Chapter VIII: Part 8

When General Schenck was United States minister to England, the wife of a British cabinet officer assured him that “England made America all that she is.” “Pardon, madam,” said the general, “you remind me of the answer of the Ohio lad in his teens who, attending Sunday school for the first time, was asked by the teacher, ‘Who made you?’ ‘Made me?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Why, God made me about so long (holding his hands about ten inches apart), but I growed the rest.’”

_Opposite Effects_

“The matrimonial fever seems to be raging in this vicinity,” said a smart young man to a young lady in a street car.

“Are you sure it only seems to be?” said she, not wishing to commit herself.

“It is raging about as bad as the yellow fever in the South last year,” said he, further pushing his opportunity.

“Yes,” she replied, in a utilitarian tone of voice, “but it has just the opposite effect upon the population.”

_Maternity_

“I never could _bear_ children,” said a crusty old maid to Mrs. Partington. “Perhaps, if you could, you would like them better,” mildly replied the old lady.

_Date of Possession_

“Don’t you think,” said a husband, mildly rebuking his wife, “that women are possessed by the devil?” “Yes,” was the quick reply, “as soon as they are married.”

_The Old Dominion_

When a distinguished French abbe was making a visit to this country in the early days of our national history, he happened to be dining with some Washington celebrities, of whom John Randolph, of Roanoke, was one, and the place of whose residence was not known to the foreigner. The question was put to the abbe:

“And how were you pleased with the South?”

“Exceedingly; but I confess to having been a little disappointed—I had heard so much—in the Virginia gentlemen.”

“Perhaps you were unfortunate in your circle,” broke in Randolph, with a sneer. “You did not come to Roanoke, for instance.”

“True,” said the abbe, covering his evident annoyance at the rude tone with his usual calm smile. “True; the next time I visit Virginia I shall certainly go to Roanoke.”

“_Gentlemen_,” answered Randolph, emphasizing the word, “do not come to Roanoke unless they are _invited_!”

It was a cruel thrust, but the abbe took it in the same placid manner; and lifting his gray head, paused for a moment to give due emphasis to his words, and then replied, looking inquiringly at the other guests:

“Said I not, messieurs, that I was disappointed in Virginia gentlemen?”

_No Jury Then and There_

Allen, the Quaker, waited upon the Duke of Sussex to remind him of his promise to present a petition to abolish capital punishment. The duke did not seem to like the job, and observed that Scripture has declared, “Whoso sheddeth man’s blood, by man shall his blood be shed.” “But please note,” replied the Quaker, “that when Cain killed Abel he was not hung for it.” “That’s true,” rejoined the duke, “but remember, Allen, there were not twelve men in the world then to make a jury.”

_Each His Own Way_

Among the anecdotes recalled by the death of M. Leverrier is one which describes M. Villemain, the secretary of the French Academy, as declaiming in the library one day in a vigorous manner against Napoleon III. Leverrier, who was an ardent imperialist, chanced to overhear some of his remarks, and demanded, “How dare you speak thus of the emperor in a public building?” Villemain looked up carelessly and replied, “And pray who may you be?” “You know me, sir,” said the astronomer. “Your face may be familiar to me, but I don’t exactly recall your name.” “Leverrier is my name.” “Oh, yes, Leverrier. Astronomer, I think? In his day I was intimately acquainted with M. Laplace; he was an astronomer, too,—and a gentleman.” “Sir,” said Leverrier, “I despise wit, but if you continue speaking thus I warn you that I shall report your words to the proper authorities.” “Well,” said Villemain, shrugging his shoulders, “every one has his way of making a living.”

_Nature’s Painting_

A young lady with very rosy cheeks, walking down Charles Street in Baltimore, overheard a clubman say, “By Heaven, she’s painted.” Turning quickly around, she said, “Yes, and by Heaven only.”

_A Boomerang_

Some years ago several army officers were stopping at a hotel in Washington. Among them were a Captain Emerson and a Captain Jones. Emerson and Jones used to have a good deal of fun together at the dinner-table and elsewhere. One day at the dinner-table, when the dining-hall was well filled, Captain Jones finished his dinner first, got up, and walked almost to the dining-hall door, when Emerson called to him in a loud voice: “Hallo, captain! see here. I want to speak to you a minute.” The captain turned and walked back to the table and bent over him, when Emerson whispered, “I wanted to ask you how far you would have gone if I had not spoken to you.” The captain never changed a muscle, but straightened up and put his fingers into his vest pocket and said, “Captain Emerson, I don’t know of a man in the world I would rather lend five dollars to than you, but the fact is I haven’t a cent with me to-day,” and he turned on his heel and walked away. Emerson was the color of a dozen rainbows, but he had to stand it.

_Relationship_

As my wife and I at the window one day,
Stood watching a man with a monkey,
A cart came by with a “broth of a boy,”
Who was driving a stout little donkey.
To my wife I then spoke, by way of a joke,
“There’s a relation of yours in that carriage,”
To which she replied, as the donkey she spied,
“Ah, yes, a relation _by marriage_.”

_Decay’s Effacement_

In an action that was tried in an English court, when the question in dispute was as to the quality and condition of a gas-pipe that had been laid down many years before, a witness stated that it was an old pipe, and therefore out of condition. The judge remarking that “people do not necessarily get out of condition by being old,” the witness promptly answered, “They do, my lord, if buried in the ground.”

_A Woman’s Revenge_

Sophie Arnould was a last century favorite, whose voice gave way in youth, and of her the Abbe Galiani caustically said, “She has the finest asthma I ever heard.” But the lady revenged herself, if not on him, on the religious order to which he belonged. Hearing that a capuchin had been eaten by wolves, she exclaimed, “Poor beasts! what a dreadful thing hunger must be!”

_Best for Her_

An old bachelor, picking up a book, exclaimed, upon seeing a woodcut representing a man kneeling at the feet of a woman, “Before I would ever kneel to a woman I would encircle my neck with a rope and stretch it!” And then, turning to a young woman, he inquired, “Do you not think it would be the best thing I could do?” “It would, undoubtedly, be the best for the woman.”

_Ecclesiastical Tit-for-Tat_

Two young men who had been chums in college entered the ministry. One became a Baptist, the other an Episcopalian. They did not meet again for several years. When brought together once more, the Baptist invited the Episcopalian to preach from his pulpit, which, though out of the usual course, he did, to the great satisfaction of the congregation. Sermon over, the two divines ducked their heads behind the breastwork of the preaching desk, and held the following colloquy: “Fine sermon, Tom; much obliged. Sorry I can’t repay your kindness for preaching by asking you to stay to our communion. Can’t though, you know, because you have never been baptized.” “Oh, don’t concern yourself about that, Jim. I couldn’t receive the communion at your hands because you have never been ordained.”

_Even Chances_

He was an entire stranger to the girls present, and the boys were mean and would not introduce him. He finally plucked up courage, and, stepping up to a young lady, requested the pleasure of her company for the next dance. She looked at him in surprise, and informed him that she had not the pleasure of his acquaintance. “Well,” remarked the young man, “you don’t take any more chances than I do.”

_A Quick-Witted Damsel_

A young lady was sitting with a gallant captain in a charmingly decorated recess. On her knee was a diminutive niece, placed there _pour les convenances_. In the adjoining room, with the door open, were the rest of the company. Says the little niece, in a jealous and very audible voice, “Auntie, kiss me, too.” What had just happened may be easily imagined. “You should say _twice_, Ethel dear; _two_ is not grammar,” was the immediate rejoinder. Clever girl that!

_Meeting an Emergency_

It is related of Compton, the English comedian, that he happened to stop at a hotel where a meeting of clergymen had just been ended, and the preachers were about to dine. The landlord, seeing his white tie and long black coat, mistook him for a minister, and said he was sure the Dean would be pleased to have the visitor dine with them. “I thank you,” answered Compton, who was very hungry. “I have no card. You can say, the Rev. Mr. Payne, who is passing through the town.” The Dean not only invited Compton to dine, but seated him at his right, and, through courtesy, asked him to say grace. Compton felt a cold chill run through him, but, with perfect presence of mind, he recalled the opening part of the church service, and solemnly said, “O Lord, open thou our _lips_, and our _mouths_ shall show forth thy praise.”

_Declined with Thanks_

When Mr. Wilberforce, the great anti-slavery advocate (the father of the late Bishop of Winchester), was once a candidate for parliamentary honors, his sister, an amiable and witty young lady, offered the compliment of a new gown to each of the wives of those freemen who voted for her brother, on which she was saluted with the cry of “Miss Wilberforce forever!” when she pleasantly observed, “I thank you, gentlemen; but I cannot agree with you, for I really do not wish to be ‘Miss Wilberforce’ forever.”

_A Courteous Retort_

A good illustration of “the retort courteous” was given to Count Herbert Bismarck, the rough-and-rude son of Prince Bismarck, on the occasion of the German Emperor’s visit to Rome. At the railway station Count Herbert pushed rudely against an Italian dignitary, who was watching the proceedings. The dignitary, greatly incensed, remonstrated forcibly against such unceremonious treatment, whereupon Count Herbert turned around haughtily and said,—

“I don’t think you know who I am. I am Count Herbert Bismarck.”

“That,” replied the Italian, bowing politely, “as an excuse, is insufficient, but as an explanation it is ample.”

_Bearding the Lion_

(Snoggs, the Lion Comique of the music halls, has made himself unendurably offensive by his vulgar familiarity.) Lion Comique: “Dunno me? Well, you ought to; my name is in the papers often enough.” Irritated Swell: “I daresay; but I seldom if ever read the police reports!”

_Distinction With a Difference_

Dr. St. John Roosa, of New York, in the course of a speech which he made at the dinner of the State Medical Society, emphasized a point by telling a story. A person not entirely well up in music asked a professor of music if Mendelssohn was still composing. “No,” was the reply, “he is still decomposing.”

_Future Provision_

A refractory Boston youngster was being sharply rebuked by his mother for his numerous transgressions.

“Harry, Harry,” she exclaimed, “if you behave in that way, you will worry your father and mother to death; and what will you do without any father and mother?”

“The Lord is my shepherd,” said the small boy; “I shall not want.”

Which went to prove that his Sunday-school training had not been entirely lost on him.

_Sumner’s Legal Learning_

When Charles Sumner visited Europe the first time, he took with him letters from Judge Story. At one time he was invited to sit with the Lord Chief-Justice of the King’s Bench. During the trial a point arose which seemed a novel one. The Lord Chief-Justice turned to Sumner and asked him if there were any American decisions on that point. “No, your lordship,” he replied, “but this point has been decided in your lordship’s court in such a case,” giving him the citation. This remarkable readiness gave him _éclat_ throughout the kingdom.

_Walk_ vs. _Conversation_

A tutor of one of the Oxford colleges who limped in his walk was some years after accosted by a well-known politician, who asked him if he was not the chaplain of the college at such a time, naming the year. The doctor replied that he was. The interrogator observed, “I knew you by your limp.” “Well,” said the doctor, “it seems my limping made a deeper impression than my preaching.” “Ah, doctor,” was the reply, with ready wit, “it is the highest compliment we can pay a minister, to say that he is known by his walk rather than by his conversation.”

_The Last Chance_

Some years ago Phillips Brooks was recovering from an illness, and was denying himself to all visitors, when Robert G. Ingersoll called. The bishop received him at once. “I appreciate this very much,” said Mr. Ingersoll, “but why do you see me when you deny yourself to your friends?”

“It is this way,” said the bishop; “I feel confident of seeing my friends in the next world, but this may be my last chance of seeing you.”

_Divine Knowledge_

An itinerant called on John Bunyan one day with “a message from the Lord,” saying he had been to half the jails in England in search of him, and was glad at last to find him. To which Bunyan replied, “If the Lord had sent you, you would not have needed to take so much trouble to find me out, for He knew that I have been in Bedford Jail these seven years past.”

_A Quaint Reproof—Acceptability Without a Dress Suit_

Ramsay, in his “Scottish Characteristics,” says, “A well-known member of the Scottish bar, when a youth, was very foppish, and short and sharp in his temper. He was going to pay a visit in the country, and was making a great fuss in preparing and putting up his habiliments. His old aunt was much annoyed at all this bustle, and stopped him with the somewhat contemptuous question, ‘Whaur’s this you’re gaun’, Robbie, that ye mak sic a grand wark about yer claes?’ The young man lost temper, and pettishly replied, ‘I’m going to the devil.’ ‘’Deed, Robbie, then’, was the quiet answer, ‘ye needna be sae nice; he’ll juist tak’ ye as ye are.’”

_Marriage in Heaven_

Says Sylvia to a reverend Dean,
“What reason can be given,
Since marriage is a holy thing,
That there is none in heaven?”

“There are no women,” he replied.
She quick returns the jest:
“Women there are, but I’m afraid
They cannot find a priest.”

_Force and Argument_

Many persons who have seen the following lines of Dr. Trapp on a regiment being sent to Oxford, and at the same time a valuable library sent to Cambridge, by George I. in 1715, have not seen the answer which they provoked:

The king, observing with judicious eyes
The state of both his universities,
To Oxford sent a troop of horse; and why?
That learned body wanted loyalty:
To Cambridge books he sent, as well discerning
How much that loyal body wanted learning.

The answer came from Sir William Browne, a physician of Lynn in Norfolk:

The King to Oxford sent a troop of horse,
For Tories own no argument but force;
With equal skill to Cambridge books he sent,
For Whigs admit no force but argument.

_The Condemned Jester_

Horace Smith, one of the authors of the “Rejected Addresses,” tells us that a king of Scanderoon had a jester who played audacious tricks on the royal family, the courtiers, and persons of great distinction. But at length, emboldened by long tolerance of his freaks and hoaxes, the buffoon went too far:

Some sin, at last, beyond all measure
Incurred the desperate displeasure
Of his serene and raging highness;
Whether he twitched his most revered
And sacred beard
Or had intruded on the shyness
Of the seraglio, or let fly
An epigram at royalty,
None knows—his sin was an occult one;
But records tell us that the sultan,
Meaning to terrrify the knave,
Exclaimed, “’Tis time to stop that breath;
Thy doom is sealed, presumptuous slave!
Thou stand’st condemned to certain death.
Silence, base rebel! no replying.
But such is my indulgence still
Out of my own free grace and will,
I leave to thee the mode of dying.”
“Thy royal will be done—’tis just,”
Replied the wretch, and kissed the dust;
“Since, my last moments to assuage,
Your majesty’s humane decree
Has deigned to leave the choice to me,
I’ll die, so please you, of old age!”

_Marjorie_

“Oh, dear,” said Farmer Brown one day,
“I never saw such weather!
The rain will spoil my meadow-hay
And all my crops together.”
His little daughter climbed his knee;
“I guess the sun will shine,” said she.

“But if the sun,” said Farmer Brown,
“Should bring a dry September,
With vines and stalks all wilted down,
And fields scorched to an ember”—
“Why then ’twill rain,” said Marjorie,
The little girl upon his knee.

“Ah, me!” sighed Farmer Brown, that fall,
“Now what’s the use of living?
No plan of mine succeeds at all”—
“Why, next month comes Thanksgiving,
And then, of course,” said Marjorie,
“We’re all as happy as can be.”

“Well, what should I be thankful for?”
Asked Farmer Brown. “My trouble
This summer has grown more and more,
My losses have been double,
I’ve nothing left”—“Why, you’ve got me!”
Said Marjorie, upon his knee.

THE WORD-TWISTING OF THE PUNSTERS

A nephew of Mr. Bagges, in explaining the mysteries of a tea-kettle, describes the benefits of the application of steam to useful purposes. “For all which,” remarked Mr. Bagges, “we have principally to thank—what was his name?” “Watt was his name, I believe, uncle,” replied the boy.

Of Dr. Keate many anecdotes are afloat among old Etonians. One was told that is well worth repeating. A boy named Rashleigh, with all the others of his class, was set to write a theme on the maxim: _Temere nil facias_. When the time came for giving in the papers, Rashleigh appeared without his. “Where is your theme, sir?” asked the formidable Doctor. “I haven’t done it, sir,” answered Rashleigh. “Not done your theme, sir?” “No, sir!” persisted he, undaunted by the near prospect of the “apple twigs.” “Why, you told me not to do it!” “I told you!” “Yes, sir; you said, _Temere nil facias_—do nothing, Rashleigh.” And the headmaster was so taken by the Latin pun that the apple twigs were allowed to repose on the shelf.

“So old Scrapetill is dead at last,” observed David from the interior of his evening paper; “oceans of money, too.” “What did he do with it?” queried Dora. “Oh, left it here and there,” said David. “That scapegrace son gets a quarter of a million. If he doesn’t paint the town red, now, then I’m a Canadian.” “I should think,” mused Dora, softly, as she helped herself to another needleful of silk—“I should think that anybody with a quart of vermilion might paint a town very red indeed.” And David was so astounded that he put his paper in the fire and laid a fresh stick of wood in the very centre of the plush-covered table.

Punning would not be so bad were it not so infectious. Puns leave germs which lie in idle minds until they fructify and bear a baleful crop of more puns. The other day some of us got to talking about that witty old cynic, Dean Swift, when one of the company took advantage of the opening and gave us this _jeu de mot_ of his: “Why,” asked the Dean, “is it right, by the _lex talionis_, to pick an artist’s pocket?” It was given up, of course, and the answer was: “Because he has pictures.” A silence fell about the table round, until, one by one, we saw it. Then one thoughtful man observed, “It was impossible to give the answer—because the Dean had contrived to reserve the answer to himself. I could not, for instance, say that it is right for me to pick an artist’s pocket, because he has picked yours.” Here is another conundrum, founded upon a pun, which only the propounder can solve: An old man and a young one were standing by a meadow. “Why,” asked the young man, “is this clover older than you?” “It is not,” replied the other. “It is, though,” returned the man, “because it is pasturage.” Thereupon an abstracted looking person, who had not followed the line of remark, and who had not understood the illustration, startled us all with this irrelevant inquiry, “Why cannot a pantomimist tickle nine Esquimaux? Give it up? Why it’s because he can gesticulate.”

When Jonah interviewed the whale
And haunted his internals,
As erst it is recorded in
The truthfulest of journals,
What monarch did he symbolize?
(A far-fetched joke you’ll style it.)
It seems to us he might have been
A sort of _paunch’s pilot_.

“I’d rather not,” Augustus said,
The truffles quick rejecting;
“How now, my dear,” said she, “what fresh
Conceit are you affecting?
I do not wish t’ruffle you.
Nor yet to make a pun, Gus;
But then I surely thought that you
Were fond of any fun-Gus.”

“In St. Mary’s Church, Nottingham, England, on the tombstone of Mary Angell are these lines:

‘Sleep on in peace, await thy Maker’s will,
Then rise unchanged, and be an Angell still.’

The stone is an old one, and the punning epitaph is according to the spirit of the times, when so many queer inscriptions were put on monuments.”

A young minister of high-church tendencies was called to preside over a congregation that abhorred ritualism and was a stickler for the simplest of services. He asked Bishop Potter of New York what would be the result if he went in for ritualism just a bit.

“Suppose I should burn a pastille or two during the service, what do you think would happen?” he inquired. “I dearly wish to try the experiment.”

“Your congregation would be incensed, your vestrymen would fume, and you would go out in smoke,” replied the Bishop.

Gustave Doré bought a villa on the outskirts of Paris, and wrote over the entrance the musical notation, “Do, Mi, Si, La, Do, Re.” This being properly interpreted, is “Domicile a Doré.”

I saw Esau kissing Kate,
And what’s more, we all three saw;
For I saw Esau, he saw me,
And she saw I saw Esau.

Why should girls, a wit exclaimed,
Surpassing farmers be?
Because they’re always studying
The art of husbandry.

Sentimental young lady to perfumer: “I don’t think you forwarded the scent I meant; it seems entirely different from that I ordered.”

Perfumer, who is fond of punning: “Madam, I am sure that what you meant I sent; the scent I sent was the scent you meant, consequently we are both of one sentiment.”

A duel was fought in Texas by Alexander Shott and John S. Nott. Nott was shot, and Shott was not. In this case it is better to be Shott than Nott. There was a rumor that Nott was not shot, and Shott avows that he shot Nott, which proves either that the shot Shott shot at Nott was not shot, or that Nott was shot notwithstanding. Circumstantial evidence is not always good. It may be made to appear on trial that the shot Shott shot shot Nott or, as accidents with fire-arms are frequent, it may be possible that the shot Shott shot shot Shott himself, when the whole affair would resolve itself into its original elements, and Shott would be shot, and Nott would be not. Apparently the shot Shott shot shot not Shott, but Nott; anyway, it is hard to tell who was shot.

On the death of Lord Kennet, in 1786, Sir William Nairne was raised to the bench under Lord Dunsinnan—a circumstance which called forth a _bon mot_ from the Duchess of Gordon. Her grace, happening to meet his lordship shortly after his elevation, inquired what title he had assumed. “Dunsinnan,” was, of course, the reply. “I am astonished at that, my lord,” said the duchess, “for I never knew that you had begun sinning.”

A noted Washington wag and beau of many years ago signed his name “A. More.” Mrs. John Washington had invited him to a formal dinner party at Mount Vernon. The company all arrived except Mr. More, but knowing his queer ways the hostess did not wait for him. After she was seated some time a huge envelope was handed her, in which she found an enormous leaf of a sycamore tree. The interpretation was “Sick.—A. More.”

A young lady of Louisville, having received urgent proposals of marriage from an old gentleman, sent the following answer by mail:

“Why thus urge me to compliance?
Why compel me to refuse?
Yet though I court not your alliance,
Perchance a younger I may choose.
For ’tis a state I’ll ne’er disparage,
Nor will I war against it wage;
I do not, sir, object to marriage,
I but dislike to marri-age.”

Madame Cresswell, a woman of infamous character, bequeathed ten pounds for a funeral sermon, in which nothing ill should be said of her. The Duke of Buckingham wrote the sermon, which was as follows: “All I shall say of her is this—she was born _well_, she married _well_, lived _well_, and died _well_; for she was born at Shad-well, married to Cress-well, lived at Clerken-well, and died in Bride-well.”

In 1835 John Howard Payne spent some time in the South and formed the acquaintance of a daughter of Judge Samuel Goode, of Montgomery, Alabama. An old autograph album of hers contains the following lines in Payne’s handwriting and over his signature:

“Lady, your name, if understood,
Explains your nature, to a letter;
And may you never change from _Goode_,
Unless, if possible, to _better_.”

On the next page is a response, written by Mirabeau B. Lamar, afterwards President of the “Lone Star Republic” of Texas. It runs as follows:

“I am content with being _Goode_;
To aim at _better_ might be vain;
But if I do, ’tis understood,
Whate’er the cause—it is not _Payne_.”

To church the two together went,
Both, doubtless, on devotion bent.
The parson preached with fluent ease,
On Pharisees and Sadducees.
And as they homeward slowly walked,
The lovers on the sermon talked,
And he—he deeply loved the maid—
In soft and tender accents said:
“Darling, do you think that we
Are Pharisee and Sadducee?”
She flashed on him her bright black eyes
In one swift look of vexed surprise,
And thus he hastened to aver,
He was her constant worshipper;
“But, darling, I insist,” said he,
“That you are very fair I see;
I know you don’t care much for me,
And that makes me so sad you see.”

The wife of an optical instrument maker tried, on landing at New York, after a European tour, to smuggle under her dress a quantity of artificial eyes. In reply to the usual question whether she had anything to declare, she said, “No,” most positively; but on the officer shaking her dress the deception was exposed, and in spite of her “No’s,” the eyes had it. But how absurd of the fair smuggler to hope to escape detection when _every eye was upon her_!

On the marriage of Ebenezer Sweet and Jane Lemon a wag said,—

How happily extremes do meet in Jane and Ebenezer!
She no longer sour, but sweet, and he a lemon squeezer.

And George D. Prentice once said,—

A Mr. J. Lemon, of the North Carolina Legislature, has abandoned the Whigs and joined the Democrats. That’s all right enough. If the Democrats think they can recruit their strength with Lemon-aid, they are welcome to try the experiment.

_Toast_ any girl but her, said Ned,
With every other flutter—
I’ll be content with Annie Bread,
And won’t have any _but her_.

A young man in one of our Western towns had patronized the arts so far as to buy a picture of the Temptation of Adam and Eve. Some one asked him if it was a chaste picture. “Yes,” he said, “_chased_ by a snake.” This would have been witty if he had known it, but he didn’t.

A judge did once his tipstaff call,
And say, “Sir, I desire
You go forthwith and search the hall
And bring me in the crier.”

“And search in vain, my lord, I may,”
The tipstaff gravely said;
“The crier cannot cry to-day,
Because his wife is dead.”

When the fleet commanded by Lord Howe was stationed at Torbay, some time previous to his defeat of St. André (1794), the inhabitants used to play upon his name, saying,—

Lord _Howe_ he went out!
Lord _Howe_ he came in!

After the great victory over the French, the following toast was much in vogue:

May the French know _Howe_ to be master of the seas.

“How is it that you can tell such whoppers?” asked a caller, addressing the editor of the fish-story department.

“Well, you see,” replied the editor, “our wife’s name is Anna.”

“What has that to do with it?”

“A great deal. When we are writing fish stories we usually have Anna nigh us to help us.”

Two Quaker girls about to do some ironing on the same table, one asked the other which side she would take, the right or left. She answered promptly: “It will be right for me to take the left, and then it will be left for thee to take the right.”

How a French marshal conveyed an order under cover of a cough, in 1851, is told as follows:

The prevalence of coughs and colds at the present moment reminds me of the fact that it was a cough which was mainly responsible for the immense amount of bloodshed that attended the _coup d’état_ whereby Napoleon III. obtained his throne.

That unscrupulous but brilliant adventurer, General, and afterward Field Marshal, de St. Arnaud, had charge of the military operations. But he was unwilling to assume the direct responsibility of ordering the troops to fire upon the people, being not altogether certain as to the result of Napoleon’s memorable enterprise.

When the moment for action arrived and the mob began to show signs of sweeping aside the troops, the brigadier generals under his orders sent an officer to him at head-quarters to ask him what they were to do, whether they were to fire on the populace or give way.

Strangely enough, St. Arnaud was seized at that moment with a violent fit of coughing which lasted for several minutes. Finally when it ceased the General just managed to gasp the words, “Ma sacrée toux!” (my cursed cough).

The officer having waited until the General had recovered his breath repeated the question. Again St. Arnaud was seized with a violent fit of coughing, which terminated, as on the previous occasion, with the parting exclamation of “Ma sacrée toux!”

The officer was no fool; he could take a hint as well as anyone else, and saluting he left St. Arnaud’s presence. On returning to the brigadiers and colonels who had sent him for instructions he was asked what reply St. Arnaud had made.

“The General’s only words and commands were massacrez tous!” (massacre everybody).

These commands were obeyed to the letter, and many thousand people were shot down and bayoneted in consequence.

The word-twisters do not hesitate to invade the cemeteries and leave their mark on tombstones. Here is one of Dr. Dibdin’s epitaphs:

Reader, of these four lines take heed,
And mend your life for my sake;
For you must die, like ISAAC REED,
Though you may _read_ till your _eyes ache_.

Cecil Clay, the counsellor of Lord Chesterfield, directed this whimsical pun upon his name to be put on his tombstone:

Sum quod fui. (I am what I was.)

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.

CLEVER HITS OF THE HUMORISTS

_Mistaken Vanity_

It is told of Père Monsabre, the famous Dominican preacher, that one day, as he was on the way to officiate in the church, a message came to him that a lady wanted to see him. She was worrying about an affair of conscience, she felt that she must see him, she feared that she was given up to vanity. That very morning, she confessed, she had looked in her looking-glass, and yielded to the temptation of thinking herself pretty.

Père Monsabre looked at her and said quietly, “Is that all?”

She confessed that it was.

“Well, my child,” he replied, “you can go away in peace, for to make a mistake is not a sin.”

_Toast_

In the days before the war, days famous for generous but unostentatious hospitality in the South, a brilliant party was assembled at dinner in a country homestead. Across the table wit flashed back and forth, and, when the merry party had adjourned to the broad veranda, the guests began to vie with one another in proposing conundrums.

Mr. Alexander H. Stephens offered one which puzzled the whole company. “What is it that we eat at breakfast and drink at dinner?”

For some time no answer came, and the bright eyes of the Southern orator began to sparkle with triumph, when Colonel Johnston, taking up the Commonplace Book of the hostess which lay conveniently by, wrote, impromptu, upon the fly-leaf the following answer:

“What is eaten for breakfast and drunken at dinner?
Is it coffee or eggs—or butter or meats?
Sure double the stomach of obdurate sinner
Who eats what he drinks and drinks what he eats.

But let us consider—’tis surely not butter,
Nor coffee, nor meats, whether broiled or roast,
Nor boiled eggs, nor poached, nor fried in a batter.
It _must_ then be bread—ah, yes! when ’tis _toast_.”

_The Preferred Beverage_

Near Invermark, on Lord Dalhousie’s estate, a fountain was some years ago erected to commemorate a visit paid to the place by the Queen. It bears this inscription, in gold letters, “Rest, stranger, on this lovely scene, and drink and pray for Scotland’s Queen—Victoria.” A Highlander was shocked one morning to read the following addenda, traced in a bold hand, suggestive of the London tourist, immediately underneath the original: “We’ll pray for Queen Victoria here, but go and drink her health in beer.”

_Identified_

In a very scarce book, Hal’s “Parochial History of Cornwall,” published at Exeter in 1750, mention is made of Killigrew, the celebrated Master of the Revels _temp._ Charles II., though he never was formally installed as Court Jester. The following anecdote will show that, at all events, he deserved the appointment, even though he did not get it: When Louis XIV. showed him his pictures at Paris, the King pointed out to him a picture of the Crucifixion between two portraits. “That on the right,” added his Majesty, “is the Pope, and that on the left is myself.” “I humbly thank your Majesty,” replied the wit, “for the information; for though I have often heard that the Lord was crucified between two thieves, I never knew who they were till now.”

_An Uncivil Retort_

The attention of a tourist was attracted to the following epitaph in an English church-yard:

“Here I lie at the chancel door,
Here I lie because I am poor;
When I rise at the Judgment Day,
I shall be as warm as they.”

Whereupon the irreverent visitor scribbled underneath:

_From a Spirit within._

“’Tis true, old sinner, there you lie,
’Tis true you’ll be as warm as I;
But, restless spirit, why foretell
That when you rise you’ll go to hell?”

_Unmistakable Legality_

On one occasion when Daniel Webster and Rufus Choate were pitted against each other in court, Mr. Choate had lucidly, with great emphasis, stated the law. Mr. Webster, than whom a greater master of attitude, gesture, and facial expression never existed, turned on him the gaze of his great eyes, as if in mournful, despairing remonstrance, against such a sad and strange perversion. “That is the law, your Honor,” thundered Mr. Choate, catching the glance, advancing a step, and looking full in Webster’s face—“that is the law, in spite of the admonishing and somewhat paternal look in the eye of my illustrious friend!” And it was the law, as affirmed by the court.

_A Very Long Bill_

Mr. Nathan Appleton and Mr. Longfellow, travelling in Switzerland, reached Zurich, where the landlord charged very exorbitant prices for their entertainment. Mr. Appleton wrote his name on the books and paid while demurring at the price charged.

“I have put my name on the books,” said Mr. Longfellow, “and if you will allow me I will treat the innkeeper as he deserves.”

The name of the inn was the “Raven.” He took the book aside, and wrote these lines:

“Beware of the raven of Zurich,
’Tis a bird of omen ill,
With an ugly, unclean nest,
And a very, very long bill.”

_Whittier’s Impromptu_

John G. Whittier often wrote impromptu verses in albums and elsewhere, bright with a gayety that does not often appear in his more important works. In the album of a young lady—who with her friends had been rallying him on his bachelorhood—he wrote the following lines:

Ah, ladies, you love to levy a tax
On my poor little paper parcel of fame;
Yet strange it seems that among you all
Not one is willing to take my name—
To write and rewrite, till the angels pity her,
The weariful words, Thine truly, WHITTIER.

_Seeing is Believing_

“I should like to see any man kiss me,”
The prudish young Boston maid cries.
Miss Innocence answers, “Why, bless me!
Do you usually close your eyes?”

_A Killarney Echo_

A good-natured Anglican parson was riding one day in a jaunting-car near the Lakes of Killarney, whose famous echoes sometimes repeat a sound as many as eight times. Wishing to “take a rise out of the driver,” the clergyman said,—

“Do you know, Pat, that there are none but Protestant echoes here?”

“No, sir, I niver h’ard it, and I don’t believe it aither,” was the reply.

“Well, you shall hear it very soon,” said the Anglican. Arriving at a favorable spot he called out softly, raising his voice to a loud pitch on the last word: “Do you believe in Pio Nono?” and the echo replied,—

“No, no! No, no! No, no!”

Pat was delighted at the joke, and, rubbing his hands gleefully, said,—

“Bedad, whin I drive one of the _raal_ clargy here won’t I have the sport out of him?”

_Not Rousseau_

The Russian poet Puschkin was plagued day after day by a certain Ivan Iakowlewitsch (John, James’s son) to give him his autograph. Puschkin always excused himself, but the petitioner was one of the men who never take a hint. The poet at last consented, in no good humor; he seized the book out of the man’s hand, and scribbled off the following lines:

Vous êtes Jean,
Vous êtes Jacques,
Vous êtes roux,
Vous êtes sot,
Mais vous n’êtes pas, mon cher,
Jean-Jacques Rousseau.

_Love of Specie-s_

Sydney Smith, preaching a charity sermon, frequently repeated the assertion that of all nations, Englishmen were most distinguished for generosity and the love of their species. The collection happened to be inferior to his expectations, and he said that he had evidently made a great mistake, and that his expression should have been that they were distinguished for the love of their specie.

_His Station_

At a banquet in London Ambassador Choate sat next to a distinguished nobleman, who during the course of the conversation had occasion to inquire,—

“And to what station in your country, Mr. Choate, does your Mr. Chauncey M. Depew belong?”

“To the Grand Central Station, my lord,” readily replied the diplomat, without a quiver.

The noble Englishman’s face clouded for a moment with uncertainty.

“I’m afraid you don’t know what I mean,” added Mr. Choate, about to go to his rescue. But milord quickly smiled a glad smile of intelligence.

“Ah! I see, I see, Mr. Choate!” he exclaimed. “Mr. Depew belongs to your grand, great middle class!”

_Frankness_

That was a frank reply to a friend’s intimation of his approaching marriage: “I should make my compliments to both of you; but as I don’t know the young lady, I can’t felicitate you, and I know you so well that I can’t felicitate her.”

_Double X_

A wealthy brewer in Montreal built a church and inscribed on it: “This church was erected by Thomas Molson at his sole expense. Hebrews xi.” Some wags altered the inscription so as to make it read: “This church was erected by Thomas Molson at his soul’s expense. He brews XX.”

_Met the Emergency_

At a French provincial theatre, in a military play, the actor who was credited with the part of a general slipped on the stage and fell ignominiously at the very moment when he was supposed to be conducting his troops to battle. With ready wit, however, he saved himself from ridicule by exclaiming, “Soldiers, I am mortally wounded, but do not stay to aid me. Pass over my prostrate body to victory.”

_A Similar Privilege_

In Carlsbad, Bohemia, is a restaurant keeper, who, when he finds any distinguished person dining at his establishment, presents himself in a dress coat, with many bows, and asks the honor of an autograph. Rothschild, the banker, signed himself simply “R. de Paris.” Oppenheim, a rich banker of Cologne, was subsequently appealed to. He looked at the list and asked who “R. de Paris” was. “That,” said the restaurant man, with pride, “is the Baron Rothschild of Paris.” “Ah!” said Oppenheim, “what Rothschild did, I can do,” and signed himself “O. de Cologne.”

_Caderousse’s Wager_

The following curious anecdote is related in the _Événement_: Some young men were conversing in a private room of the Maison d’Or. Among them was the Duke de Gramont-Caderousse, who died at the age of thirty-two. Some one reproached him with being too much in favor of the people, and with being imbued with the new democratic ideas. After having replied according to his conscience, he exclaimed, “Well, gentlemen, I’ll wager that, without having done anything to merit it, I will get myself arrested before an hour.” “Without having done anything to deserve it?” “Nothing.” The bet was taken—fifty louis. Caderousse jumped into a cab, drove to the Temple, and soon returned in a sordid costume—a tattered cap on his head, trousers in rags, hobnailed boots, torn, muddy, down at the heels. He rubbed his face and hands over with dirt and then begged some one to follow him. Thus prepared, he entered a café on the Boulevard Poissonnière, seated himself at a table, and called out, “Waiter, a bottle of champagne!” The man hesitated a moment, and then said in an undertone, “That costs twelve francs.” “Well,” replied De Gramont, “I have money to pay with.” And he drew from his pocket forty bank-notes of a thousand francs each, which he laid on the table. The master of the establishment sent at once for some sergents de ville, and in a few minutes the pretended vagabond was saying to the commissary of police, “I am the Duke de Gramont-Caderousse. I had laid a wager that I should be arrested without having done anything to deserve it.... I have won, and I have only now to thank you.”

_According to Agreement_

The parson wanted to furnish hymn-books for his congregation, and was told by a speculator that he would provide books, provided they included with the hymns advertisements. On the first Sunday after the new books had been distributed the congregation found themselves singing,—

Hark! the herald angels sing
Beecham’s pills are just the thing;
Peace on earth and mercy mild.
Two for men and one for child.

_A Pulpit Wager_

Many humorous stories are told of Lorenzo Dow. He preached once from the text from St. Paul, “I can do all things.” “No, Paul,” he said, “you’re wrong for once. I’ll bet you five dollars you can’t,” and he took a five-dollar bill from his pocket and laid it on the desk. He continued to read, “through our Lord Jesus Christ.” “Oh, Paul,” said he, “that’s an entirely different thing,—the bet is off.” “This,” says an English writer, “beats any anecdote ever told of Spurgeon.”

_Rhus Toxicodendron_

The San Francisco manufacturer of a lotion advertises as follows:

He built a bower of leafy sprays
To shield his darling from the heat.
“Would we might live thus all our days,”
He said, reclining at her feet.
Alas, poor love-blind, foolish folk,
To hold of life so crude a notion!
The bower was built of poison oak
And they had to use Blank’s healing lotion.

_Mark Twain Convinced_

A story is told that on one occasion Charles Dudley Warner, who was neighbor and friend to Mark Twain, wanted him to go walking, and Mark, as usual, refused. Dudley insisted, but to no purpose.

“You ought to do it,” he said finally. “It’s according to Scripture.”

“No ‘Mark-the-perfect-man’ chestnuts on me,” replied the wily humorist. “Where’s your authority?”

“The fifth chapter of Matthew, verse the forty-first,” said Mr. Warner, “which reads thus: ‘And whoever shall compel thee to go a mile, go with him, Twain.’”

Mr. Clemens went with Mr. Warner that time.

_Motto for a Tavern Sign_

Lockhart, in his “Life of Sir Walter Scott,” tells a story of a Flodden boniface who asked Scott for a motto from his poems to put on the sign-board of his house. He says:

“Scott opened the book (Marmion) at the death-scene of the hero and his eye was immediately caught by the inscription in black letter,—

“‘Drink, weary pilgrim, drink, and pray
For the kind soul of Sybil Grey,
Who built this cross and well.’

“‘Well, my friend,’ said he, “‘what more would you have? You need but strike out one letter in the first of these lines and make your painter-man, the next time he comes this way, print between the jolly tankard and your own name,

“‘Drink, weary pilgrim, drink, and PAY.’

“Scott was delighted to find, on his return, that this suggestion had been adopted, and for aught I know, the romantic legend may still be visible.”

_A New Light_

A widower, in his great bereavement, expressed his feelings by having engraved on the tombstone of his wife the line, “My light has gone out.” As he was about to marry again, he asked the advice of Bishop Henry C. Potter as to whether or not he should have the inscription erased, as it seemed at variance with the new conditions. “Oh, no,” said the bishop, “I wouldn’t have it taken off; just put underneath it, ‘I have struck another match!’”

_Schweininger’s Thrust_

When Bismarck made the acquaintance of his last doctor he was sick and peevishly declined to answer questions. “As you like,” said the doctor; “then send for a veterinary surgeon, as such practitioners treat their patients without asking them any questions.” The Chancellor was captured.

_Significant Change_

A French paper revives the story of Alexandre Dumas being one day the guest of Dr. Gistal, an eminent medical man of Marseilles, who after dinner requested the novelist to enrich his album with one of his witty improvisations. “Certainly,” replied Dumas, with a smile, and drawing out his pencil he wrote, under the eyes of his entertainer, lines which may be imitated as follows:

“Since Dr. Gistal came to our town,
To cure diseases casual and hereditary,
The hospital has been pulled down”—

“You flatterer!” here exclaimed the doctor, mightily pleased; but the poet went on—

“And we have made a larger cemetery.”

_The Remedy_

Goldy’s touching lines, “When lovely woman stoops to folly,” fare sadly in the hands of a silk dyer, who sends about a circular with this parody:

“When lovely woman tilts her saucer,
And finds too late that tea will stain—
Whatever made a woman crosser—
What art can wash all white again?

The only art the stain to cover,
To hide the spot from every eye,
And wear an unsoiled dress above her,
Of proper color, is _to dye_!”

_Botanical Misnomer_

In one of the early comic annuals there are some amusing lines of Hood’s describing how a country nurseryman had made a large sum out of the sale of a simple little flower which he sold under the name of the “Rhodum Sidus.” This charming name had proved quite an attraction to the ladies, and the flower had become the rage of the season. At length a pertinacious botanist, who found that the flower was a not uncommon weed, insisted on knowing where the nurseryman had got his name from; he elicited the following reply:

“I found this flower in the road beside us,
So christened it the Rhodum Sidus.”

_Not Interchangeable_