It is not, however, always the host or the ale-wife who is made the object of these shafts of wit; as often as not it is Boniface who assumes the character of the joker. In illustration of his jests, the following extract is taken from the _Mirror_: “About half a century ago, when it was more the fashion to drink ale at Oxford than it is at present, a humorous fellow, of punning memory, established an alehouse near the pound, and wrote over his door, ‘Ale sold by the pound.’ As his ale was as good as his jokes, the Oxonians resorted to his house in great numbers, and sometimes staid there beyond the college hours. This was made a matter of complaint to the Vice-Chancellor, who was directed to take away his licence by one of the Proctors of the University. Boniface was summoned to attend, and when he came into the Vice-Chancellor’s presence he began hawking and spitting about the room; this the Chancellor observed, and asked what he meant by it. ‘Please your worship,’ said he, ‘I came here on purpose to _clear_ myself.’ The Vice-Chancellor imagined that he actually weighed his ale and sold it by the pound. ‘Is that true?’ ‘No, an’t please your worship,’ replied the wit. ‘How do you, then?’ said the Chancellor. ‘Very well, I thank you, sir,’ replied he; ‘how do you do?’ The Chancellor laughed, and said, ‘Get away for a rascal; I’ll say no more to you.’ The fellow departed, and crossing the quadrangle met the Proctor who laid the information. ‘Sir,’ said he, ‘the Chancellor wants to speak to you,’ and returned with him. ‘Here, sir,’ said he when he came into the Chancellor’s presence, ‘you sent me for a _rascal_, and I’ve brought you the greatest that I know of.’” There is a good tale told of a certain innkeeper, who, had he received the advantages of an university education, would certainly have taken high mathematical honours. To him came a traveller, who demanded a tankard of treble X. Thereupon the innkeeper, having hesitated a moment, left the tap-room, to reappear shortly afterwards with a foam-crowned pewter. The traveller tasted, and exclaimed angrily, “This is not what I ordered!” “It is,” shortly replied Boniface; and retired to avoid discussion. The traveller was a connoisseur in beer, and knew he had been given table ale. Calling the potboy, he questioned him “No, master kept no strong beer,” said the lad; “nothing more than double X.” The traveller then summoned the landlord, and the meeting was stormy. The traveller asserted, the host denied, and came off finally triumphant with, “I know I don’t keep treble X, {194} but I can make it. I just gave you half double X and t’other half single X, and if two and one don’t make three, my name’s not Boniface.” [Illustration: Cornelius Caton.]