Byron may mean that any joke seems good to a man who had not heard one for a day.
"I liked the Dandies," says Byron, in his Detached Thoughts; "they were always very civil to me, though in general they disliked literary people, and persecuted and mystified Madme. de Staël, Lewis, Horace Twiss, and the like, damnably. They persuaded Madme. de Staël that Alvanley had a hundred thousand a year, etc., etc., till she praised him to his face for his beauty! and made a set at him for Albertine (Libertine, as Brummell baptized her, though the poor girl was, and is, as correct as maid or wife can be, and very amiable withal), and a hundred other fooleries besides. The truth is, that, though I gave up the business early, I had a tinge of Dandyism in my minority, and probably retained enough of it to conciliate the great ones at four and twenty. I had gamed and drunk and taken my degrees in most dissipations, and, having no pedantry, and not being overbearing, we ran quietly together. I knew them all more or less, and they made me a member of Watier's (a superb club at that time), being, I take it, the only literary man (except two others, both men of the world, M[oore] and S[pencer] in it. Our Masquerade was a grand one; so was the Dandy Ball too—at the Argyle,—but that (the latter) was given by the four chiefs—B[rummel?], M[idmay?], A[lvanley?], and P[ierreoint?], if I err not."
Sir James Mackintosh (1765-1832), after studying medicine, was called to the English Bar in 1795. Originally a supporter of the French Revolution, he answered Burke's
Reflections
with his
Vindiciæ Gallicæ