The writer of a little leader in the Daily News of last Wednesday seems to have been rather hard-up for a subject when he fell foul of the Messrs. MACMILLAN’s cheap re-issue of A Jest-Book, compiled many years ago by Mr. Punch’s MARK LEMON, “Uncle MARK,” who brought the ancient Joe Miller up to that particular date.  It was the last of the jest-books, and they are now quite out of fashion.  A quarter of a century hence, no doubt, the fortunate possessor of one of these little books will come out with many a new jest, and be esteemed quite an original wit.

It would have been well for the writer of the above-mentioned leaderette had he referred to the ninth of ELIA’s Popular Fallacies, and been thereby reminded how “a pun is a pistol let off at the ear; and not a feather to tickle the intellect.”  The Baron is prepared to admit that the lesson to be learned from this delightful Essay of CHARLES LAMB’s is, that a pun once let off, has fizzled off, and cannot be repeated with its first effect.  Now the honest historian of this, or of any pun, must reproduce in his narrative all the circumstances of time, place, and individuality that gave it its point; but the effect of the pun, the Baron ventures to think, it is impossible to convey in print to the reader, read he never so wisely, nor however vividly graphic may be the description.  Yet if this same reader possesses the art of reading aloud, with some approach to the dramatic Dickensian manner, then, given an appreciative audience, it is probable that the pun itself would not lose much in recital.  At best, however, the crispness of the original salt is impaired, though the flavour is not lost by keeping, and the enjoyment of it must depend on the new seasoning provided by the reciter.  Of course, its piquancy may have been staled by too frequent use—­but “this is another story.”  After all, is a jest-book meant to be taken seriously?  A question which “nous donne a penser,” quoth

THE BARON DE BOOK-WORMS.

* * * * *

FOGGED!

Blest if I know where I am in this murkiness made to benight us, Blest if I know what it means, this infernal Impressionist etching;

Surely some WHISTLER renowned in the gibbering realms of Cocytus Drew it—­and draws us along through its avenues ghostlily stretching.

Lights flicker out in the gloom, like diminutive goblins that beckon; Onward we stagger and gasp in the grip of this emanence deadly: 

How I would curse if I could, but not RABELAIS even I reckon Language could find, or a voice if he wished for the sulphurous medley.

Blest if I know who you are, wicked giant, colossal above me, Pluto perchance or, that fell spirit-ferryman, Charon uprising!

Blest if I know if survives in this demon-land anything of me, Blest!—­It’s a lamp-post, by George—­a reality somewhat surprising!

London, how long shall thy sons rue this Angel of Death with his grim bow, Suffer this nightmare to last by its pestilence mangled and throttled?