"Your plots and packing worse than those of Trent,"
forms a regular fourteen-liner; then comes the little adjunct,—"That so the parliament,"—which, rhyming with the foregoing, gains the right of introducing a new couplet; then another, rhyming with that, and lending to a second supernumerary. In this manner the Italian poets link on couplet after couplet without end, and you may see some of their sonnets with tails stretching through several pages; nay, for aught I know, you might have a sonnet in two volumes octavo, without exceeding your licence. But it must always be constructed on the above plan, with links of a like thickness. By the bye, it is surprising that the late editors of Milton's poems—men professedly conversant with Italian literature—should still persist in placing this comic sonnet among the "miscellaneous pieces," after the error has been pointed out to them!
As for the question—why a tail should be ridiculous?—it seems to me one of considerable intricacy, and of the highest interest. Yes, Mr. Editor, why should tails be ridiculous? Coat-tails, pig-tails, all tails whatsoever, are found to touch us with a sense of the jocose; nay, your comet's tail itself is only a kind of terrific absurdity. I say, therefore, without fear of contradiction, that there subsists in this question a deep psychological truth, which demands the exploring hand of philosophy; and if no better man will take the hint,—why, Mr. Editor, I think I must myself present you, another time, with my ideas on this subject, handling the matter in the Aristotelian mode, and dividing my tails into heads.
With respect to the tail of a comic sonnet, it may be briefly remarked, that its comicality (of course I speak with reference to the Italian models) arises in a great measure from the stumbling of the little line, which always comes limping after the long one, as if something were forgotten to be said in it, which the little one thus breathlessly comes to adjoin; and then a succession of these quasi oversights makes us laugh, alternately at the seeming blunder and at the funny haste with which it is redressed. Or it is like an orator in his cups, speaking fairly enough his prepared speech; but then—encouraged by applause—spoiling all with drunken additions ex tempore.
HANDY ANDY.—No. III.
Squire Egan was as good as his word. He picked out the most suitable horsewhip for chastising the fancied impertinence of Murtough Murphy; and as he switched it up and down with a powerful arm, to try its weight and pliancy, the whistling of the instrument through the air was music to his ears, and whispered of promised joy in the flagellation of the jocular attorney.
"We'll see who can make the sorest blister," said the squire. "I'll back whalebone against Spanish flies any day. Will you bet, Dick?" said he to his brother-in-law, who was a wild helter-skelter sort of fellow, better known over the country as Dick the Devil than Dick Dawson.
"I'll back your bet, Ned."
"There's no fun in that, Dick, as there is nobody to take it up."