It was the ninth year of the Trojan war— A tedious pull at best: A lot of us were sitting by the shore— Tydides, Phocas, Castor, and the rest— Some whittling shingles and some stringing bows, And cutting up our friends, and cutting up our foes. Down from the tents above there came a man, Who took a camp-stool by Tydides’ side, He joined our talk, and, pointing to the pan Upon the embers where our pork was fried, Said he would eat the onions and the leeks, But that fried pork was food not fit for Greeks. “Look at the men of Thebes,” he said, “and then Look at those cowards in the plains below: You see how ox-like are the ox-fed men; You see how sheepish mutton-eaters grow. Stick to this vegetable food of mine: Men who eat pork grunt, root and sleep like swine.” Some laughed, and some grew mad, and some grew red: The pork was hissing; but his point was clear. Still no one answered him, till Nestor said, “One inference that I would draw is here: You vegetarians, who thus educate us, Thus far have turned out very small potatoes.” THE POET BRYANT AS A HUMORIST. Those who are familiar with Mr. Lowell’s _Fable for Critics_, will remember the lines:— There is Bryant, as quiet, as cool, and as dignified, As a smooth, silent iceberg, that never is ignified, Save when by reflection ’tis kindled ’o nights With a semblance of flame by the chill Northern Lights. He may rank (Griswold says so) first bard of your nation; (There’s no doubt he stands in supreme ice-olation,) Your topmost Parnassus he may set his heel on, But no warm applauses come, peal following peal on— He’s too smooth and too polished to hang any zeal on; Unqualified merits, I’ll grant, if you choose, he has ’em, But he lacks the one merit of kindling enthusiasm; If he stir you at all, it is just, on my soul, Like being stirred up by the very North Pole. The Cambridge wit has either misjudged the character of Bryant’s genius, or he has sacrificed a man to an epigram, and subordinated fact to a _jeu d’esprit_. Though “quiet and dignified,” Mr. Bryant possesses a rare vein of humor, but its bubbling fancies are not generally known or suspected for the reason that he unbends anonymously. Only one of the diversions of his muse appears in his published works—and that is his invocation “To a Mosquito,” which begins thus:—