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THE USE OF THE PUN
To the question—Should Punning be regarded as a rational, or even tolerable, form of jocularity?—the answer would probably be that, like certain articles of diet, its use depends on quality and quantity. When the quality is good, it can properly be used; but the quantity should be limited.
In any case, the “play on words” is quite a venerable institution; and as to antiquity, examples of its use certainly occur in Holy Scripture.
And “every schoolboy knows”—and if that is the case, every schoolgirl knows—that one of the early Popes, observing in one of the streets of Rome, a group of youths, who had evidently been brought from some distant land, and, having been informed that they were “Angli,” exclaimed “non Angli sed Angeli.”
And there is another easily remembered tale belonging to mediæval times, namely, concerning the renowned scholar and philosopher John Scotus Erigena, namely, that when Charles I of France, received him at dinner, the King, wishing to crack a joke at the expense of his guest, who was seated opposite to him, asked “What separates Scot from sot?” To which the philosopher instantly replied, “Only the table.”[1] Historical candour prompts the admission that some authorities say that Erigena was of Irish extraction; and of course the original Scots are supposed to have migrated from the Sister Isle.
Coming now to modern times, punning is not so much in vogue at the present time as it was during some earlier periods, and I think it must have been very prevalent in the days of my youth. Thus, while at Cheam School, I remember that one of the masters (Mr Osborne) to whom I was displaying my new watch and chain, observing that the latter was somewhat tangled, remarked that it had apparently got into a “Gordian” knot. This master must have been a good-tempered man, on the whole, because the boys could quite freely address him by his nickname “Poll,” derived from his somewhat aquiline nose; but he could also be a disciplinarian. Thus, on one occasion when he was about to administer some sort of punishment to a boy, several of us, seated at the other end of the room, called out, in a merely conventional way, “O! Poll, let him off.” In thunderous voice, Mr Osborne exclaimed, “Who said, ‘Let him off’?” One or two of us, including myself, pleaded guilty. Mr Osborne advanced, and with a wide swoop of his arm, inflicted a terrific box on one of my ears. I can well remember how that ear tingled during the rest of the day. Of course such an incident would not be tolerated in a School of to-day. It would be regarded as dangerous, as I have no doubt it was. However, though I am now a little deaf in the left ear, I cannot lay the blame on Mr Osborne, partly because the tendency is recent, and also because it only affects my left ear, whereas the buffet was inflicted on the right.
After leaving Cheam I heard a good many puns during a most enjoyable time as one of the pupils of a bachelor clergyman in Surrey. Before my arrival, he informed an elderly lady friend of his that he had got “Gordon coming as a pupil.” At that time Major Gordon Cumming, of the well-known Morayshire family, had acquired much celebrity as a lion-killer in Africa; and my tutor’s friend was naturally puzzled as to how a middle-aged, big-game sportsman could be expected as a pupil at the Parsonage.
Another specimen of this parson’s proficiency in punning was given when a cartoon appeared in Punch, illustrating the inconvenience caused by the large number of unwieldy vans which obstructed traffic in London streets. The title of the picture in Punch was “The Van Demon.” This led my tutor to remark that it was a pity they could not be all sent to Van Diemen’s Land; but a junior reader may naturally ask—Where is that? Well, it no longer exists—at least, not on the map. And—but I think we had better change the subject.
I shall only quote one more tutorial joke of this description, namely, when someone remarked that a man whose business consisted in selling dead horses, seemed to be doing well, my tutor remarked that probably he had “a knack o’ collecting them,” which, of course, sounded like “Knacker,” the technical name of that business.
But I turn from what may be regarded as rather flimsy specimens, to an utterance of the punning sort by no less a personage than the late Sir William Vernon Harcourt, which was related to me by that most genial and resourceful of companions—the late Sir Francis Mowatt.
The joke was evoked thus. The late Sir Rainald Knightley (who was created a baron in 1897), belonged to a family of very ancient lineage, for their names appear in Domesday Book as owners of land at the time of William of Normandy. Sir Rainald was naturally proud of his pedigree, and one evening during a visit to a country house, he was narrating some of the facts of his genealogy; but before he had finished, it was time to join the ladies. Next evening, however, he resumed the subject; but Sir William Harcourt soon intervened by remarking, “Ah yes, most interesting; and one cannot help recalling a passage in that fine poem by Addison, in which occur some lines which might be adapted thus:
‘And Nightly, to the listening earth,
Repeats the story of his birth.’ ”
Of course, the drawback about a shaft of that sort is that it often may, or must, in some degree wound; but I shall now quote a witticism in the punning line, which could leave no sting, but rather the reverse, uttered by another celebrity, namely, Mark Twain.
Some years before he passed from this world, Mark Twain was laid up by a very serious illness; and it happened that at the same time Rudyard Kipling also suffered in a similar manner; consequently many sympathetic messages were flashed by cable across the Atlantic from America with inquiries concerning Rudyard Kipling, and from England for Mark Twain. After both the distinguished invalids had happily recovered, Mark Twain was entertained at a complimentary banquet by the Savage Club in London. And in replying to the toast of his health, he opened by stating that he had for some weeks past been engaged in the concoction of a pun, which he would now give to the company, namely this: “England and America which have been brought nigh to each other in Kipling, will not be divided in Twain.”
It may be allowable to quote something in the shape of a pun, attributed in Punch to another very eminent personage, namely, the illustrious philanthropist—Lord Shaftesbury.
In the year 1864, the Earl of Derby published a translation of Homer, which was received with much favour by scholars in general. His successor in the Premiership was Lord Palmerston, who had occasion to make a good many Episcopal appointments; and in this matter it was understood that he was often guided by the advice of Lord Shaftesbury, who was his son-in-law. Several of these appointments, however, took the shape of “Translations” from one See to another; and these had attracted a good deal of attention. A cartoon in Punch represented a corridor in a country house, during the recess. Lord Derby happens to meet Lords Palmerston and Shaftesbury. (A bust of Homer is seen near):
Lord Derby, loq. “By the way, have you seen my Homer? and have either of you been translating?”
Shaftesbury, loq. (stiffly). “No, we translate only Bishops.”
Derby, loq. “Ruat Coelum! Shaftesbury has joked!”
Of course this reflected a prevalent notion; but as a matter of fact Lord Shaftesbury was quite alive to the humorous aspect of things—in fact, he formed one of the numerous examples of persons, who, while deeply imbued with religious principle, are also fully equipped with “the saving sense of humour.”
Sometimes a pun is perpetrated unintentionally, and in that case the result is not always satisfactory. I once had a distressing experience of this liability. At the Ladies’ Empire Club, in London, one of the desirable rules of that very desirable establishment is that married members are permitted to introduce their husbands to the privileges of the Club (within due limits). It happened that on one occasion many years ago, in the exercise of this privilege I was partaking of a meal in the dining-room, alone, Lady Aberdeen having been called away by some engagement in another part of the house. Soon a very attractive young lady entered the room and took a seat at one of the small tables. I cast a furtive glance in that direction, hoping that I might find that I could claim acquaintance, but I came to the conclusion that such was not the case; however, a moment later, to my great satisfaction, the lady said, “How-do-you-do, Lord Aberdeen?”; I, of course, responded with alacrity, and conversation ensued, in the course of which my fair acquaintance remarked that she had just come back to town from spending some time in Hampshire on a fishing expedition; I inquired what kind of fish had been mostly in quest, and I added, through the mischievous, unfortunate prompting, perhaps, of some ill-disposed sprite, “Was it roach?” “No,” said the lady rather coldly, “it wasn’t.”
After that, conversation flagged; and there seemed to be a sort of invisible veil which hindered any further pleasant interchange; and very soon my companion, having finished her repast, moved away from the room with a very slight indication of farewell. A waitress then appeared, and I immediately said, “Could you tell me the name of that young lady who was here just now?”
The waitress seemed rather surprised, but immediately replied, “That is the Hon. Miss Roche” (pronounced exactly in the same manner as the ill-omened creature which I had mentioned), and I inwardly groaned. Never, during all the succeeding years have I had an opportunity of again meeting Miss Roche, and I have never quite got over that unfortunate lapse.
Some reader may say, “How stupid not to recognise who it was”; well, at any rate the incident shows that a deficiency in that respect is not a matter of “senile decay”; and as to stupidity, let there not be too much of a halloo as to a lack of the faculty of recognition being necessarily due to density; for, much to the consolation of ordinary folk, who have suffered from that difficulty, it is known that one of the most able and distinguished statesmen of our time, for many years Prime Minister of Great Britain, did not always succeed in identifying those with whom he was acquainted.
This was illustrated on various occasions, one of which is well known amongst the older members of official circles. It was narrated to me by the late Mr R. W. Hanbury—whose early death was so much deplored—while we were driving together to a great Agricultural Show at Aberdeen in the year 1902 (he was Minister of Agriculture at the time). He told me that not long previously the late Viscount Long, who had recently become a member of the Cabinet, was walking along Pall Mall with the Chief Government Whip, when the Prime Minister was observed coming out of the Athenæum Club.
“Oh,” said the Whip, “there is the Chief. I want to speak to him. Would you mind waiting for a bit, while I go across to him?”
“All right,” said his friend, “but I hope you won’t be long.”
However, when a Prime Minister is engaged in conversation with his Chief Whip, brevity is not always to be expected; and at last Mr Long, becoming somewhat impatient, passed near the spot where the two were standing, and gave a vigorous nod to his friend in order to indicate that he was waiting. Very soon afterwards he was rejoined by his companion, who seemed to be decidedly amused.
“What are you laughing at?” said his friend, who was not feeling particularly jovial.
“Oh,” said the other, “I couldn’t help laughing, because when you passed just now, the Prime Minister said to me as soon as you had gone a little distance, ‘And who is your fresh-coloured young friend?’ ”
| [1] | Of course in order to get the actual effect of the utterance, it should be given in the original Latin, “Quid distat inter Scotum et sotum?” Reply, “Mensa tantum.” |
