peal of laughter, and as Click, Bobber, Quocks, and Obadiah, perceived that he had only been frightening Pokey, they, to some extent, joined him; but when he had explained the real cause of his mirth—when he had told them of the eggs being found in the pickle-tub, tied up in Judkins's smalls—they opened their shoulders, and set up a roar which might have been heard at the cottage. Nor was this ebullition of merriment transitory. Peal after peal did they send forth in raptures, now holding their ribs in, and calling out with pain, and then bursting forth again with fresh vigour, until two or three of them became so exhausted that, had not the chairs been established in a row, they really must have rolled on the ground.
"Was the eggs smashed?" cried Pokey, in the midst of this scene. And again they broke loose, though in agony. "I've heered of pickled inguns," he added, and this was the signal for another loud roar, "but pickled breeches," he continued, "pick—pickled—" Being utterly unable to finish this sentence, he threw himself down on the mat, and panted.
As the thunder succeeds the lightning's flash, so did a roar on this occasion succeed every sentence that was uttered, whether witty or not; but as men cannot even laugh for ever, they at length became sufficiently worn out to sit down in a state of comparative tranquillity.
Legge then explained to them what he had suggested, and they then saw, with perfect distinctness, that a quarrel between Judkins and cook had been the origin of it all. They, moreover, thought it a very fair match; but confessed that cook then had, decidedly, the best of it, seeing that Judkins had done nothing equal to her assumed feat of pickling the smalls.
CHAPTER VIII.
ROSALIE.
The pagans had a little swell whom they called the god of laughter. His name was Comus; and he was fat, as a perfectly natural matter of course. He didn't do much—they who laugh much, very seldom do—but, notwithstanding, in his day, he was popular among the pagans. Very good. Now, there are, of course, various species of laughter. There's the natural laugh, the hysterical laugh, the hypocritical laugh, and the laugh of the idiot; but the natural laugh is the only laugh which springs absolutely from pleasure. Comus had a natural laugh, and he was, therefore, fat. Why, what an immense field does this open for the philanthropist to contemplate! Cæsar—who wasn't a fool—didn't like Cassius, because he was lean. If this and that be put together, to what will they amount! Momus—not Comus, but Momus
