There will something come of this, said I to myself; so, feigning I sleep, I leaned back in a corner, with a wary ear to their conversation. The Gog had been that morning to the Exhibition of Fleas, in Regent Street, and thought them “prodigious!” The Runtling had visited the Great Whale at Charing-Cross, and “thought little of it.” The Goliath spoke with wonder of the “vast extent of view from the top of the Monument.” The David was “disappointed by the prospect from Plinlimmon.” The Hurlothrumbo was “amazed by the grandeur of St. Paul’s.” The Tom Thumb spoke slightingly of St. Peter’s at Rome. In theatricals their taste held the same mathematical proportion. Gog “must say he liked the Minors best.” The “Wee Thing” declared for the Majors. The Man-Mountain’s favourite was Miss _Foote_ = twelve inches. The Manikin preferred Miss _Cubitt_ = eighteen. The conversation, and the contrast, flourished in full flower through several stages, till we stopped to dine at the Salisbury Arms, and then-- The Folio took a chair at the ordinary-- The Duodecimo required “a room to himself.” The Puppet bespoke a leg of mutton-- The Colossus ordered a mutton-chop. The Imp rang the bell for “the loaf”-- The Monster called for a roll. A magnum of port was decanted for the Minimum. A short pint of sherry was set before the Maximum. We heard the Mite bellowing by himself, “The Sea! the Sea! the open Sea!” The Mammoth hummed “The Streamlet.” The Tiny, we learned, was bound to Plimpton Magna. The Huge, we found, was going to Plimpton Parva. A hundred other circumstances have escaped from Memory through the holes that time has made in her sieve: but I remember distinctly, as we passed the bar in our passage outwards, that while The Pigmy bussed the landlady--a buxom widow, fat, fair, and forty-- The Giant kissed her daughter--a child ten years old, and remarkably small for her age. [Illustration: THE GREAT DESERT--HALT OF THE CARAVAN.] JOHN DAY. A PATHETIC BALLAD. “A Day after the Fair.”--OLD PROVERB. John Day he was the biggest man Of all the coachman-kind, With back too broad to be conceived By any narrow mind. The very horses knew his weight When he was in the rear, And wished his box a Christmas-box To come but once a year. Alas! against the shafts of love What armour can avail? Soon Cupid sent an arrow through His scarlet coat of mail. The bar-maid of the Crown he loved, From whom he never ranged, For tho’ he changed his horses there, His love he never changed. He thought her fairest of all fares, So fondly love prefers; And often, among twelve outsides, Deemed no outside like hers. One day as she was sitting down Beside the porter-pump-- He came, and knelt with all his fat, And made an offer plump.