448. Old G―, the rich miser of Gloucestershire, going home one day, between Wickivarr and Badminton, the way being greasy, after a shower of rain, his foot slipped, and he fell off a high bank into a wet ditch, where he was almost smothered; a countryman, who knew his character, coming by, he begged him, for God’s sake, to help him. Ay, said the countryman, give me your hand. _Give_ being a word that old G― had a great aversion to, cried out, I thank you, honest friend, I will lend you my hand with all my heart. I have often heard, said the other, that you would never give anything in your life, so you may lie there; and on he walked. 449. An old woman at the head of a table, said a satirical young one, seems to revive the old Grecian custom of serving up a death’s head with their banquets. 450. The famous Tony Lee, a player in King Charles the Second’s reign, being killed in a tragedy, having a violent cold, could not forbear coughing as he lay dead upon the stage, which occasioned a good deal of laughter and noise in the house; he lifted up his head, and speaking to the audience, said, This makes good what my poor mother used to tell me; for she would often say that I should cough in my grade, because I used to drink in my porridge. This set the house in such good humour, that it produced a thundering peal of applause, and made every one very readily pardon the solecism he had before committed. 451. Tom S―, the organist of St. M―, being reckoned to have a fine finger, drew many people to hear him, whom, he would oftentimes entertain with a voluntary after evening service, and his auditory seeming one day greatly delighted with his performance, after the church was cleared, Adad, sir, said his organ-blower, who was an idiot, I think we did rarely to-day. We, sirrah! said Tom. Ay, we, to be sure, answered the other; what would you have done without me? The next Sunday, Tom sitting down to play, could not make his organ speak, whereupon, calling to the bellows-blower, asked him what he meant? why he did not blow? Shall it be we, then? said the other. 452. A certain French gentleman, having been but a very little while in England, was invited to a friend’s house, where a large bowl of punch was made, a liquor he had never seen before, and which did not at all agree with him; but having forgot the name of it, he asked a person the next day, What dey call a dat liqur in England, which is all de contradiction; where is de brandy to make it strong, and de vater to make it small, de sugar to make it sweet, and de lemons to make it sower. Punch, answered the other, I suppose you mean. Ay, ponche, begar, cried monsieur, it almost ponche my brain out last night.