And where would be our mortal means of telling
Whether a vile or wholesome odour flows
Around us, if we owned no sense of smelling?
I know a nose, a nose no other knows,
’Neath starry eyes, o’er ruby lips it grows;
Beauty is in its form, and music in its blows!
A CHAPTER ON MEN,
BY A CUR.
TO THE EDITOR OF THE IRISH PENNY JOURNAL.
Sir—In the 12th number of your Journal you have given insertion to a paper tending to involve our ancient and honourable race in considerable disrepute—I allude to an article entitled “A Chapter on Curs, by a Man.” Every story will on investigation be found to have two sides: you have given publication to the one, and surely you will not, in justice, refuse to give your readers an opportunity of judging of the other.
I remain, Sir, your faithful servant,