The Virginia Gazette

APOLOGY for PUNNING.

SINCE all my puns, as some pretend,
Have not reliev'd my marting friend;
Since, what affects me more, they say,
The cause of punning to betray,
With insincerity I seek
For arguments, on purpose, weak;
I deal no more in supposition,
Let real friends to punning push on.
That punning furnishes evasions
Of generous use on nice occasions,
I labour to confirm anew,
By an old story, which is true;
As many, not retir'd to rest,
Can well, if call'd upon, attest.
A grave professor, and a wag,
Mounts each at Williamsburg's nag;
Which road to take, with what intention,
The muse instructs me not to mention:
Whom I obey, resolv'd to live
Her faithful representative;
Not questioning, with zeal suspicious,
Which of the two is most judicious.
Infallibility, I see,
Most clearly, was not made for me.
No; I espouse the best of causes
With certain hems, and needful pauses.
To be precipitate and fix'd
Are qualities, I think, ill mix'd.
I never on a sudden view
Pronounce what must and shall be true,
Or swear no subject can afford
A thought but what I had explor'd
(Prepar'd to answer every snarler)
Ere vanity undid my parlour
By limping forth; to play the ape
In some tale patriot's stolen shape,
And nurse-like in a Senate babble
As if haranguing to a rabble;
As if each idle thought of chance
My country's profit must advance,
With many words and little sense,
While I but add to her expense;
Now droiling in the grave debate,
Like mountebank's associate;
Now groping for a woeful tale,
Till hearers wonder what I ail,
O liberty! my country! growling,
Till e'en the dogs are set a bowling,
And with pathetic lamentation
Chorus my doleful declamation.
Shall I proverbial proof become,
That talkers see not the dumb?
How speeches tire, without the soul
Of reason to inform the whole!
How oft, when too prolix, they seem
To end in a Lethean stream,
Curtain'd with fogs, of doubtful meaning,
Strolling beyond the light of meaning!
On which Attention, setting a
Has quickly lost th' enlivening gale,
Scarce feels the flagging vessel creep,
Yet reaches on the land of sleep
Where mimic Morpheus long detains,
The willing captive in his chains;
For fast, with open mouth, she snores
While Echo lulls the murmuring shores
E'en when my country is at stake,
For wit alone I undertake.
My country has my heart, my head
I therefore fear maybe mislead;
Which makes me sift, with equal caution,
My own and adversary's notion,
E'er I insert it in my creed,
And for it am prepar'd to bleed.
But to my tale, lest this digression
Surpass in length a lingering session.
The philosophick phiz and grig,
Coupled like minuet and jig,
Arriv'd, where this with joy regain'd
An ancient birth; but that was pain'd
To set his timid foot on ground
On which he newly heard it found.
The stranger, after modish use,
Our wag forgets to introduce.
Scarce in the fire-shine have they bask'd,
The wag is in a whisper ask'd
[By the good Lady, not inclining
To give affront, much less deigning]
Is this the tailor from the town
You talk'd long since of bringing down?
That moment gave his heart to burn,
With hopes of sport on their return.
The visit o'er, they homeward sally;
The wag his budget opes, to rally;
Keeps Mathematicks in a fret,
By topping every cull they met.
"What think ye! Madam Nokes, I vow,
From whom we are returning now,
Whose eyes have not begun to fail her,
She took the professor for a tailor!
Ought she you in his air or motion
To countenance so wild a notion?"
From time to time, with laughter's burst.
The chaf'd philosopher is curst.
At length, in passing through a street,
A crony of them both they meet;
A wight of sly facetious kind,
With one-legg'd body, two-legg'd mind.
The wag again his tale repeats,
Again poor Mathematicks sweats;
But Unipes, with steadfast eyes,
And muscles quite unmov'd, replies:
"Your tale contains no sign of wonder,
Not e'en the shadow of a blunder;
For this our learned friend, 'tis clear,
A very tailor must appear,
To the good Lady of the house,
When she beheld him with his goose."
No grave rebuke, tho' e'er so pat,
So soon had laid derision flat.
No stroke, not e'en a clap of thunder,
So soon had made light airs knock under.
So soon had triumph dash'd with gall,
And caus'd the chap of mirth to fall.
So soon had comforted th' oppress'd,
Beneath a load of heavy jest;
Who prick'd his horse, no longer lag-rid,
Being himself no longer wag-rid.
To foes of punning I will strike,
When lofty reason does the like.
Teaz'd as above, some stormy fretter
Had drawn his sword; a pun does better.
A word is but th' assassin's hit,
Which ill supplies the want of wit;
As by examples might be shown,
Was not the matter too well known.
Away with swords! for weapons seize
All tickling modes of humorous ease.
Such social rubs will rub us brighter,
And make us grow in time politer.
If stern resentment you must breathe,
The understanding's edge unsheath;
Which, baiting here and there a Burke,
Does too much in the scabbard lurk.
Now gentle Nature, from a good
And bounteous care of all her brood,
With inward beauty quite effaces
Each obvious loss of outward graces!
Burke's eye, in double sense, is single,
Enabling truth with wit to mingle.
Tho' one, so good, it ought to please,
More than his two, the pert Chinese;
And all conceited rogues, with him,
On bladders blown, by pride who swim,
And keep, through vanity's dominion,
From sinking in their own opinion;
Though they have div'd beneath the tide
In that of all the world beside,
And shown how quick each head or rump,
Bereft of aid, descended plump,
And smote the bottom with a stamp.
Disdaining then by force or fraud
To bring the silly to applaud,
Contend that genius, and a heart
Join their powers to stop their part.
Be once established reputation,
Learning have a toleration;
That punning which is pure and chaste,
Not which centers near the waist,
And bawd to loose intent
Usurps name of sentiment.
But barely pardonable jest!
When love, wine, youth, inflame the breast.
In fear of language more impure,
The lesser evil we endure.

D. M.