A Warehouse for Wit
It is with men of their wit, as with women of their beauty. Tell a woman she is fair, and she will not be offended that you tell her she is cruel. Tell a man that he is a wit, and if you lay to his charge ill-nature or blasphemy, he will take it as a compliment rather than a reproach. Thus, too, there is no woman but lays some claim to beauty; and no man will give up his pretensions to wit. In cases of this kind, therefore, where so much depends upon opinion, and where every man thinks himself qualified to be his own judge, there is nothing so useless to a reader as illustrations; and nothing to an author so dangerous as definition. Any attempt therefore to decide what true wit is must be ineffectual, as not one in a hundred would be content to abide by the decision; it is impossible to rank all mankind under the name of wits, and there is scarce one in a hundred who does not think that he merits the appellation.
Hence it is that every one, how little qualified soever, is fond of making a display of his fancied abilities; and generally at the expense of some one to whom he supposes himself infinitely superior. And from this supposition many mistakes arise to those who commence wags, with a very small share of wit, and a still smaller of judgment; whose imaginations are by nature unprolific, and whose minds are uncultivated by education. These persons, while they are ringing their rounds on a few dull jests, are apt to mistake the rude and noisy merriment of illiterate jocularity for genuine humour. They often unhappily conceive that those laugh with them who laugh at them. The sarcasms which every one disdains to answer, they vainly flatter themselves are unanswerable; forgetting, no doubt, that their good things are unworthy the notice of a retort, and below the condescension of criticism. They know not perhaps that the Ass, whom the fable represents assuming the playfulness of the lap-dog, is a perfect picture of jocular stupidity; and that, in like manner, that awkward absurdity of waggishness which they expect should delight, cannot but disgust; and instead of laying claim to admiration, must ensure contempt. But, alas! I am aware that mine will prove a success-less undertaking; and that though knight-errant-like I sally forth to engage with the monsters of witticism and waggery, all my prowess will be inadequate to the achievement of the enterprise. The world will continue as facetious as ever in spite of all I can do; and people will be just as fond of their “little jokes and old stories” as if I had never combated their inclination.
Since then I cannot utterly extirpate this unchristian practice, my next endeavour must be to direct it properly, and improve it by some wholesome regulations. I propose, if I meet with proper encouragement, making application to Parliament for permission to open “A Licensed Warehouse for Wit,” and for a patent, entitling me to the sole vending and uttering ware of this kind, for a certain term of years. For this purpose I have already laid in Jokes, Jests, Witticisms, Morceaus, and Bon-Mots of every kind, to a very considerable amount, well worthy the attention of the public. I have Epigrams that want nothing but the sting; Conundrums that need nothing but an explanation; Rebuses and Acrostics that will be complete with the addition of the name only. These being in great request, may be had at an hour’s warning. Impromptus will be got ready at a week’s notice. For common and vernacular use, I have a long list of the most palpable Puns in the language, digested in alphabetical order; for these I expect good sale at both the universities. Jokes of all kinds, ready cut and dry.
N.B.—Proper allowance made to gentlemen of the law going on circuit; and to all second-hand vendors of wit and retailers of repartee, who take large quantities.
N.B.—Attic Salt in any quantity.
N.B.—Most money for old Jokes.
George Canning (1770–1827).
CONJUGAL AFFECTION.
When Elliott (called the Salamander)
Was famed Gibraltar’s stout commander,
A soldier there went to a well
To fetch home water to his Nell;
But fate decreed the youth to fall
A victim to a cannon ball.
One brought the tidings to his spouse,
Which drove her frantic from the house;
On wings of love the creature fled
To seek her dear—she found him dead!
Her husband killed—the water spilt—
Judge, ye fond females, what she felt!
She looked—she sighed—and melting, spoke—
“Thank God, the pitcher is not broke!”
Thomas Cannings (fl. 1790–1800).
WHISKY, DRINK DIVINE!
Whisky, drink divine!
Why should drivellers bore us
With the praise of wine
While we’ve thee before us?
Were it not a shame,
Whilst we gaily fling thee
To our lips of flame,
If we could not sing thee?
Whisky, drink divine, etc.
Greek and Roman sung
Chian and Falernian—
Shall no harp be strung
To thy praise, Hibernian?
Yes! let Erin’s sons—
Generous, brave, and frisky—
Tell the world at once
They owe it to their whisky—
Whisky, drink divine, etc.
If Anacreon—who
Was the grape’s best poet—
Drank our mountain-dew,
How his verse would show it!
As the best then known,
He to wine was civil;
Had he Inishowen,
He’d pitch wine to the divil—
Whisky, drink divine, etc.
Bright as beauty’s eye,
When no sorrow veils it:
Sweet as beauty’s sigh,
When young love inhales it:
Come, then, to my lips—
Come, thou rich in blisses!
Every drop I sip
Seems a shower of kisses—
Whisky, drink divine, etc.
Could my feeble lays
Half thy virtues number,
A whole grove of bays
Should my brows encumber.
Be his name adored,
Who summed up thy merits
In one little word,
When he called thee spirits—
Whisky, drink divine, etc.
Send it gaily round—
Life would be no pleasure,
If we had not found
This enchanting treasure:
And when tyrant death’s
Arrow shall transfix ye,
Let your latest breaths
Be whisky! whisky! whisky!
Whisky, drink divine, etc.
Joseph O’Leary (17— -1845?).
TO A YOUNG LADY BLOWING A TURF FIRE WITH HER PETTICOAT.
Cease, cease, Amira, peerless maid!
Though we delighted gaze,
While artless you excite the flame,
We perish in the blaze.
Haply you too provoke your harm—
Forgive the bold remark—
Your petticoat may fan the fire,
But, O! beware a spark!
Anonymous (1772).