The English are noted for punning on people's names, in allusion to their talent or profession.--Grimaldi was called, from his "grim faces,"

_Grim-all-day_; Macready, from his quick study, "_Make ready_;" Young, from his youthful appearance, "the _young_ actor;" Kean, from his new readings, "the _keen_ actor;" Sinclair, from his beautiful voice, "Mr.

_Sing clear_;" Miss Tree, the lovely vocalist, "_the Mystery_," &c. &c.

&c.: innumerable are the instances in the _political_ world, but _quant.

suff_. Perhaps one of the most laughable of the present day is the pun upon Mr. Thomas Bish, the stockbroker's name; he was then at the head of one of the most respectable tea-dealing establishments in London. His friends sunk his Christian name, excepting the first letter, and jocosely called him Mr. _Tea_ Bish: perhaps the joke was borrowed from an epigram on Mr. Twining, the tea-dealer, viz.

"How curiously names with professions agree, For Twining would be _wining_, dispossess'd of his T."

But we shall favour the reader with a few of the best modern examples.

OF PUNNING ON SURNAMES.

Men once were surnamed from their shape or estate, (You all may from history worm it:) There was Lewis the Bulky, and Henry the Great, John Lackland, and Peter the Hermit.

But now, when the door-plates of misters and dames Are read, each so constantly varies From the owner's trade, figure, and calling, surnames Seem given by the rule of contraries.

Mr. Fox, though provoked, never doubles his fist, Mr. Burns in his grate has no fuel, Mr. Playfair won't catch me at hazard or whist, Mr. Coward was wing'd in a duel.

Mr. Wise is a dunce, Mr. King is a Whig, Mr. Coffin's uncommonly sprightly, And huge Mr. Little broke down in a gig While driving fat Mrs. Golightly.

Mrs. Drinkwater's apt to indulge in a dram, Mrs. Angel's an absolute fury, And meek Mr. Lyon let fierce Mr. Lamb Tweak his nose in the lobby of Drury.

At Bath, where the feeble go more than the stout, (A conduct well worthy of Nero,) Over poor Mr. Lightfoot, confined with the gout, Mr. Heaviside danced a Bolero.

Miss Joy, wretched maid, when she chose Mr. Love, Found nothing but sorrow await her: She now holds in wedlock, as true as a dove, That fondest of mates, Mr. Hayter.

Mr. Oldcastle dwells in a modern-built hut, Miss Sage is of madcaps the archest; Of all the queer bachelors Cupid e'er cut, Old Mr. Younghusband's the starchest.

Mr. Child, in a pa.s.sion, knock'd down Mr. Rock, Mr. Stone like an aspen-leaf shivers, Miss Poole used to dance, but she stands like a stock Ever since she became Mrs. Rivers.

Mr. Swift hobbles onward, no mortal knows how, He moves as though cords had entwined him; Mr. Metcalfe ran off, upon meeting a cow, With pale Mr. Turnbull behind him.

Mr. Barker's as mute as a fish in the sea, Mr. Miles never moves on a journey, Mr. Gotobed sits up till half-after-three, Mr. Makepiece was bred an attorney.

Mr. Gardner can't tell a flower from a root, Mr. Wilde with timidity draws back; Mr. Ryder performs all his journeys on foot, Mr. Foote all his journeys on horseback.

Mr. Penny, whose father was rolling in wealth, Kick'd down all the fortune his dad won, Large Mr. Le Fever's the picture of health, Mr. Goodenough is but a bad one.

Mr. Cruickshank stept into three thousand a-year By showing his leg to an heiress:-- Now I hope you'll acknowledge I've made it quite clear Surnames ever go by contraries.

_New Monthly Magazine._

AN EPITAPH,

OR

PUNNING RUN MAD.

Here lies old John Magee, late the landlord at the Sun, He never had an _ail_, unless when all his _ale_ was done: The Sun was on the sign, tho' what sign his sun was on, No studier of the Zodiac could ever hit upon.

Some said it was Aquarius, so queerious he'd get; But he declared no _soda-hack_ should ever share his _whet_.

His burnish'd sun was sol-o, soul-heart'ning was his cheer, And quaffing of good _porter_ long kept him from his _bier_.

As draughtsman he'd no equal, his drawings were so good, And many a n.o.ble draught has he taken from the _wood_,-- Rare _spirited_ productions, with tasty views near _Cork_; And then he had a _score_ or two _rum_ characters in _chalk_.

Above the mantel-taillee his tally it was nail'd, And though he had lost one eyesight, his _hop-ticks_ never fail'd.

Good ale and cider _sold here_, oft made the _soldier_ halt, And sailor Jack, his sail aback, would hoist aboard his malt; Most cordially he'd pour out a cordial for the fair, Whose peeper meant to ogle the peppermint so rare; While buxom Jean would toss off the juniper so gay, And swear it was both sweet and nice as any _shrub_ in May.

At last John took to drinking, and drank till drunk with drink; His stuffing he would stuff in till stuff began to shrink; Tho' mistress shook her hand high, he suck'd the sugar-candy, And often closed his brand eye by tippling of the brandy.

His servants always firking, his firkins ran so fast, And staggering round his bar-rails, his barrels breathed their last; And when he treated _all hands_ his _Hollands_ ran away, Nor reap'd he fruit from _any seed_ for _aniseed_ to pay.

And though he drank the bitters, his bitters still increas'd, He puff'd the more _parfait au cur_ till all his efforts ceas'd.

The storm, alas! was brewing, the brewer drew his till, And Mrs. Figg, for 'bacca, to back her brought her bill.

Distillers still'd his spirits, but couldn't still his mind; He told the bailiff he would try a bail if he could find; But fumbling round the tap-room, Death tapp'd him on the head, So here he lies quite flat and stale, because, d'ye see, he's dead.

_Literary Gazette._

[Ill.u.s.tration]

[Ill.u.s.tration]

BENJAMIN BASHFUL

ON

THE VICE OF PUNNING.

THE PUNSTER'S FOE.

Who's he, that from our board is running?

He, Sir's an enemy to punning, A bashful foe, who loves not wit-- Ergo, because he's none of it Within his cranium; and at table Sits like the fox in aesop's fable, Watching the grapes he'd fain devour, And disappointed, calls them sour.

A laugh would decompose his metal, And like a dog, with a tin kettle Dangling at his tail, he runs From witty wags who deal in puns.

TO BERNARD BLACKMANTLE, ESQ.

Sir,

It has just been communicated to me, that you are about to collect and publish a Punster's Pocket-Book, for the express purpose of promoting that _pernicious vice_, which is already much too prevalent. As an antidote to the evil, I hope you will _not fail_ to insert this my special protest.

B. BASHFUL.

I am a bashful young man of good fortune, who, to use the phrase of the mode, have just _come out_, and made my _entre_ into the world with the reputation of being a gentleman and a scholar. I could wish you to notice a minor evil in society which tends to poison the springs of taste and knowledge, by bringing forward the flippant, and throwing back the reflective, speaker. I allude to the vice of punning, which tends to destroy all the profit and pleasure of conversation, and embarra.s.s, in the greatest degree, the young and inexperienced.

It is my fate to mix with a circle of fashionable _dilettanti_, each of them capable of sustaining a part in rational discourse, and of conducting the intellectual conflict with some share of vigour and learning; who, nevertheless, meet together to fritter away time, patience, and attention, with a series of unconnected quibbles and conundrums. Instead of the rich web of fancy, glowing with the vivid creations of lively, intelligent minds, the conversation presents a motley intermixture of shreds of wit and patches of conceit, a chequer-work of incongruities, the very orts and sc.r.a.ps of the "Feast of Reason," the dozings of science, and dregs of literature. If I relate to this group of punsters the most affecting circ.u.mstance, I am heard with impatience and inattention, till I chance unwittingly to utter a word susceptible of a double or triple interpretation. The mischievous spark of folly immediately ignites, the moral interest of my tale is undermined, and a loud report of laughter announces the explosion. The genius of orthography frowns in vain: puns are, by the law of custom, ent.i.tled to claim entrance into the sensorium either by the eye or the ear: but when a pseudo pun ("for indeed there are counterfeits abroad") is perceptible to neither sense--when read, its wit is not discoverable; and when heard, it cannot be understood: to avoid the horror of an explanation, I find myself obliged to perjure my senses by laughing in ignorance and very sadness, and thus contribute a sanction to the practice I would fain abolish. The evil is subversive of the first principle of society. Is it little to hunger for the bread of wisdom, and to be fed with the husks of folly? Is it little to thirst for the Castalian fount, and see its waters idly wasted in sport or malice? Is it little to seek for the interchange of souls, and find only the reciprocity of nonsense?