idiot; and condemns as vicious, not only in taste but in morals, the final exit of Mercutio, who is sent into purgatory with a pun in his mouth. You increase his disgust if you tell him that the same thing has happened on the real stage of life; that Elliston's ending was even as that of Mercutio, whom he had so often represented; that when, an hour or two before the parting of soul and body, the patient's head was raised on his pillow, and, to induce him into one more hopeless spoonful of medicine, he was told that “he should wash it down with half a glass of his brown sherry;" that even then the actor's glazed eye brightened under the influence of the ruling passion, as he articulated with almost moveless lips, "Bri-be-ry-and-Cor-rup-tion!"

Nothing incenses the anti-punster so much as detecting in a distaste for puns an incapacity for making them. Charge him with that, and he will immediately prove himself incapable by offering proof of capacity. He can neither make a genuine good pun, which is a good thing; nor a shocking bad one, which is a better. Whatever he hazards is bad, to be sure; but not bad enough: it is a wretched, dull piece of impotence, wholly innocent of drollery. He has no soul for a villanous quibble; he cannot for his life make it vile enough to succeed; he has not the grasp of mind requisite to gather up two remote meanings, and compress them into a single word, which the eye rather than the tongue italicises to the apprehension. In short, he is unconscious that the excellent and the execrable meet together upon a point which genius alone can reach; and that in the art of punning, to be good enough and bad enough are the same thing, the difficulty being as great, and the glory as unequivocal. In his attempt, therefore, he tries hard at working out a good one, and consequently fails to arrive at the

proper pitch of badness. The anti-punster is an incapable; all he can do is, to take his hat because he can't take a joke. He breaks up a party, because somebody breaks a jest. He thinks he shows his sense by not relishing nonsense; and seeks credit for profound thought, by abhorring a play upon words. He carries a sneer on his lip for want of a smile.

THE PENNY-A-LINER.

THE penny-a-liner, like Pope, is "known by his style." His fine Roman hand once seen may be sworn to by the most cursory observer. But though in this one respect of identity resembling Pope, he bears not in any other the least likeness to author dead or living. He has no brother, and is like no brother, in literature. Such as he was, he is. He disdains to accommodate his manner to the ever-altering taste of the times. He refuses to bow down to the popular idol, innovation. He has a style, and he sticks to it. He scorns to depart from it, to gratify the thirst for novelty. He even thinks that it improves with use, and that his pet-phrases acquire a finer point and additional emphasis upon every fresh application. Thus, in relating the last fashionable occurrence, how a noble family has been plunged into consternation and sorrow by the elopement of Lady Prudentia a month after marriage, he informs you, as though the phrase itself carried conviction to the heart, that the "feelings of the injured husband may be more easily conceived than described." If he requires that phrase twice in the same narrative, he consents to vary it by saying that "they may be imagined but cannot be depicted." In reporting an incident illustrative of the fatal effects of taking prussic

acid, he states that the "vital spark is extinct," and that not the smallest hopes are entertained of the unfortunate gentleman's recovery. A lady's bag is barbarously stolen from her arm by "a monster in the human form." A thunder-storm is described as having "visited" the metropolis, and the memory of the oldest inhabitant furnishes no parallel to the ravages of the "electric fluid." A new actress " surpasses the most sanguine expectations" of the public, and exhibits talents "that have seldom been equalled, never excelled." A new book is not simply published, it "emanates from the press." On the demise of a person of eminence, it is confidently averred that he had a hand open as day to melting charity," and that "take him for all in all, we ne'er shall look upon his like again." Two objects not immediately connected are sure to be "far as the poles asunder;" although they are very easily brought together and reconciled in the reader's mind by the convenience of the phrase "as it were," which is an especial favourite, and constantly in request. He is a great admirer of amplitude of title, for palpable reasons; as when he reports, that "Yesterday the Right Honourable Lord John Russell, M. P., his Majesty's Secretary of State for the Home Department, dined with," &c. He is wonderfully expert in the measurement of hailstones, and in the calculation of the number of panes of glass which they demolish in their descent. He is acquainted with the exact circumference of every gooseberry that emulates the plenitude of a pumpkin; and can at all times detect a phenomenon in every private family, by simply reckoning up the united ages of its various members. But in the discharge of these useful duties, for the edification and amusement of the public, he employs, in the general course of things, but one set of phrases. If a

fire can be rendered more picturesque by designating it the "devouring element," the devouring element rages in the description to the end of the chapter. Once a hit always a hit; a good thing remains good for ever; a happy epithet is felicitous to the last. The only variation of style that he can be prevailed upon to attempt, he introduces in his quotations. To these he often gives an entirely new aspect, and occasionally, by accident, he improves upon the originals. Of this, the following may stand as a specimen :

""Tis not in mortals to deserve success;

But we'll do more, Sempronius, we'll command it.”

THE CREDITOR.

It has been remarked by a living writer, a moralist as well as a wit, that it is most absurdly the custom among all ranks to designate the debtor, the " poor debtor," and the "unfortunate debtor;" while, by equally general consent, the creditor is styled the "grasping," the "hard-hearted," and the "relentless." We gratefully pay in an instalment to the stock of proof, that the creditor is herein infamously libelled whether the debtor be rightfully designated or not.

We have seen many creditors; we have met them often in life, by accident; seldom by appointment, for appointments with creditors are rarely kept. And of them all, without exception, we can honestly declare that they were fellows truly worthy of giving credit; kind, sensible, polite souls, whose books it was quite a pleasure to remain in. It is really a pity to pay such people; you deprive them thereby of so many opportunities of showing their excellent qualities, and their continued claims upon your custom. Payment can

only be completely justified by being coupled with a condition that you immediately run a much larger score, and take longer time. To offer them ready money is to narrow their chances of doing that which they were expressly sent into the world to do.

Such creditors have we seen, and few of any other class. Now and then you may find a "a hard-hearted creditor," one whom a long course of prosperity has petrified; whom singular good fortune in collecting his debts easily has rendered impatient to the exception; you may stumble occasionally on a " relentless" creditor, one who would rather receive a small part of his account than fifty excuses, who has no taste for ingenious evasions, who actually expects you not merely to make a promise, but to keep it; who stupidly supposes that you are to pay him because the money is due, and who then proceeds to what he calls proceedings against you. But, depend upon it, if you ever come into collision with such a burlesque of a man of business, you will find him young in trade, inexperienced in the art of dunning, and unused to giving credit. He knows nothing of the duties of a creditor, and your best plan will be to pay him at once, and have done with him; getting his receipt, and having it framed and glazed, unless you like to keep out of his way until he gets more versed in his calling, and sees the absurdity of his applications.

But out of the way of the creditor who knows himself, and who deserves the distinction of having a round of debtors, you never can have occasion to get. Never avoid him if you wish to spare him the trouble of writing a receipt. Perhaps you, like Romeo

But is that a reason why you should skulk past his