never made so jolly a supper as did our heroes of the way. Clifford, perhaps, acted a part, but the hilarity of his comrades was unfeigned. It was a delicious contrast, the boisterous "Ha, ha!" of Long Ned, and the secret, dry, calculating chuckle of Augustus Tomlinson. It was Rabelais against Voltaire. They united only in the objects of their jests, and foremost of those objects—(wisdom is ever the butt of the frivolous!)—was the great Peter Mac Grawler.
The graceless dogs were especially merry upon the subject of the sage's former occupation.
"Come, Mac, you carve this ham," said Ned; "you have had practice in cutting up."
The learned man whose name was thus disrespectfully abbreviated proceeded to perform what he was bid. He was about to sit down for that purpose, when Tomlinson slily subtracted his chair,—the sage fell.
"No jests at Mac Grawler," said the malicious Augustus; "whatever be his faults as a critic, you see that he is well grounded, and he gets at once to the bottom of a subject.—Mac, suppose your next work be entitled, 'a tail of woe!'"
