lotus-eaters.  Next to them in enjoyment comes the angler who approaches the river about eight o’clock, at the time of the “evening rise.”  He, like the cow, is knee-deep in water, wading; he listens to the plash of big, hungry trout, sucking down gnats under the alders; he casts over them, and if he catches them, who more content than he, as the sky turns from amber to purple and silvery grey, and the light fades till one cannot thread the gut through the eye-hole of one of the new-fashioned hooks?  Certainly this man is more blessed than he who is just coming to the ices at a big, hot London dinner, and knows that his physician has forbidden him this form of enjoyment.  What a struggle in that person’s mind! and how almost predestined is his fall! how sure his repentance next morning!

WESTERN DROLLS.

The death of Mr.  “Josh Billings” may have diminished the stock of harmless pleasures, but can hardly be said to have eclipsed the gaiety of nations.  In this country, at least, however it may have been in the States, Josh Billings was by no means the favourite or leading American humorist.  If phonetic spelling were universal, much of his fun would disappear.  His place was nearer that of Orpheus C. Kerr than of Artemus Ward, or of Mark Twain.  It has long been the English habit to look for most of our broad fun across the Atlantic.  Americans say we are not a funny people.  A chivalrous and mediaeval French writer, not unfrequently quoted, once made a kindred remark.  We are not at present a boisterously comic lot of geniuses, and if you see the tears running down the eyes of a fellow-countryman reading in a railway carriage, if he be writhing with mirth too powerful for expression, the odds are that he has got hold of a Yankee book.

In American country newspapers there is usually one column entirely devoted to facetiae, which appear to have been clipped out of the columns of other country papers.  They live on each other, just as the natives of the Scilly Islands are feigned to eke out a precarious livelihood by taking in each other’s washing.  It is averred that one American journal, the Danbury Newsman, contains nothing but merriment—­a fearful idea!  We have nothing like this at home, and as for writers who make a reader giggle almost indelicately often, where are they to be found?  “Happy Thoughts” affect some of us in this way; others are convulsed by “Vice Versa;” but, as George Eliot says, nothing is such a strain on the affections as a difference of taste in jokes.  It is unsafe to recommend any writer as very funny.  No man can ever tell how his neighbour will take a joke.  But it may safely be said that authors who really tickle their students are extremely rare in England, except as writers for the stage, and surely “The Great Pink Pearl” might have made Timon of Athens shake his sides, or might convert a Veddah to the belief that “there is something to laugh at.”  In literature, when we want to be even hysterically diverted, we must, as a rule, buy our fun from the American humorists.  If we cannot make laughter ourselves, at least we can, and do, laugh with them.