he always gave the signal for the laugh himself by beginning it
at the proper time; and everybody then joined in it. One evening I
asked, modestly, if I might be allowed to read out a few little verses
which had occurred to me in moments of a certain amount of inspiration.
And as people were good enough to credit me with the possession of a
certain amount of brains, my request was received with a good deal of
applause. I took out my manuscript and read, with great solemnity--

"'ITALY'S MARVELS.

'When tow'rds the orient heav'n my gaze I bend,
The western sun shines warm upon my back;
Whilst, when I turn me to the beauteous west,
The golden glory strikes upon mine eyeballs.
Oh, sacred land! where nature thus displays
Such mighty marvels to the sight of men,
All adoration, quite compact of love.'

"'Ah! glorious! heavenly! dear Ottmar, and so deeply felt, Bo
sensitively expressed, right out of the fulness of your heart, so rich
in emotions!' cried the lady of the house, whilst several white ladies
and black gentlemen (I only mean black-dressed ones, with great hearts
under their jabots) followed her by crying, 'Glorious! heavenly!' and
one young lady sighed profoundly, weeping away a scalding tear. Being
asked to read something more, I gave to my voice the expression of a
deeply moved heart, and read--

"'LIFE DEPTHS.
'A little lad at Yarrow
Had a pretty little sparrow.
The other day he let it fly,
And now 'tis gone, alas! we sigh,
Heigho! the little lad at Yarrow
He hath no more the pretty sparrow.'

"There was a fresh tumult of applause. They begged for more; but I
said, modestly, that I could not but feel that stanzas of this kind,
grasping as they did comprehensively at the bases of all life, have, in
the long run, a tendency to impress the hearts of delicate, impassioned
women too strongly, so that I should prefer to quote a pair of
epigrams, in which the distinctive feature of the epigram--the sudden
flashing out of the species of squib which constitutes the tail--would
not fail to be duly appreciated. I read--

"'WIT.
'The pudgy Master Schrein
Drank many a glass of wine,
But death cut short his thread.
Then quoth his neighbour Spry
(A gossip, de