Dr. Byles himself could not have imagined, while putting the finishing hand to “The Conflagration,” that, if he had embarked his hopes of reaching posterity, in that heavy bottom, they must surely have foundered, in the gulf of oblivion—and that, after all, he would be wafted down the stream of time, to distant ages, astride, as it were, upon a feather—and that what he could never have accomplished, by his grave discourses, and elaborate, poetical labors, would be so certainly and signally achieved, by the never-to-be-forgotten quips, and cranks, and bon mots, and puns, and funny sayings, and comical doings of the reverend pastor of the Hollis Street Church.
The reader must not do so great injustice to Dr. Byles, as to suppose, that he mingled together sacra profanis, or was in the habit of exhibiting, in the pulpit, that frolicsome vein, which was, in him, as congenital, as is the tendency, in a fish, to swim in water.
The sentiment of Horace applies not here—
——————ridentem dicere verum
Quid vetat?
The serious writings of Dr. Byles are singularly free from everything, suggestive of frivolous association. In his pulpit, there was none of it; not a jot; while, out of it, unless on solemn occasions, there was very little else. I have heard from those, who knew him well, that he ransacked the whole vocabulary, in search of the materials for punning. Yet of his attempts, in this species of humor, few examples are remembered. The specimens of the wit and humor of this eccentric divine, which have been preserved, are often of a different character; and not a few of them of that description, which are called practical jokes. Some of these pleasantries were exceedingly clever, and others supremely ridiculous. It is now more than half a century, since I listened to the first, amusing anecdote of Mather Byles. Many have reached me since—some of them quite as clever, as any we have ever had—I will not say from Foote, or Hook, or Matthews; for such unclerical comparisons would be particularly odious—but quite as clever as anything from Jonathan Swift, or Sydney Smith. Suppose I convert my next number into a penny box, for the collection and safe keeping of these petty records—I know they are below the dignity of history—so is a very large proportion of all the thoughts, words, and actions of Kings and Emperors—I’ll think of it.
No. XCIV.
There were political sympathies, during the American Revolution, between that eminent physician and excellent man, Dr. James Lloyd, and Mather Byles; yet, some forty-three years ago, I heard Dr. Lloyd remark, that, in company, the Reverend Mather Byles was a most troublesome puppy; and that there was no peace for his punning. Dr. Lloyd was, doubtless, of opinion, with Lord Kaimes, who remarked, in relation to this inveterate habit, that few might object to a little salt upon their plates, but the man must have an extraordinary appetite, who could make a meal of it.
The daily employment of our mental powers, for the discovery of words, which agree in sound, but differ in sense, is a species of intellectual huckstering, well enough adapted to the capacities of those, who are unfit for business, on a larger scale. If this occupation could be made to pay, many an oysterman would be found, forsaking his calling, and successfully competing with those, who will not suffer ten words to be uttered, in their company, without converting five of them, at least, to this preposterous purpose.
No conversation can be so grave, or so solemn, as to secure it from the rude and impertinent interruption of some one of these pleasant fellows; who seem to employ their little gift upon the community, as a species of laughing gas. A little of this may be well enough; but, like musk, in the gross, it is absolutely suffocating.