4. No Inmate shall make any Pun, or attempt at the same, until
the Blessing has been asked and the company are decently seated.
7. Certain Puns having been placed on the _Index Expurgatorius_
of the Institution, no Inmate shall be allowed to utter them, on
pain of being debarred the perusal of _Punch_ and _Vanity Fair_,
and, if repeated, deprived of his _Joseph Miller_.
Among these are the following:
Allusions to _Attic salt_, when asked to pass the salt-cellar.
Remarks on the Inmates being _mustered_, etc., etc.
Associating baked beans with the _bene_-factors of the
Institution.
Saying that beef-eating is _befitting_, etc., etc.
The following are also prohibited, excepting to such Inmates as
may have lost their faculties and cannot any longer make Puns of
their own:
“——your own _hair_ or a wig”; “it will be _long enough_,” etc.,
etc.; “little of its age,” etc., etc.; also, playing upon the
following words: _hos_pital; _mayor_; _pun_; _pitied_; _bread_;
_sauce_, etc., etc., etc. _See_ INDEX EXPURGATORIUS, _printed
for use of Inmates_.
The subjoined Conundrum is not allowed: Why is Hasty Pudding
like the Prince? Because it comes attended by its _sweet_; nor
this variation to it, _to wit_: Because the _’lasses runs after
it_.
The Superintendent, who went round with us, had been a noted
punster in his time, and well known in the business world, but lost
his customers by making too free with their names—as in the famous
story he set afloat in ’29 _of four Jerries_ attaching to the names
of a noted Judge, an eminent Lawyer, the Secretary of the Board
of Foreign Missions, and the well-known Landlord at Springfield.
One of the _four Jerries_, he added, was of gigantic magnitude.
The play on words was brought out by an accidental remark of
Solomons, the well-known Banker. “_Capital punishment_!” the Jew
was overheard saying, with reference to the guilty parties. He was
understood, as saying, _A capital pun is meant_, which led to an
investigation and the relief of the greatly excited public mind.
The Superintendent showed some of his old tendencies, as he went
round with us.
“Do you know”—he broke out all at once—“why they don’t take steppes
in Tartary for establishing Insane Hospitals?”
We both confessed ignorance.
“Because there are _nomad_ people to be found there,” he said, with
a dignified smile.
He proceeded to introduce us to different Inmates. The first was
a middle-aged, scholarly man, who was seated at a table with a
_Webster’s Dictionary_ and a sheet of paper before him.
“Well, what luck to-day, Mr. Mowzer?” said the Superintendent.
“Three or four only,” said Mr. Mowzer. “Will you hear ’em now—now
I’m here?”
We all nodded.
“Don’t you see Webster _ers_ in the words cent_er_ and theat_er_?
“If he spells leather _lether_, and feather _fether_, isn’t there
danger that he’ll give us a _bad spell of weather_?
“Besides, Webster is a resurrectionist; he does not allow _u_ to
rest quietly in the _mould_.
“And again, because Mr. Worcester inserts an illustration in his
text, is that any reason why Mr. Webster’s publishers should hitch
one on in their appendix? It’s what I call a _Connect-a-cut_ trick.
“Why is his way of spelling like the floor of an oven? Because it
is _under bread_.”
“Mowzer!” said the Superintendent, “that word is on the Index!”
“I forgot,” said Mr. Mowzer; “please don’t deprive me of _Vanity
Fair_ this one time, sir.”
“These are all, this morning. Good day, gentlemen.” Then to the
Superintendent: “Add you, sir!”
The next Inmate was a semi-idiotic-looking old man. He had a heap
of block-letters before him, and, as we came up, he pointed,
without saying a word, to the arrangements he had made with them
on the table. They were evidently anagrams, and had the merit of
transposing the letters of the words employed without addition or
subtraction. Here are a few of them:
TIMES. SMITE!
POST. STOP!
TRIBUNE. TRUE NIB.
WORLD. DR. OWL.
ADVERTISER. { RES VERI DAT.
{ IS TRUE. READ!
ALLOPATHY. ALL O’ TH’ PAY.
HOMŒOPATHY. O, THE ——! O! O, MY! PAH!
The mention of several New York papers led to two or three
questions. Thus: Whether the Editor of _The Tribune_ was _H.G.
really_? If the complexion of his politics were not accounted for
by his being _an eager_ person himself? Whether Wendell _Fillips_
were not a reduced copy of John _Knocks_? Whether a New York
_Feuilletoniste_ is not the same thing as a _Fellow down East_?
At this time a plausible-looking, bald-headed man joined us,
evidently waiting to take a part in the conversation.
“Good morning, Mr. Riggles,” said the Superintendent, “Anything
fresh this morning? Any Conundrum?”
“I haven’t looked at the cattle,” he answered, dryly.
“Cattle? Why cattle?”
“Why, to see if there’s any _corn under ’em_!” he said; and
immediately asked, “Why is Douglas like the earth?”
We tried, but couldn’t guess.
“Because he was _flattened out at the polls_!” said Mr. Riggles.
“A famous politician, formerly,” said the Superintendent. “His
grandfather was a _seize-Hessian-ist_ in the Revolutionary War. By
the way, I hear the _freeze-oil_ doctrines don’t go down at New
Bedford.”
The next Inmate looked as if he might have been a sailor formerly.
“Ask him what his calling was,” said the Superintendent.
“Followed the sea,” he replied to the question put by one of us.
“Went as mate in a fishing-schooner.”
“Why did you give it up?”
“Because I didn’t like working for _two mast-ers_,” he replied.
Presently we came upon a group of elderly persons, gathered about
a venerable gentleman with flowing locks, who was propounding
questions to a row of Inmates.
“Can any Inmate give me a motto for M. Berger?” he said.
Nobody responded for two or three minutes. At last one old man,
whom I at once recognized as a Graduate of our University (Anno
1800) held up his hand.
“Rem _a cue_ tetigit.”
“Go to the head of the class, Josselyn,” said the venerable
patriarch.
The successful Inmate did as he was told, but in a very rough way,
pushing against two or three of the Class.
“How is this?” said the Patriarch.
“You told me to go up _jostlin’_,” he replied.
The old gentlemen who had been shoved about enjoyed the pun too
much to be angry.
Presently the Patriarch asked again:
“Why was M. Berger authorized to go to the dances given to the
Prince?”
The Class had to give up this, and he answered it himself:
“Because every one of his carroms was a _tick-it_ to the ball.”
“Who collects the money to defray the expenses of the last campaign
in Italy?” asked the Patriarch.
Here again the Class failed.
“The war-cloud’s rolling _Dun_,” he answered.
“And what is mulled wine made with?”
Three or four voices exclaimed at once:
“_Sizzle-y_ Madeira!”
Here a servant entered, and said, “Luncheon-time.” The old
gentlemen, who have excellent appetites, dispersed at once, one
of them politely asking us if we would not stop and have a bit of
bread and a little mite of cheese.
“There is one thing I have forgotten to show you,” said the
Superintendent, “the cell for the confinement of violent and
unmanageable Punsters.”
We were very curious to see it, particularly with reference to the
alleged absence of every object upon which a play of words could
possibly be made.
The Superintendent led us up some dark stairs to a corridor, then
along a narrow passage, then down a broad flight of steps into
another passageway, and opened a large door which looked out on the
main entrance.
“We have not seen the cell for the confinement of ‘violent and
unmanageable’ Punsters,” we both exclaimed.
“This is the _sell_!” he exclaimed, pointing to the outside
prospect.
My friend, the Director, looked me in the face so good-naturedly
that I had to laugh.
“We like to humor the Inmates,” he said. “It has a bad effect,
we find, on their health and spirits to disappoint them of their
little pleasantries. Some of the jests to which we have listened
are not new to me, though I dare say you may not have heard them
often before. The same thing happens in general society, with this
additional disadvantage, that there is no punishment provided for
‘violent and unmanageable’ Punsters, as in our Institution.”
We made our bow to the Superintendent and walked to the place
where our carriage was waiting for us. On our way, an exceedingly
decrepit old man moved slowly toward us, with a perfectly blank
look on his face, but still appearing as if he wished to speak.
“Look!” said the Director—“that is our Centenarian.”
The ancient man crawled toward us, cocked one eye, with which he
seemed to see a little, up at us, and said:
“Sarvant, young Gentlemen. Why is a—a—a—like a—a—a—? Give it up?
Because it’s a—a—a—a—.”
He smiled a pleasant smile, as if it were all plain enough.
“One hundred and seven last Christmas,” said the Director. “Of late
years he puts his whole Conundrums in blank—but they please him
just as well.”
We took our departure, much gratified and instructed by our visit,
hoping to have some future opportunity of inspecting the Records of
this excellent Charity and making extracts for the benefit of our
Readers.