MDCXX.—A POOR LAUGH.
Curran was just rising to cross-examine a witness before a judge who was familiar with the dry-as-dust black-letter law books, but could never comprehend a jest, when the witness began to laugh before the learned counsel had asked him a question. "What are you laughing at, friend," said Curran, "what are you laughing at? Let me tell you that a laugh without a joke is like—is like—"—"Like what, Mr. Curran," asked the judge, imagining he was at fault. "Just exactly, my lord, like a contingent remainder without any particular estate to support it."
MDCXXI.—AN ANTICIPATED CALAMITY.
On the departure of Bishop Selwyn for his diocese, New Zealand, Sydney Smith, when taking his leave of him, said: "Good by, my dear Selwyn; I hope you will not disagree with the man who eats you!"
MDCXXII.—MATRIMONY.
"My dear, what makes you always yawn?"
The wife exclaimed, her temper gone,
"Is home so dull and dreary?"
"Not so, my love," he said, "Not so;
But man and wife are one, you know;
And when alone I'm weary!"
MDCXXIII.—DRY, BUT NOT THIRSTY.
Curran, conversing with Sir Thomas Turton, happened to remark that he could never speak in public for a quarter of an hour without moistening his lips; to which Sir Thomas replied that, in that respect, he had the advantage of him: "I spoke," said he, "the other night in the House of Commons for five hours, on the Nabob of Oude, and never felt in the least thirsty."—"It is very remarkable indeed" rejoined Curran, "for every one agrees that was the driest speech of the session."
MDCXXIV.—SHAKESPEARIAN GROG.
As for the brandy, "nothing extenuate,"—and the water, "put naught in, in malice."