sun dispels, And Night be full of whispers and farewells; While patient Kindness, shadow-like and dim, Droops in its loneliness, bereft of him, Feels its sad doom and sure decadence nigh, For how should Kindness live, when he could die!
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