This led the adventurous youth to narrate another difficulty from which he had been mercifully extricated by God's providence. He had been snipe-shooting in an Irish hog, and thoughtlessly trod upon a green, firm, and sound-looking, but very treacherous quagmire, us he was watching a snipe which had just sprung up. He was suddenly immersed in the semi-fluid peat to his shoulders, and only saved from quickly subsiding into the depths of the morass by a solid bed of clay, at the depth of five feet and a half. He sank to his under lip, barely escaping suffocation, and having his breath spared for shouting. He was pulled up by various contrivances, a reeking column of black mire. As it seemed clear that Mr O'Mackerry must have been engulfed in the bog if he had been half an inch under six feet two in stature, it was illogically argued that it would be a general advantage to manhood if all were exceedingly tall--suppose of the height of the suite of the Duke of Brunswick (composed of men some inches above seven feet), which came to London a hundred years ago. "Of course," said Tydvill, "Churchill is right in the Rosciad when he says: "`Your hero should be always tall, you know.'" But the wiser ones of the crew showed that the ordinary height, as fixed by the Almighty, is the best. If the scale of men were raised a foot or so, with proportioned frame and weight, horses and other beasts of burden should be increased also; else the giants could neither hunt nor even travel, nor find beef and mutton, etc, for their support. And if the animals were larger, more grass, etc, would be required than at present. The whole scale of proportions would require alteration. Who can dare to think that God's design is not the best? Neither giants nor dwarfs form the general rule, and extreme exceptions are happily very rare. "What became of the gun?" inquired one of the party. "I hope that was not swallowed up?" "No; that was pulled up with me. I had kept fast hold of it; we fell and rose together, and so I was not-- "`Doomed to perish by the slaughtering gun.'" However, it was unfit for service, like its owner, for the remainder of that day; its chilled barrel looked as if it were moaning forth to me, in hollow tone,-- "`Stay by me--thou art resolute and faithful; I have employment worthy of thy arm.'" It will be seen that Mr O'Mackerry had a smattering of classical lore. He was asked to name his last poet. "Dryden," said he, off-hand. "You hadn't a _dry_ den when you were up to your chin in the wet, black hole," quickly added Tydvill. Here there was unanimous applause. This led to some conversational nonsense about punning. "What is a pun?"