[There are very few literary persons in London, at least among those connected with the public press, who have not occasionally enjoyed the pleasant, punning, conversational powers of my friend W. R. V. whose whim, wit, and great good nature are not more esteemed, than his unaffected manners, and sincerity of disposition justly entitle him to.]
Some one observed, "Matches are made in Heaven." "Yes," answered he, "and they are very often dipped in the other place."
Two men contending at a tavern upon the point of who wrote that beautiful song on Ingratitude, "Blow, blow, thou wintry wind!" one said Ben Jonson; the other said Shakspeare. R.V. to adjust their differences, observed, "They must have written it between them, for each was a-verse to ingratitude."
A fat gentleman who was at a loss for the name of the nobleman who was shut up in a tower and starved to death, applied to the punster—"You-go-lean-O!" was the reply.
"A tailor is the ninth part of a man," observed a would-be-wit, in the presence of a knight of the sheers: "But," answered R.V. "a fool's no part at all."
"He that will pun will pick a pocket," observed an old cynic. "You speak from experience," was the stopper to this vinegar cruet.
Rhodes, the punning landlord of the Coal Hole tavern, took the Bell Inn at Hammersmith: R.V. hoped that as he had so long answered the bell, the Bell would now answer him.
One asked him what works he had in the press. "Why, the History of the Bank, with notes; the Art of Cookery, with plates; and the Science of Single Stick, with wood cuts."
A person told him that Louis dix-huit, when he entered London, put up at Grillon's hotel. "I am surprised at that," said he; "his father took his chop at Hatchett's."