CDXLII.—WIT AND QUACKERY.
A celebrated quack, while holding forth on a stage of Chelmsford, in order to promote the sale of his medicine, told the people that he came there for their good, and not for want. And then addressing his Merry Andrew, "Andrew," said he, "do we come here for want?"—"No faith, sir," replied Andrew, "we have enough of that at home."
CDXLIII.—WIT DEFINED.
Dryden's description of wit is excellent. He says:—
"A thousand different shapes wit wears,
Comely in thousand shapes appears;
'Tis not a tale, 'tis not a jest,
Admired with laughter at a feast;
Nor florid talk, which can this title gain,—
The proofs of wit for ever must remain."
CDXLIV.—A VAIN SEARCH.
Sir Francis Blake Delaval's death had such an effect on Foote that he burst into tears, retired to his room, and saw no company for two days; the third day, Jewel, his treasurer, calling in upon him, he asked him, with swollen eyes, what time would the burial be? "Not till next week, sir," replied the other, "as I hear the surgeons are first to dissect his head." This last word restored Foote's fancy, and, repeating it with some surprise, he asked, "And what will they get there? I am sure I have known poor Frank these five-and-twenty years, and I never could find anything in it."
CDXLV.—A BAD CUSTOMER.
"We don't sell spirits," said a law-evading beer-seller; "we will give you a glass; and then, if you want a biscuit, we'll sell it to you for three ha'pence." The "good creature" was handed down, a stiff glass swallowed, and the landlord handed his customer a biscuit. "Well, no, I think not," said the customer; "you sell 'em too dear. I can get lots of 'em five or six for a penny anywhere else."