'Until Caldecott's charming illustrations of it made me laugh so much,'
said a young lady to me the other day, 'I confess--though I know it's
very stupid of me--I never saw much fun in "John Gilpin."' She evidently
expected a reproof, and when I whispered in her ear, 'Nor I,' her lovely
features assumed a look of positive enfranchisement.

'But am I right?' she inquired.

'You are certainly right, my dear young lady,' said I, 'not to pretend
admiration where you don't feel it; as to liking "John Gilpin," that is
a matter of taste. It has, of course, simplicity to recommend it; but in
my own case, though I'm fond of fun, it has never evoked a smile. It has
always seemed to me like one of Mr. Joe Miller's stories put into
tedious verse.'

I really almost thought (and hoped) that that young lady would have
kissed me.

'Papa always says it is a free country,' she exclaimed, 'but I never
felt it to be the case before this moment.'

For years this beautiful and accomplished creature had locked this awful
secret in her innocent breast--that she didn't see much fun in 'John
Gilpin.' 'You have given me courage,' she said, 'to confess something
else. Mr. Caldecott has just been illustrating in the same charming
manner Goldsmith's "Elegy on a Mad Dog," and--I'm very sorry--but I
never laughed at _that_ before, either. I have pretended to laugh, you
know,' she added, hastily and apologetically, 'hundreds of times.'