is Martinuzzi Fupper, and E. A. Poe, is Edgardo Pooh. The following is from "The Parrot" (the Raven) of the last.

"Once as through the streets I wandered, and o'er many a fancy pondered,

Many a fancy quaint and curious, which had filled my mind of

yore,

Suddenly my footsteps stumbled and against a man I tumbled, Who, beneath a sailor's jacket, something large and heavy bore. Beg your pardon, Sir,' I muttered, as I rose up hurt and sore; But the sailor only swore.

"Vexed at this, my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, 'Sir,' said I, 'Now really, truly, your forgiveness I implore!' But, in fact, my sense was napping, then the sailor answered, rapping

866

Out his dreadful oaths, and awful imprecations by the score,Answered he, Come, hold your jaw!

May my timbers now be shivered,'-oh, at this my poor heart quivered,

'If you don't beat any person that I ever met before!

You've not hurt me; stow your prosing,'-then his huge pea-coat unclosing,

Straight he showed the heavy parcel, which beneath his arm he bore,

Showed a cage, which held a parrot, such as Crusoe had of yore,
Which at once drew corks and swore.

"Much I marvelled at this parrot, green as grass aud red as carrot,
Which, with fluency and ease, was uttering sentences a score;
And it pleased me so immensely, and I liked it so intensely,
That I bid for it at once; and when I showed of gold, my store,
Instantly the sailor sold it; mine it was, and his no more;

Mine it was for evermore." "

The parrot displays its accomplishments in a very unseemly manner when arrived at its new possessor's home, by pouring forth volleys of oaths, which naturally shock the Pater and Mater-familias, and this conduct provokes the master of the profane bird to address it thus:

"Parrot,' said I, bird of evil! parrot still, or bird or devil! By the piper, whom the Israelitish leader played before,

I will stand this chaff no longer! We will see now which is stronger.

Come, now-off! thy cage is open-free thou art, and there's the door!

Off at once, and I'll forgive thee;-take the hint, and leave my door.'

But the parrot only swore.

And the parrot never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the very self-same perch where first he sat in days of yore ;
And his only occupations seem acquiring imprecations

Of the last and freshest fashions, which he picks up by the score;
Picks them up, and, with the greatest gusto, bawls them by the

score,

And will swear for evermore."

We have given this hasty and imperfect sketch of some of the most remarkable of English humorous authors principally to show that the writer, or collective body of writers, who would hope at the present day to earn renown in this department of literature, must possess considerable qualifications for the task, which also has become so much increased in difficulty.

Want of self-confidence is, however, by no means a characteristic of modern times, and was never less rare in the literary world than at this moment.

On the 17th July, 1841, appeared the first number of a publication professing to be the true exponent and real representative of English wit and humour.

Punch, indeed, numbered amongst its first contributors several names of note. Douglas Jerrold's and William M. Thackeray's were powerful and brilliant pens, and Albert Smith, Gilbert A. A'Beckett, Mark Lemon, and a score of others, helped very efficiently to keep up the

game.

The idea, borrowed from the Paris Charivari, was in England a new and proved a most successful one. In addition to a band of bright wits, the services of Richard Doyle and John Leech were enlisted, and the good things of the writers were illustrated by equally good things from the pencils of the artists.

Fun, broad as well as refined, arrows discharged at the flying folly" of the day, puns, epigrams, and burlesques, all, to do them justice, as yet harmless and genial, sparkled in every page, and made Punch really delightful_reading in every hour of perfectly abandoned leisure. In those pages Douglas Jerrold's "Story of a Feather," "Punch's Letters to his Son," Albert Smith's clever "Physiology

of London Evening Parties," A'Beckett's "Comic Blackstone," and Thackeray's "Fat Contributor,' ""Jeames Diary," and " Snob Papers," made their first appearance. And here, too, was for the first time read by many a tearful eye Hood's immortal "Song of a Shirt."-Heu! quantum mutatus!

For some years "Punch" held on a blameless and at times a brilliant course.

About 1847 some severe, though by many considered just and wholesome strictures were passed on Mr. Alfred Bunn's poetical effusions, of which, in the shape of opera libretto's, he had published a good deal.

Mr. Bunn manfully entered the lists with his (then) powerful antagonist, and issued a number of a publication entitled "A Word with Punch." In size and external appearance it resembled Punch, and on the cover was significantly printed, "To be continued if necessary, but a continuation was not necessary. From that time forward, save perhaps in an occasional small paragraph in an obscure corner, the name of Alfred Bunn was sacred from the pens of the Punch corps of writers. Under the names of Wronghead, (Jerrold) Sleek head, (A'Beckett) and Thickhead, (Mark Lemon) Mr. Bunn, in a number of smart though violently personal paragraphs, dealt rather severely with the trio, who, whether they despised their antagonist, or perhaps thought they had had quite enough of the encounter, appeared no more upon the field. Perhaps, indeed, a worthier motive influenced their conduct; perhaps they felt that it was a departure from the terms upon which they first sought and obtained the support of the public, thus to gibbet, under the pretence of "fun," one of that public; perhaps they felt that a delusive idea of the possession of a poetic fancy was not an offence so grave as to justify a protracted pillorying, or perhaps the touch upon their own tender spots taught them the practical justice of the golden maxim, of dealing to others the treatment they would wish to receive.

This check, however, was soon forgotten, and the original staff of contributors becoming scattered, some having departed in search of more lasting fame, some to other pursuits, public and private, and some having obeyed the great summons to eternity, the humour began to flag, and the general spirit to grow dull.

The common refuge of dulness began to be sought by

those who remained, who finding they could no longer combine, as their larger-minded fellow-labourers had done, most happily, wit with wisdom, began themselves to play that fool whose antics they had hitherto ridiculed.

They were, indeed, literally at their wit's end, and as they felt that they could not hope to maintain the public favour by the force of intellect, they cast about for some other means of sustaining their position. In the course which they eventually adopted we must do them the justice to say that they showed considerable knowledge of the national character of their countrymen. They knew that John Bull not only thinks himself the noblest, the greatest, and the most intellectual creature on the earth, but that he likes to be told so every day in the year and every hour in the day. They knew that he is frequently a fanatic in religion, as well as a despot in politics, and that of all shades of belief which men hold in the world, there is not one which, in the great City of London and through many parts of England too, is so good a subject for coarse ridicule and low buffoonery as that which bears the great name of Catholic.

Men of genuine feeling, true humorists, however strong their prejudices, however sincere their error,-gentlemen, in fine-would have abhorred the filthy work; but those who now laboured at it were formed and fitted to the task, and undertook it with a true relish for the ribald and the low. Their course was taken accordingly, and it was decided to make the once brilliant and genial Punch the vehicle of slanderous sneers and indecent caricature of the Catholic religion and its dignitaries. The hand that had adorned its pages with many an inimitable illustration, that had, under the modest sign of a " Dickey" bird, produced so many unrivalled sketches to aid the pens of its writers, and which had executed the title page which still figures upon its cover, was at once withdrawn, and, step by step, Punch fell from its once glorious eminence into the mire in which it now flaps and struggles.

We remember, with pain and with regret, the day when we were wont to take up the latest number of Punch with the full assurance, never disappointed, that we should find in its pages amusement and perhaps instruction; some new view of public affairs, cleverly and humorously suggested, some public abuse whipped, some neglected merit praised, some pretentious fool admonished; secure, too, in

that day, that in its pages we should never meet insult to our religion, or aught that could offend decency or good

taste.

How stands the case now? We take up a few of the more recent numbers at hazard, without previous perusal or inspection.

In number dated 1 Oct., 1859, page the first, (aud of the 37th volume, 133,) we find the following choice bit of humour:

"Rome and Utah.-Rome, the spiritual domain of the Pope, is called by papists the See of Peter. Brigham Young may with nearly equal reason, and to quite as much purpose, boast that the Lake of Utah, his pontificate, is the Sea of Saltpetre."

Having offered this insult to the Catholics of the kingdom, Punch, on the next page, presents the Irish people with the following; before extracting which we must disclaim all sympathy with the Nation newspaper, or with its joy at England's misfortune. We prize the liberty and security we enjoy under the British constitution, and we are not impelled to notice this paragraph from any interest in or admiration of the newspaper alluded to, or the views suggested by it; but we desire to protest against the ignorant and vulgar flippancy of this cheap wit, who falling into the very rage which he deprecates, sputters his fury unintelligibly forth, and finishes with a sneer at the Irish people.

"The Nation' in a Fit.-On the disaster at the Peiho, the Nation newspaper makes the following, among other remarks:

"On the waters of the Peiho the British banners have been covered with defeat, slaughter, and disaster. Deep under its waves lie the shattered skeletons of her vanquished flagships; flying for safety to Canton are the remnant of her routed forces. All draggled with blood, all ghastly with wounds, all pale with defeat -defeat, wounds, blood, all of their own seeking and challengingare fleeing the men who were the first to run up the signal for action,' and enter upon the fight in which they have been so terribly worsted.'

"Here the authoress of the foregoing efflux of hysterical spite, was overcome by emotion, of which she strove in vain to vent herself. She sprang from her seat and danced; she tore her dress, and scratched her own face in the self-inversion of her unglutted malice. Choked with the passion which she could neither spit nor swallow. she then fell into a fit, whence having been recovered by means of burnt feathers and hartshorn, she proceeded, her stays having been