Metellus is a lover: one whose ear (I have been told) is duller than his sight. The day of his departure had drawn near; And (meeting her beloved over-night) Softly and tenderly Corinna sigh'd: "Won't you be quite as happy now without me?" Metellus, in his innocence replied, "Corinna! O Corinna! can you doubt me?" * * * * * One leg across his wide arm-chair, Sat Singleton, and read Voltaire; And when (as well he might) he hit Upon a splendid piece of wit, He cried: "I do declare now, this Upon the whole is not amiss." And spent a good half-hour to show By metaphysics why 'twas so. * * * * * "Why do I smile?" To hear you say, "One month, and then the shortest day!" The shortest, whate'er month it be, Is the bright day you pass with me. * * * * * Each year bears something from us as it flies, We only blow it farther with our sighs. WIT AND LAUGHTER [Sidenote: _Hazlitt_] There is nothing more ridiculous than laughter without a cause, nor anything more troublesome than what are called laughing people. A professed laugher is as contemptible and tiresome a character as a professed wit: the one is always contriving something to laugh at, the other is always laughing at nothing. An excess of levity is as impertinent as an excess of gravity. A character of this sort is well personified by Spenser, in the "Damsel of the Idle Lake": Who did assay To laugh at shaking of the leavès light. Any one must be mainly ignorant, or thoughtless, who is surprised at everything he sees; or wonderfully conceited, who expects everything to conform to his standard of propriety. Clowns and idiots laugh on all occasions; and the common failing of wishing to be thought satirical often runs through whole families in country places, to the great annoyance of their neighbours. To be struck with incongruity in whatever comes before us does not argue great comprehension or refinement of perception, but rather a looseness and flippancy of mind and temper, which prevents the individual from connecting any two ideas steadily or consistently together. It is owing to a natural crudity and precipitateness of the imagination, which assimilates nothing properly to itself. People who are always laughing, at length laugh on the wrong side of their faces; for they cannot get others to laugh with them. In like manner, an affectation of wit by degrees hardens the heart, and spoils good company and good manners. A perpetual succession of good things puts an end to common conversation. There is no answer to a jest, but another; and even where the ball can be kept up in this way without ceasing, it tires the patience of the bystanders, and runs the speakers out of breath. Wit is the salt of conversation, not the food. LOVE IN WINTER [Sidenote: _Austin Dobson_]