On an Oxford organist:
Here lies one blown out of breath,
Who lived a merry life and died a Merideth.
On a Norwich celebrity:
Hic jacet Plus, plus non est hic,
Plus et non plus, quomodo sic?
Here lies More, no more is he,
More and no more, how can that be?
In All Saints’ Church, Hertford, we are told “Here _sleeps_ Mr. _Wake_.”
The inscription over the bones of Captain Jones, the famous traveller
and story-teller, winds up with “He swore all’s true, yet here he
_lies_.” On the slab of a cockney cook is written, “Peace to his
hashes.” Of a drunken cobbler, a friend to _awl_, who toward the close
of life repented of his evil courses, it was said, “He saved his _sole_
by _mending at the last_.” Of John Potter, Archbishop of Canterbury,
1736, it is recorded, “Potter himself is turned to clay.”
A well known anecdote of Dr. Johnson’s dislike of punning is told in the
following way: “Sir,” said Johnson, “I hate a pun. A man who would
perpetrate a pun would have little hesitation in picking a pocket.” Upon
this, Boswell hinted that his illustrious friend’s dislike to this
species of small wit might arise from his inability to play upon words.
“Sir,” roared Johnson, “if I were punish-ed for every pun I shed, there
would not be left a puny shed of my punnish head.”
Two merchants of a Scotch town were noted for many sharp bargains. One
of them was named Strong and the other answered to the name of Wiley.
One Sunday the good old minister greatly surprised his hearers by
invoking “a blessing upon us, for our enemies are wily and strong, as
Thou knowest, O Lord.” Notwithstanding the solemnity of the occasion,
few could resist a smile, feeling how applicable it was.
Among a party dining with W. S. Caine, M.P., was Rev. Dr. John Watson
(Ian Maclaren). Mr. Caine offered to give fifty pounds to a hospital
fund through the man who would make the best pun on his name within five
minutes. Cogitation became active, and then, just as the time was about
to expire, and Mr. Caine thought he would escape, Mr. Watson said,
“Don’t be in such a hurry, Caine.”
Daniel Webster, when a young man in New Hampshire, indulged in a form of
pleasantry on one occasion, unusual with him even in his lightest moods.
Party spirit running high in Portsmouth in the days of the embargo,
great efforts were made at an annual State election by both parties to
carry the town. The Republicans succeeded in electing their moderator,
Dr. Goddard, a position of potentiality, because he decided, in case of
a challenge, the right to vote. A man’s vote was offered on the part of
Mr. Webster’s friends which the Republican party objected to, and the
moderator was appealed to for a decision. The doctor hesitated; he did
not wish to decide against his own party, and still he was too
conscientious to make intentionally a wrong decision. He seemed at a
loss what to do. “I stand,” said he to the meeting, “between two
dangers; on the one side is Scylla, on the other, Charybdis, and I don’t
know which to do.” “I fear then,” said Mr. Webster, “that your Honor
will take the _silly_ side.”
In the way of oddities among the books may be noted a short man reading
Longfellow; a burglar picking at Locke; a jeweller devouring Goldsmith;
an artilleryman with Shelley; an omnibus driver calling for one Moore; a
nice young man going to the Dickens; a laborer at his Lever; a young
woman with her Lover; a Tom studying Dick’s works; a lancer learning
Shakspeare; a servant looking for the Butler; a miller deep in Mill; a
glazier’s hour with Paine; a hedger absorbed in Hawthorne; a Dutchman
interested in Holland; a domestic man with Holmes; a bookseller trying
to save his Bacon; a woman in Thiers; a lazy man’s Dumas; a determined
man with Kant; a corn-doctor with Bunyan’s Progress; a philologist
contemplating Wordsworth; a minstrel reading Emerson; a Catholic at
Pope; a creditor pleased with Sue; a jolly fellow laughing over Sterne.