Curran, the celebrated Irish Patriot, was a man of intense wit and humour.  On one occasion he was discussing with Richard BRINSLEY Sheridan the possibility of combining the interests of the two countries under one Crown.  “It is a difficult matter to arrange,” observed the brilliant author of the School for Scandal, “Right you are, darlint,” acquiesced Curran, with the least taste of a brogue.  “But where are ye to find the spalpeens for it?  Ye may wake so poor a creature as a sow, but it takes a real gintleman to raise the rint!” Then, with a twinkle in his eyes, “But, for all that, ma cruiskeen, I’m not meself at all at all!”

* * * * *

The lay of A successful Angler.

[Illustration]

  The dainty artificial fly
    Designed to catch the wily trout,
  Full loud laudabunt alii,
    And I will join, at times, no doubt,
  But yet my praise, without pretence,
  Is not from great experience.

  I talk as well as anyone
    About the different kinds of tackle,
  I praise the Gnat, the Olive Dun,
    Discuss the worth of wings and hackle;
  I’ve flies myself of each design,
  No book is better filled than mine.

  But when I reach the river’s side
    Alone, for none of these I wish. 
  No victim to a foolish pride. 
    My object is to capture fish;
  Let me confess, then, since you ask it—­
  A worm it is which fills my basket!

  O brown, unlovely, wriggling worm,
    On which with scorn the haughty look,
  It is thy fascinating squirm
    Which brings the fattest trout to book,
  From thee unable to refrain,
  Though flies are cast for him in vain!

  Deep gratitude to thee I feel,
    And then, perhaps, it’s chiefly keen,
  When rival anglers view my creel,
    And straightway turn a jealous green;
  And, should they ask me—­“What’s your fly?”
  “A fancy pattern,” I reply!

* * * * *

Sword and pen;

Or, the rival commanders.

(EXTRACT FROM A MILITARY STORY OF THE NEAR FUTURE.)

Captain Pipeclay was perplexed when his Company refused to obey him.  He was considered a fairly good soldier, but not up to date.  He might know his drill, he might have read his Queen’s Regulations, but he had vague ideas of the power of the Press.

“You see, Sir,” remonstrated his Colour-Sergeant; “if the rear rank think they should stand fast when you give the command ‘Open order!’ it is only a matter of opinion.  You may be right, or you may be wrong.  Speaking for myself, I am inclined to fancy that the men are making a mistake; but you can’t always consider yourself omniscient.”

“Sergeant,” returned the officer, harshly; “it is not the business of men to argue, but to obey.”