Soon after the accession of George III., an additional tax was laid on beer, to the great discontent of the populace. His majesty was one night attending the theatre, when a fellow in the upper gallery called to another to come and drink with him, as he had got a full pot. “What did you give for your full pot?” inquired the invited person. “Threepence-halfpenny.” “Threepence-halfpenny! Why, where did you send for it?” “To George the Third.” “You fool,” said the other, “why did you not send to George the Second? you would have had it there for threepence.”
A gentleman, passing a woman who was skinning eels, and observing the torture of the poor animals, asked her, how she could have the heart to put them to such pain. “Lord, sir,” she replied, “they be used to it.”
A fishmonger of famous London town was telling a neighbour that he intended to take a trip to Margate, where he should spend some time. “And will you bathe?” inquired the other. “O, Lord, no!” answered the worthy citizen; “the fishes would know me.”
A person, going into a meeting-house, happened to stumble over one of the forms which were set near the entrance. “Who the devil,” he cried, as he rubbed his irritated shins, “would have expected to find set forms in a meeting-house?”
Soon after M. Favor was appointed first ballet-master of the Opera (towards the close of the last century), Signor Sodorini, another performer there, came one day upon the stage, after the rehearsal, and said to him: “Allow me, my dear sir, to introduce myself to you. You are the dearest friend I have on earth. Let me thank you a thousand times for the happiness you have conferred upon me by coming amongst us. Command me in any way; for, whatever I do for you, I can never sufficiently repay you.” The ballet-master, who had never seen or heard of Sodorini before, was astounded. At last, he said, “Pray, sir, to what particular piece of good fortune may I attribute the compliments and professions with which you favour me.” “To your unparalleled ugliness, my dear sir,” replied Sodorini; “for, before your arrival, I was considered the ugliest man in Great Britain.” The ballet-master (strange to say) took this joke in good part; and the two were ever after warm friends.
Fischer, a first rate oboe player, at Dublin, was a man of great professional pride, and had also much of the ex-professional gentleman in his composition. A nobleman once asked him to sup after the conclusion of the opera; and, although very averse to going, he at last consented, on being assured by his patron that it was only for his society and conversation, and not for his musical proficiency, that he was invited. He had not, however, been many minutes in his host’s company, when the latter approached him, and said: “I hope, Mr. Fischer, you have brought your oboe in your pocket.” “No, my lord,” said Fischer, “my oboe never sups.” So saying, he turned on his heel, and instantly left the house; nor could any persuasion ever induce him to return to it.
A gentleman driving on the road between Little River and Brighton, was overtaken by a negro boy on a mule, who attempted for a long while, without success, to make the animal pass the carriage. At length the boy exclaimed to his beast, “I’ll bet you one fippeny I make you to pass this time;” and, after a short pause, again said, “you bet? very well.” The boy repeated the blows with renewed vigour, and at last succeeded in making him pass; when the gentleman, who overheard the conversation between Quashee and his steed, said to him, “Well, my boy, now you have won, how are you going to make the mule pay you?” “Oh, sir,” says the negro, “me make him pay me very well; massa give me one tenpenny for buy him grass, and me only buy him a fippeny worth!”
When Dr. Franklin applied to the King of Prussia to lend his assistance to America, “Pray, doctor,” says the veteran, “what is the object you mean to attain?” – “Liberty, sire,” replied the philosopher of Philadelphia; “liberty! that freedom which is the birthright of man.” The king, after a short pause, made this memorable and kingly answer: “I was born a prince; I am become a king; and I will not use the power which I possess to the ruin of my own trade.”
Sheridan never gave Lewis any of the profits of the Castle Spectre. One day, Lewis, being in company with him, said, “Sheridan, I will make you a large bet.” Sheridan, who was always ready to make a wager (however he might find it inconvenient to pay it if lost), asked eagerly, “What bet?” “All the profits of my Castle Spectre,” replied Lewis. “I will tell you what,” said Sheridan (who never found his match at repartee), “I will make you a very small one – what it is worth.”
Some people have an objection to thirteen at dinner. Dr. Kitchiner, the culinary, happened to be one of a company of that number at Dr. Henderson’s, and, on its being remarked, and pronounced unlucky, he said, “I admit that it is unlucky in one case.” “What case is that?” “When there is only dinner for twelve.”
At a dinner party, one day, somebody talked of a rich rector in Worcestershire, whose name he could not recollect, but who had not preached for the last twelve months, as he every Sunday requested one of the neighbouring clergy to officiate for him. “Oh!” replied a gentleman present, “though you cannot recollect his name, I can – it is England – England expects every man to do his duty.”
A coach proprietor complained to Sir William Curtis that he suspected his guard of robbing him, and asked what he should do? “Prenez-garde,” said Sir William.
Lady S – r was complaining one morning at breakfast that the tea was very bad, and said she was quite sure the water didn’t boil; “Nay,” said she, “the urn didn’t even hiss when it was brought in.” “No,” said Sir W. E., “it was tacit-urn.”
A gentleman who was relating an accident he had met with from a fall, was asked by a surgeon, if it was near the vertebræ that he had been hurt? “No, sir,” was the reply, “it was near the Observatory.”
A barber having come up to poll at a Berwick election, one of the candidates, with evident marks of disappointment, asked, “What! did you not shave me this morning?” “Yes,” answered the barber, “but I have shaved Mr. – (meaning the opposing candidate) since.”
Doctor Thomson was called in to attend a gentleman, who persuaded himself that he was, to use a popular expression, “dying by inches.” The doctor caught the invalid at dinner, and having seen him demolish some soup, a slice of salmon, two cuts of chine of mutton, and half a partridge, inquired what other symptoms of disease he felt. “None particularly, sir,” said the invalid, “only every thing about me tends to convince me that I am consumptive.” “Your appetite is, at all events, sir,” said the doctor, and walked off.
The fireworks for the peace of Ryswick were made by a colonel in the army, and were much admired. This gentleman one day commending Purcel’s epitaph, “He is gone to that place, where only his harmony can be exceeded.” – “Why,” said a lady present, “that epitaph will serve for you, with a very small alteration: there is nothing to do, but to change the word harmony for fireworks.”
In the great catalogue of the British Museum Library many of the books are classed according to the subjects of which they treat. Against the head “Rebellion” there appears this notice (only) – “Vide Hibernia.”
An Indian of the Abipones, an equestrian people of South America, was about to be baptized. “You will certainly go to heaven after this ceremony, when you die,” said the Jesuit who was to christen him. The Indian was content. Just as the water was on the point of being thrown, however, a doubt arose in the mind of the savage. “By this water I shall go to heaven?” said he. “As sure as there are mosquitoes in America,” answered the father. “But my friends, who will not be baptised.” – “They must go to hell: assuredly, they shall not miss; not a man of them.” “Then excuse me,” said the savage; “I am sorry to have given you this trouble; but I shall choose to go too.”
Sir Baptist Hickes was telling how his gold buttons were cut off in a crowd, and he never the wiser, though the poorer. Sir Edmund Bacon asked him, if they were not strung upon lutestring? “No,” answered he. “Oh, fie,!” said Sir Edmund, “that was the cause it was not discovered; for if they had been strung upon lutestring, as soon as it was cut it would have cried twang.”
When the public bodies at London paid their court to the Prince of Orange on his arrival in the ever-memorable 1688, Sergeant Maynard, a man near ninety years of age, headed the deputation of lawyers. William, remarking his great age, expressed a supposition that he must have outlived all the men of law of his time. “Why,” said Maynard, with wit admirably suited to the crisis, “I was like to have outlived the law itself, if your Royal Highness had not come over.”2
A staunch Whig of the old school, disputing with a Jacobite, said he had two reasons for being against the interest of the Pretender. “What are those?” inquired the Tory. “The first is, that he is an impostor, and not really King James’s son.” “Why, that,” said the Jacobite, “is a good reason, if it could be proved; but, pray, what is the other?” “That he is King James’s son.”
An ignorant preacher, the vicar of Trumpington, near Ely, having occasion to read that passage in Scripture, – “Eloi, Eloi, Lama sabbacthani,” and considering with himself that it might be ridiculous and absurd in him to read it as it stood, since he was vicar of Trumpington, and not of Ely, actually bawled out, “Trumpington, Trumpington, Lama sabbacthani.”
A young but ambitious M.P. of the last age, having long resolved upon attempting some speech which should astonish the House, at last rose solemnly up, and, after three loud hems, spoke as follows: – “Mr. Speaker, have we laws, or have we not laws? If we have laws, they are not observed, to what end were those laws made?” So saying, he sat down, his chest heaving high with conscious consequence; when another rose up, and delivered his thoughts in these words: – “Mr. Speaker, did the honourable gentleman who spoke last, speak to the purpose, or not to the purpose? If he did not speak to the purpose, to what purpose did he speak?” It is needless to describe the roar of laughter with which the House was instantly shaken, or to say that the orator never spoke again in that place.
Some years ago, a gentleman at Windsor took the place of the organist, with a view to shew his superiority in execution. Among other pieces, he was playing one of Dr. Blow’s anthems; but, just as he had finished the verse part, and begun the full chorus, the organ ceased. On this, he called to Dick, the bellows-blower, to know what was the matter. “The matter?” says Dick; “I have played the anthem below.” “Ay,” says the other, “but I have not played it above.” “No matter,” quoth Dick, “you might have made more haste, then; I know how many puffs go to one of Dr. Blow’s anthems, as well as you do: I have not played the organ so many years for nothing.”
Dr. Butler was a man of peculiar manners. Being sent for to a lady’s house, the lady desired a servant to ask what he would have for supper. “A roasted horse,” said the doctor. The man stared, and vanished; but, turning upon the stairs, soon re-appeared, and said to the reverend divine, “Sir, will you please to have a pudding in his belly?” Butler, laughing, said, “Thou hast a pudding of wit in thy head, and I like thee well. But why ask me what I choose for supper? I came here to give advice and not to eat. I shall eat as the rest.”
A travelled man was descanting one day upon what he had seen in his peregrinations. He was particularly impressive on the largeness to which common reptiles and insects grew in tropical climates. “In the West Indies,” said he, “bees are about the size of our sheep.” “And how large may the bee-hives be?” inquired one of the company. “Oh, about the ordinary size,” said the traveller, without thinking of the exaggerated size he had just ascribed to the tenants of these receptacles. “Then,” said the inquirer, “how do the bees get into the hives?” “Oh,” replied the detected Manchausen, “let the bees look to that!”
Tom Burnet, son of Bishop Burnet, happening to be at dinner at the Lord Mayor’s, in the latter part of Queen Anne’s reign, when the Tories were for a space triumphant, after two or three healths, “The Ministry” was toasted. Tom, unwilling to compromise his principles by drinking to a cabinet he could not approve of, endeavoured to escape, by telling a story to a person who sat next him. This, however, would not do with the Lord Mayor, who, observing a full glass on the table, called out, “Gentlemen, where sticks the Ministry?” “At nothing,” replied the Whig, and immediately drank off his glass.
A Whig, of the same stamp with Tom Burnet, being asked what he thought of the fireworks which celebrated the peace of Utrecht (a peace concluded by the Tory ministry much against the wishes of the opposition), “I think,” said he, “they were a burning shame.”
George II., at a review of his horse guards, asked Monsieur de Bussy, the French Ambassador, if he thought the King of France had better troops. “Oh, yes, sir,” answered the ambassador, “the King of France has his gendarmes, which are reckoned the best troops in the world. Did your majesty never see them?” The king answered, “No;” upon which General Campbell, colonel of the Scots Greys (who afterwards lost his life at the battle of Fontenoy), stepped up and said, “Though your majesty has not seen those troops his excellency speaks of, I have seen them: I have cut my way through them twice, and make no doubt of doing the same again, whenever your majesty shall command me.”3
The tragedy of Macbeth was acted at a town in Suffolk, and amongst the audience was a man who had been nearly fifty miles, in the course of the day, to see Corder, the memorable murderer, hanged at Bury. Such was the belief entertained to the last, in some parts of the country, that the extreme penalty of the law would not be inflicted, that the man who had seen him die was pestered on all sides for an account of the melancholy spectacle. At last he actually betook himself to the theatre, to avoid further importunities. Just as he entered, the fourth scene of the tragedy was commencing, and he was quietly setting himself down in a box near the stage, when Duncan began, in the words of the author, —
“Is execution done on Cawdor?”
“Yes, sir,” said the man, “I saw him hanged this morning – and that’s the last time I’ll answer any more questions about it.” The audience was convulsed with laughter at the strange mistake, and it was some time before the performance could be proceeded with.
The late Dr. Franklin used to observe, that of all the amusements which the ingenuity of man had ever devised for the purpose of recreation, none required the exercise of most patient attention so much as angling; a remark which he frequently illustrated by the following story: – “About six o’clock, on a fine morning in the summer,” said the doctor, “I set out from Philadelphia, on a visit to a friend, at the distance of fifteen miles; and, passing a brook where a gentleman was angling, I enquired if he had caught anything? ‘No, sir,’ said he, ‘I have not been here long; only two hours.’ I wished him a good morning, and pursued my journey. On my return in the evening, I found him fixed to the identical spot where I had left him, and again inquired if he had any sport? ‘Very good, sir,’ says he. ‘Caught a great many fish?’ ‘None at all.’ ‘Had a great many bites though, I suppose?’ ‘Not one, but I had a most glorious nibble.’”
A few days previous to Foote’s opening the Haymarket Theatre, amongst a variety of applications for engagements, a lady came to him warmly recommended. Some time after she was introduced ensued the following scene: – “Pray, madam,” says Foote, “are you for tragedy or comedy?” No answer. “Are you married, madam? for if you are, by God, your husband is very happy in regard to your tongue.” By this time, the lady perceived she was spoken to; when, drawing her chair close up to the wit’s, and turning one of her ears to him at the same time, she replied, – “Speak a little louder, sir, for I am deaf.”
A person, speaking of the remarkably short lives of prime ministers, said, “that almost as soon as they’re primed they go off.”
The peace of Utrecht sticking in the House of Lords, Queen Anne, or rather her prime minister, the Earl of Oxford, found it politically necessary to create a majority, by calling up twelve commoners to the House of Peers. The celebrated Duke of Wharton, who was in the opposition, took care to be in the House the day of their introduction, and, as they passed by him, very deliberately counted out aloud, “One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve: well, gentlemen of the jury, who shall speak for you?”
The same nobleman, soon after, meeting the Earl of Oxford, addressed him with, – “So, Robin, I find what you lost by tricks, you have gained by honours.”
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