WIT INCURABLE. A facetious character, whose talents for humour in private companies were the cause of his being always a guest in convivial societies, had, by late hours and attachment to the bottle, brought himself into a dropsy: insomuch, that the faculty, one and all, agreed nothing could save him but tapping. After much persuasion, he consented to the operation, and his surgeon and assistants arrived with the necessary apparatus. Bob was got out of bed, and the operator was on the point of introducing the trocar into the abdomen, when, as if suddenly recollecting himself, he bid the doctor stop. “What! are you afraid?” cried the surgeon. “No,” says the other; “but, upon recollection, it will not be proper to be tapped here; for nothing that has been _tapped_ in this house ever lasted long.” BLACK GUARDS. A punster, on hearing that the clergy were about to embody themselves for the defence of their country, after making some observations on their sable attire, and how ill the sword would become it, exclaimed, “Oh! England, unhappy England! to what a condition are we reduced, when we are to be indebted for the defence of our rights and interests to a band of _black guards_!” THAT’S MY THUNDER. Dennis, the critic, was the author of a tragedy acted at Drury Lane, in 1709, called Appius and Virginia. For the advantage of his play, Mr. Dennis had invented a new kind of thunder, which the actors much approved of, and is the same made use of at the theatre to this day. Notwithstanding this aid, the tragedy failed. Some nights after, the author being in the pit at the representation of Macbeth, and hearing the thunder made use of, he arose in a rage, and exclaimed, “By G--d, that’s my thunder! See how these rascals use me; they will not let my play run, and yet they steal my thunder.” STREET SWEEPER. A gentleman, crossing the Strand, was applied to by a man, who sweeps the cross-ways, for charity. The gentleman replied, “I am going a little farther, and will remember you when I return.” “Please your honour,” says the man, “it is unknown the credit I give in this way.” A STANDING JOKE. Munden, when confined to his bed, and unable to put his feet to the ground, being told by a friend that his dignified indisposition was the laugh of the green-room, pleasantly replied, “Though I love to make others laugh, yet I wish much rather they would make me a standing joke.” SIMPLE PRESCRIPTION. A patient of some distinction, who was teazing Peter Pindar with his symptoms, and who had nothing scarcely to complain of, told him that he frequently had an itching, and begged to know what he should do. “Scratch yourself, sir,” replied Peter; which laconic advice lost him his patient. TWO OF US. “Sirrah,” said a justice to one brought before him, “you are an arrant knave.” “Am I, sir?” says the prisoner; “just as your worship spoke, the clock struck two.” NOT HALF WAY TO THE BOTTOM.