The Punster's Pocket-book

A PUNNING LETTER TO THE EARL OF PEMBROKE,

PRETENDED TO BE THE DYING SPEECH OF TOM ASHE, WHOSE BROTHER, THE REVEREND DILLON ASHE, WAS NICK-NAMED DILLY

Tom Ashe died last night. It is conceived he was so puffed up by my lord lieutenant's favour, that it struck him into a fever. I here send you his dying speech, as it was exactly taken by a friend in short-hand. It is something long, and a little incoherent; but he was several hours delivering it, and with several intervals. His friends were about the bed, and he spoke to them thus:

My Friends,

It is time for a man to look grave, when he has one foot there. I once had only a punnic fear of death; but of late I have pundred it more seriously. Every fit of coughing hath put me in mind of my coffin; though dissolute men seldomest think of dissolution. This is a very great alteration: I, that supported myself with good wine, must now be myself supported by a small bier. A fortune-teller once looked on my hand, and said, 'This man is to be a great traveller; he will soon be at the Diet of Worms, and from thence go to Ratisbone.' But now I understand his double meaning. I desire to be privately buried, for I think a public funeral looks like Bury fair; and the rites of the dead too often prove wrong to the living. Methinks the word itself best expresses the number, neither few nor all. A dying man should not think of obsequies, but ob se quies. Little did I think you would so soon see poor Tom stown under a tomb stone. But as the mole crumbles the mould about her, so a man of small mould, before I am old, may moulder away. Sometimes I've rav'd that I should revive; but physicians tell me, that, when once the great artery has drawn the heart awry, we shall find the cor di all, in spite of all the highest cordial. Brother, you are fond of Daffy's elixir: but, when death comes, the world will see that, in spite of Daffy down Dilly, whatever doctors may design by their medicines, a man in a dropsy drops he not, in spite of Goddard's drops, though none are reckoned such high drops? – I find death smells the blood of an Englishman: a fee faintly fumbled out will be a weak defence against his fee-fa-fum. —$1.$2. are no letters in death's alphabet; he has not half a bit of either: he moves his scythe, but will not be moved by all our sighs. Every thing ought to put us in mind of death. Physicians affirm, that our very food breeds it in us; so that in our dieting, we may be said to di eating. There is something ominous, not only in the names of diseases, as di-arrhœa, di-abetes, di-sentery, but even in the drugs designed to preserve our lives; as di-acodium, di-apente, di-ascordium. I perceive Dr. Howard (and I feel how hard) lay thumb on my pulse, then pulls it back, as if he saw lethum in my face. I see as bad in his; for sure there is no physic like a sick phiz. He thinks I shall decease before the day cease; but, before I die, before the bell hath toll'd, and Tom Tollman is told that little Tom, though not old, has paid nature's toll, I do desire to give some advice to those that survive me. First, let gamesters consider that death is hazard and passage, upon the turn of a die. Let lawyers consider it as a hard case. And let punners consider how hard it is to die jesting, when death is so hard in digesting.

As for my lord-lieutenant the Earl of Mungomerry, I am sure he be-wales my misfortune; and it would move him to stand by, when the carpenter (while my friends grieve and make an odd splutter) nails up my coffin. I will make a short affidavi-t, that, if he makes my epitaph, I will take it for a great honour; and it is a plentiful subject. His excellency may say, that the art of punning is dead with Tom. Tom has taken all puns away with him. Omne tulit pun-Tom.– May his excellency long live tenant to the queen in Ireland. We never Herberd so good a governor before. Sure he mun-go-merry home, that has made a kingdom so happy. I hear, my friends design to publish a collection of my puns. Now I do confess, I have let many a pun go, which did never pungo; therefore the world must read the bad as well as the good. Virgil has long foretold it: Punica mala leges. – I have had several forebodings that I should soon die: I have of late been often at committees, where I have sat de die in diem. – I conversed much with the usher of the black rod: I saw his medals; and woe is me dull soul, not to consider they are but dead men's faces stampt over and over by the living, which will shortly be my condition.

Tell Sir Anthony Fountain, I ran clear to the bottom, and wish he may be a late a river where I am going. He used to brook compliments. May his sand be long a running; not quick sand like mine! Bid him avoid poring upon monuments and books; which is in reality but running among rocks and shelves, to stop his course. May his waters never be troubled with mud or gravel, nor stopt by any grinding stone! May his friends be all true trouts, and his enemies laid as flat as flounders! I look upon him as the most fluent of his race; therefore let him not despond. I foresee his black rod will advance to a pike, and destroy all our ills.

But I am going; my wind in lungs is turning to a winding sheet. The thoughts of a pall begin to a pall me. Life is but a vapour, car elle va pour la moindre cause. Farewell: I have lived ad amicorum fastidium, and now behold how fast I dium!

Here his breath failed him, and he expired. There are some false spellings here and there; but they must be pardoned in a dying man.

A LETTER GIVING AN ACCOUNT OF A PESTILENT NEIGHBOUR

Sir,

You must give me leave to complain of a pestilent fellow in my neighbourhood, who is always beating mortar; yet I cannot find he ever builds. In talking, he useth such hard words, that I want a Drugger-man to interpret them. But all is not gold that glisters. A pot he carries to most houses where he visits. He makes his prentice his gally slave. I wish our lane were purged of him. Yet he pretends to be a cordial man. Every spring his shop is crowded with country-folks, who, by their leaves, in my opinion, help him to do a great deal of mischief. He is full of scruples; and so very litigious, that he files bills against all his acquaintance: and, though he be much troubled with the simples, yet I assure you he is a Jesuitical dog; as you may know by his bark. Of all poetry he loves the dram-a-tick. I am, &c.

A PUNNING EPISTLE ON MONEY

Worthy Mr. Pennyfeather,

Madam Johnson has been very ill-used by her servants; they put shillings into her broth instead of groats, which made her stamp. I hear they had them from one Tom Ducket, a tenant to Major Noble, who I am told is reduced to nine-pence. We are doubting whether we shall dine at the Crown or the Angel. Honest Mark Cob, who has been much moydored of late, will dine with us, but 'Squire Manypenny and Captain Sterling desire to be excused, for they are engaged with Ned Silver to dine in Change-alley. They live in great har-mony; they met altogether last week, and sate as loving as horses in a pound. I suppose you have heard of the rhino-ceros lately arrived here. A captain was cash-iered on Wednesday. A scavenger abused me this morning, but I made him down with his dust, which indeed was a far-thing from my intentions. Mrs. Brent had a pi-stole from her; I would a' ginny'e a good deal for such another. Mrs. Dingley has made a souse for your collard-eel. Alderman Coyn presents his service to you. I have nothing but half-pens to write with, so that you must excuse this scrawl. One of my seals fell into a chink. I am, without alloy,

Your most obedient,TOM MITE.

P.S. Mr. Cole presents his service to you, of which I am a-tester.

GOD'S REVENGE AGAINST PUNNING,

BY DR. ARBUTHNOT;SHOWING THE MISERABLE FATES OF PERSONS ADDICTED TO THIS CRYING SIN IN COURT AND TOWN

Manifold have been the judgments which Heaven, from time to time, for the chastisement of a sinful people, has inflicted on whole nations. For when the degeneracy becomes common, 'tis but just the punishment should be general: Of this kind, in our own unfortunate country, was that destructive pestilence, whose mortality was so fatal, as to sweep away, if Sir William Petty may be believed, five millions of Christian souls, besides women and Jews.

Such also was that dreadful conflagration ensuing, in this famous metropolis of London, which consumed, according to the computation of Sir Samuel Morland, 100,000 houses, not to mention churches and stables.

Scarce had this unhappy nation recovered these funest disasters, when the abomination of playhouses rose up in this land: from hence hath an inundation of obscenity flowed from the court and overspread the kingdom. Even infants disfigured the walls of holy temples with exorbitant representations of the members of generation: nay, no sooner had they learnt to spell, but they had wickedness enough to write the names thereof in large capitals: an enormity observed by travellers to be found in no country but England.

But when whoring and popery were driven hence by the happy Revolution, still the nation so greatly offended, that Socinianism, Arianism, and Whistonism triumphed in our streets, and were in a manner become universal.

And yet still, after all these visitations, it has pleased Heaven to visit us with a contagion more epidemical, and of consequence more fatal: this was foretold to us, first, by that unparalleled eclipse in 1714; secondly, by the dreadful coruscation in the air this present year; and, thirdly, by the nine comets seen at once over Soho-square, by Mrs. Katherine Wadlington, and others: a contagion that first crept in among the first quality, descended to their footmen, and infused itself into their ladies – I mean the woeful practice of PUNNING. This does occasion the corruption of our language, and therein of the word of God translated into our language, which certainly every sober Christian must tremble at.

Now such is the enormity of this abomination, that our very nobles not only commit punning over tea, and in taverns, but even on the Lord's day, and in the king's chapel: therefore, to deter men from this evil practice, I shall give some true and dreadful examples of God's revenge against punsters.

The Right Honourable – (but it is not safe to insert the name of an eminent nobleman in this paper, yet I will venture to say that such a one has been seen; which is all we can say, considering the largeness of his sleeves) – This young nobleman was not only a flagitious punster himself, but was accessary to the punning of others, by consent, by provocation, by connivance, and by defence of the evil committed; for which the Lord mercifully spared his neck, but as a mark of reprobation wryed his nose.

Another nobleman of great hopes, no less guilty of the same crime, was made the punisher of himself with his own hand, in the loss of 500 pounds at box and dice; whereby this unfortunate young gentleman incurred the heavy displeasure of his aged grandmother.

A third of no less illustrious extraction, for the same vice, was permitted to fall into the arms of a Dalilah, who may one day cut off his curious hair, and deliver him up to the Philistines.

Colonel F – , an ancient gentleman of grave deportment, gave into this sin so early in his youth, that whenever his tongue endeavours to speak common sense, he hesitates so as not to be understood.

Thomas Pickle, gentleman, for the same crime, banished to Minorca.

Muley Hamet, from a wealthy and hopeful officer in the army, turned a miserable invalid at Tilbury-Fort.

– Eustace, Esq. for the murder of much of the King's English in Ireland, is quite deprived of his reason, and now remains a lively instance of emptiness and vivacity.

Poor Daniel Button, for the same offence, deprived of his wits.

One Samuel, an Irishman, for his forward attempt to pun, was stunted in his stature, and hath been visited all his life after with bulls and blunders.

George Simmons, shoemaker at Turnstile in Holborn, was so given to this custom, and did it with so much success, that his neighbours gave out he was a wit. Which report coming among his creditors, nobody would trust him; so that he is now a bankrupt, and his family in a miserable condition.

Divers eminent clergymen of the university of Cambridge, for having propagated this vice, became great drunkards and Tories.

From which calamities, the Lord in his mercy defend us all, &c. &c.

THE BIRTH OF A PUN18

When Adam and Eve, as the saints all believe,From the garden of Eden were driven;They put up a prayer to king Joe in his chair,That a boon he would grant them from heaven.'Twas in vain that old Jove 'gainst their petition strove,Madame Juno determined to grappleHis arguments keen; said the thunderer's queen,"Where's the sin, pray, of stealing an apple?Send Momus, I beg, let him carry an egg,To earth's now disconsolate son;And bid Mistress Eve, that no longer she grieve,For the gods have enclosed them a Pun."Now downward the sprite on the earth did alight,And cracking the shell on the floor,Gave birth to a Pun, full of humour and fun,And sadness they never knew more.

On the subject of puns the late learned author of Hermes and Philological Inquiries has the following remarks and extracts:

A Pun seldom regards MEANING, being chiefly confined to SOUND.

Horace gives a sad example of this spurious wit, where (as Dryden humorously translates it) he makes Persius the buffoon exhort the patriot Brutus to kill Mr. King, that is, Rupilius Rex, because Brutus, when he slew Cæsar, had been accustomed to KING-KILLING.

Hunc Regem occide; operumHoc mihi crede tuorum est.

We have a worse attempt in Homer, where Ulysses makes Polypheme believe his name was ΟΤΤΙΣ, and where the dull Cyclops, after he had lost his eye, upon being asked by his brethren who had done so much mischief, replies, 'twas done by ΟΤΤΙΣ, that is, by NOBODY.

Enigmas are of a more complicated nature, being involved either in pun or metaphor, or sometimes in both.

Ἁνδῥ ἑιδον ωυρἱ χαλκὁν ἑπ' ἱνἑρι κολλἡσανταI saw a man, who, unprovoked with ire,Stuck brass upon another's back by fire.

This Enigma is ingenious, and means the operation of cupping, performed in ancient days by a machine of brass.

In such fancies, contrary to the principles of good metaphor and good writing, a perplexity is caused, not by accident, but by design, and the pleasure lies in the being able to resolve it.

THE ENGLISH CELEBRATED FOR PUNNING ON NAMES

The English are noted for punning on people's names, in allusion to their talent or profession. – Grimaldi was called, from his "grim faces," Grim-all-day; Macready, from his quick study, "Make ready;" Young, from his youthful appearance, "the young actor;" Kean, from his new readings, "the keen actor;" Sinclair, from his beautiful voice, "Mr. Sing clear;" Miss Tree, the lovely vocalist, "the Mystery," &c. &c. &c.: innumerable are the instances in the political world, but quant. suff. Perhaps one of the most laughable of the present day is the pun upon Mr. Thomas Bish, the stockbroker's name; he was then at the head of one of the most respectable tea-dealing establishments in London. His friends sunk his Christian name, excepting the first letter, and jocosely called him Mr. Tea Bish: perhaps the joke was borrowed from an epigram on Mr. Twining, the tea-dealer, viz.

"How curiously names with professions agree,For Twining would be wining, dispossess'd of his T.

But we shall favour the reader with a few of the best modern examples.

OF PUNNING ON SURNAMESMen once were surnamed from their shape or estate,(You all may from history worm it:)There was Lewis the Bulky, and Henry the Great,John Lackland, and Peter the Hermit.But now, when the door-plates of misters and damesAre read, each so constantly variesFrom the owner's trade, figure, and calling, surnamesSeem given by the rule of contraries.Mr. Fox, though provoked, never doubles his fist,Mr. Burns in his grate has no fuel,Mr. Playfair won't catch me at hazard or whist,Mr. Coward was wing'd in a duel.Mr. Wise is a dunce, Mr. King is a Whig,Mr. Coffin's uncommonly sprightly,And huge Mr. Little broke down in a gigWhile driving fat Mrs. Golightly.Mrs. Drinkwater's apt to indulge in a dram,Mrs. Angel's an absolute fury,And meek Mr. Lyon let fierce Mr. LambTweak his nose in the lobby of Drury.At Bath, where the feeble go more than the stout,(A conduct well worthy of Nero,)Over poor Mr. Lightfoot, confined with the gout,Mr. Heaviside danced a Bolero.Miss Joy, wretched maid, when she chose Mr. Love,Found nothing but sorrow await her:She now holds in wedlock, as true as a dove,That fondest of mates, Mr. Hayter.Mr. Oldcastle dwells in a modern-built hut,Miss Sage is of madcaps the archest;Of all the queer bachelors Cupid e'er cut,Old Mr. Younghusband's the starchest.Mr. Child, in a passion, knock'd down Mr. Rock,Mr. Stone like an aspen-leaf shivers,Miss Poole used to dance, but she stands like a stockEver since she became Mrs. Rivers.Mr. Swift hobbles onward, no mortal knows how,He moves as though cords had entwined him;Mr. Metcalfe ran off, upon meeting a cow,With pale Mr. Turnbull behind him.Mr. Barker's as mute as a fish in the sea,Mr. Miles never moves on a journey,Mr. Gotobed sits up till half-after-three,Mr. Makepiece was bred an attorney.Mr. Gardner can't tell a flower from a root,Mr. Wilde with timidity draws back;Mr. Ryder performs all his journeys on foot,Mr. Foote all his journeys on horseback.Mr. Penny, whose father was rolling in wealth,Kick'd down all the fortune his dad won,Large Mr. Le Fever's the picture of health,Mr. Goodenough is but a bad one.Mr. Cruickshank stept into three thousand a-yearBy showing his leg to an heiress: —Now I hope you'll acknowledge I've made it quite clearSurnames ever go by contraries.New Monthly Magazine.

AN EPITAPH, OR PUNNING RUN MAD

Here lies old John Magee, late the landlord at the Sun,He never had an ail, unless when all his ale was done:The Sun was on the sign, tho' what sign his sun was on,No studier of the Zodiac could ever hit upon.Some said it was Aquarius, so queerious he'd get;But he declared no soda-hack should ever share his whet.His burnish'd sun was sol-o, soul-heart'ning was his cheer,And quaffing of good porter long kept him from his bier.As draughtsman he'd no equal, his drawings were so good,And many a noble draught has he taken from the wood, —Rare spirited productions, with tasty views near Cork;And then he had a score or two rum characters in chalk.Above the mantel-taillee his tally it was nail'd,And though he had lost one eyesight, his hop-ticks never fail'd.Good ale and cider sold here, oft made the soldier halt,And sailor Jack, his sail aback, would hoist aboard his malt;Most cordially he'd pour out a cordial for the fair,Whose peeper meant to ogle the peppermint so rare;While buxom Jean would toss off the juniper so gay,And swear it was both sweet and nice as any shrub in May.At last John took to drinking, and drank till drunk with drink;His stuffing he would stuff in till stuff began to shrink;Tho' mistress shook her hand high, he suck'd the sugar-candy,And often closed his brand eye by tippling of the brandy.His servants always firking, his firkins ran so fast,And staggering round his bar-rails, his barrels breathed their last;And when he treated all hands his Hollands ran away,Nor reap'd he fruit from any seed for aniseed to pay.And though he drank the bitters, his bitters still increas'd,He puff'd the more parfait au cœur till all his efforts ceas'd.The storm, alas! was brewing, the brewer drew his till,And Mrs. Figg, for 'bacca, to back her brought her bill.Distillers still'd his spirits, but couldn't still his mind;He told the bailiff he would try a bail if he could find;But fumbling round the tap-room, Death tapp'd him on the head,So here he lies quite flat and stale, because, d'ye see, he's dead.Literary Gazette.

BENJAMIN BASHFUL ON THE VICE OF PUNNING

THE PUNSTER'S FOEWho's he, that from our board is running?He, Sir's an enemy to punning,A bashful foe, who loves not wit —Ergo, because he's none of itWithin his cranium; and at tableSits like the fox in Æsop's fable,Watching the grapes he'd fain devour,And disappointed, calls them sour.A laugh would decompose his metal,And like a dog, with a tin kettleDangling at his tail, he runsFrom witty wags who deal in puns.

TO BERNARD BLACKMANTLE, ESQ.

Sir,

It has just been communicated to me, that you are about to collect and publish a Punster's Pocket-Book, for the express purpose of promoting that pernicious vice, which is already much too prevalent. As an antidote to the evil, I hope you will not fail to insert this my special protest.

B. BASHFUL.

I am a bashful young man of good fortune, who, to use the phrase of the mode, have just come out, and made my entré into the world with the reputation of being a gentleman and a scholar. I could wish you to notice a minor evil in society which tends to poison the springs of taste and knowledge, by bringing forward the flippant, and throwing back the reflective, speaker. I allude to the vice of punning, which tends to destroy all the profit and pleasure of conversation, and embarrass, in the greatest degree, the young and inexperienced.

It is my fate to mix with a circle of fashionable dilettanti, each of them capable of sustaining a part in rational discourse, and of conducting the intellectual conflict with some share of vigour and learning; who, nevertheless, meet together to fritter away time, patience, and attention, with a series of unconnected quibbles and conundrums. Instead of the rich web of fancy, glowing with the vivid creations of lively, intelligent minds, the conversation presents a motley intermixture of shreds of wit and patches of conceit, a chequer-work of incongruities, the very orts and scraps of the "Feast of Reason," the dozings of science, and dregs of literature. If I relate to this group of punsters the most affecting circumstance, I am heard with impatience and inattention, till I chance unwittingly to utter a word susceptible of a double or triple interpretation. The mischievous spark of folly immediately ignites, the moral interest of my tale is undermined, and a loud report of laughter announces the explosion. The genius of orthography frowns in vain: puns are, by the law of custom, entitled to claim entrance into the sensorium either by the eye or the ear: but when a pseudo pun ("for indeed there are counterfeits abroad") is perceptible to neither sense – when read, its wit is not discoverable; and when heard, it cannot be understood: to avoid the horror of an explanation, I find myself obliged to perjure my senses by laughing in ignorance and very sadness, and thus contribute a sanction to the practice I would fain abolish. The evil is subversive of the first principle of society. Is it little to hunger for the bread of wisdom, and to be fed with the husks of folly? Is it little to thirst for the Castalian fount, and see its waters idly wasted in sport or malice? Is it little to seek for the interchange of souls, and find only the reciprocity of nonsense?