There was Mrs. F.,

So very deaf,

That she might have worn a percussion-cap,

And been knocked on the head without hearing the snap.
Well, I sold her a horn, and the very next day
She heard from her husband at Botany Bay!

You may go to surgical chaps if you choose,
Who will blow up your tubes like copper flues,
Or cut your tonsils right away,

As you'd shell out your almonds for Christmas-day;
And after all, a matter of doubt,

Whether you ever would hear the shout

Of the little blackguards that bawl about,

There you go with your tonsils out!'

Why, I knew a deaf Welshman who came from Glamorgan On purpose to try a surgical spell,

And paid a guinea, and might as well

Have called a monkey into his organ!

Why, bless you, a woman with organs like yours

Is hardly safe to step out of doors!

Just fancy a horse that comes full pelt

But as quiet as if he was 'shod with felt,'
Till he rushes against you with all his force;
And then, I needn't describe, of course,
While he kicks you about without remorse,
How awkward it is to be groomed by a horse!
Or a bullock comes, as mad as King Lear,
And you never dream that the brute is near,
Till he pokes his horn right into your ear,
Whether you like the thing or lump it,-
And all for want of buying a trumpet !
Whereas, with a horn that never offends,
You may join the genteelest party that is;
And enjoy all the scandal and gossip and quiz ;-
And be certain to hear of your absent friends.

Not that elegant ladies in fact,

In genteel society ever detract,

Or lend a brush when a friend is black'd,

At least, as a mere malicious act,

But only talk scandal for fear some fool

Should think they were bred at a charity-school.

Try it-buy it!

Buy it-try it!

The last new patent, and nothing comes nigh it."

In short, the Pedlar so beset her ;

Lord Bacon couldn't have gammon'd her better,
With flatteries plump and indirect,

And plied his tongue with such effect,—

A tongue that could almost have butter'd a crumpet,

The deaf old woman bought the trumpet.

The crowning event of the tale is, that this same mischief-breeding horn, with its scandalous whisperings, quickly sets all the good people of Tringham at battle-royal.

The nearest neighbours the village through,
Looked at each other as yellow and blue,

As any electioneering crew

Wearing the colours of Whigs and Tories.
The social clubs dissolved in huffs,
And the Sons of Harmony came to cuffs;
While feuds arose and family quarrels,

That discomposed the mechanics of morals;"

For screws were loose between brother and brother,

While sisters fastened their nails on each other:

Such wrangles and jangles, and miff and tiff,

And spar
and jar, and breezes as stiff
As ever upset a friendship, or skiff!—
The plighted lovers who used to walk,
Refused to meet, and declined to talk;

And wished for two moons to reflect the sun,
That they mightn't look together on one.

At length, the cause of the evil and the scandal is traced to its source; and the whole population of Tringham fall pell-mell upon the unfortunate Dame Spearing, whom they sentence with Lynchlaw expedition to atone for the crime of witchcraft :

So, in spite of her cries that never cease,
But scare the ducks, and astonish the geese,

The dame is dragged to the fatal pond!

And now they come to the water's brim

And in they bundle her-sink or swim;

:

Though it's twenty to one that the wretch must drown,
With twenty sticks to hold her down;

Including the help to the self-same end,
Which a travelling Pedlar stops to lend.
A Pedlar!-Yes! The same!--the same!
Who sold the horn to the drowning dame!
And now is foremost amid the stir,
With a token only revealed to her;

I

intellectual wealth, in the classic abundance of Ben Jonson; the fantastic luxuriance of Beaumont and Fletcher; the scalping and flaying of Butler; the polish and ease of Steele and Addison; the point and terrible power of Swift; the wanton gaieties of Wycherley; and the brilliancy, but heartlessness, of Congreve; the spirit, vivacity, and roguery of Vanburgh and Farquhar; the satiric accomplishments of Rochester, Marvell, Young, Gay, Churchill, and saucy Peter Pindar; the broad-sword sweep of Dryden ; and the poignant, rapierlike refinement of Pope; the profound heart-teaching of Hogarth. Then we have had the lively and mischievous plotting of Centlivre in her comedies; the good sense and perspicuity of Cibber; the buoyancy of Hoadley, Colman, and Garrick; the perfectly sweet nature of Goldsmith; the diamond-like wit of Sheridan; the truth to nature and subtlety of Fielding; and uncompromising broad humour of Smollett; with the eccentric originality of Sterne. Still descending, we noted the prodigal farce of Foote; the roaring fun of O'Keefe; the more chastened drollery of Murphy and Kenny; with the ridiculous situations of Peake. Again, in the present series of essays have been noticed the extravagance of the burlesque-writers, the ludicrous yet meaning touches of the caricaturists; the graceful mirth of the essayists, closing with the quaint, pithy, pregnant, and amusing sallies of Charles Lamb and Leigh Hunt; and, lastly, the multitudinous and surprising combinations of Thomas Hood.

All these, in their turn, have now been reverted to, that we might behold the choicest of that comic power for which our England is so famous. In culling from this rich store I may, perhaps, say, in my own behalf, that care has been taken to select such passages for entertainment as should least jar with modern conventional ideas of the due limits to be observed in licence of expression, with this reservation, to bring the best things to remembrance has been my constant endeavour.

To excite mere laughter has not been so much aimed at as to remind the reader of those passages that most fruitfully contain evidences of the genius that exists in true wit and humour. If I have fulfilled my task (which, from its nature, presented difficulties that will readily be comprehended, and, I am sure, will as readily be extenuated)—if, I say, I have fulfilled my task with but half as good a result as the zeal with which it has been pursued was earnest; if I have but procured to my readers a reflex of the pleasure which I have myself enjoyed in collecting and arranging these various garlands of comic genius for their delectation, it will tend to console me for the necessity of at length coming to a conclusion, and of uttering the unpleasing word-" Farewell !"

MOUNT ÆTNA.

(VIRGIL'S ENEID.)*

ORTH from the bosom of the distant sea
Sicilian Ætna looms, afar we hear

The mighty moaning of the Ocean deep,
And near the breakers roaring on the rocks
We hear, and sounding on the shore; aloft
The billows bound, with surf and sand confused.
Then spake my sire, "Here is Charybdis' seat,
The cliffs of horror Helenus foretold;
Rise to your oars, and drive us from our doom."
To Southern seas at once the groaning prow
Swift Palinurus turned, to Southern seas
With oar and sail our startled squadron swept.
High on the arching wave to Heaven we rise,
Down with the sinking wave we sink to shades
Infernal, thrice from their deep Ocean caves
The rocks rang loud, and thrice the spray we saw
Dashed from the billow, drench the dripping stars.
Weary the while, without or wind or sun,
We drift in darkness to Cyclopean coasts.
Calm are the billows of that boundless bay

By winds unmoved, while Ætna thunders nigh
And shakes the shuddering coast with tossing throes.
Fitful and far into the hush of heaven

From that volcano breaks the bursting cloud

With horror black, and bright with balls of fire,

That lick with tongues of flame the shining stars.
Fitful and far the fierce volcano flings

The vomit of its entrails torn, and rocks,

Huge rocks, that melt in masses on the air,

While moans the mountain from its boiling breast.

T. H. L. LEARY, D.C.L.

B. iii. v. 570-589.