and he maintained a continued warfare against English prejudices; and by way of convincing a nation through the medium of one person, he invited Mr. G. to pass some time with him in Ireland: but he found him.so unmanageable, and unaccommodating, that they retained their original sentiments on almost every subject perfectly unaltered. They differed on one point. Mr. Curran had the passion of all great souls, the love of fame: he did not reject praise; the other did not like to give it. On a day when some important cause drew forth public expectation, and the courts were uncommonly crowded to hear him, Mr. Curran brought Mr. G. to and from court in his carriage: he was, in their return, in momentary expectation that Mr. G. would open with some eulogy on his speech of that day, and repay, by the cheap generosity of panegyric, what might have been, but probably never was, returned to him in beef and claret; nothing of that kind took place... Wearied with this disappointment, and chilled by the ice bank which neared him, and wishing to dash from this frozen ocean, he touched the subject himself, it would not do. At length, in a fit of impatience, he asked Mr. G, how he liked the specimen of Irish oratory he had heard that day. The other observed coldly, curtly, and disapprovingly of it. Their days were not numbered long together.

D

An English gentleman, one of those gossiping sçavans, who flutter about society to gather its sweets, having heard that in its capital the vivacity, wit, and learning of Ireland is best met and circulated in abundance and freedom at their tables, in a manner delightful to themselves, and surprizing to strangers, was determined, in gratification of this agreeable propensity, to judge for himself, and, though it were Iceland, to cull its flowers and browze upon its mosses. He accordingly obtained passports of introduction, and was received. The entré of this Anacharse was marked by a peculiar misfortune in the first instance; either by a bad selection, or perhaps by accident, he found himself placed at a table not the best calculated to prove the taste of a nation, on the result of that day's conversation. He found among the guests, at one of the city dinners, Mr. Grattan, and he contrived to be seated next him. Much had been said about grinding-stones, razorblades, rags and ribbons, dinners, lords, and fine ladies in a situation of this kind, dignity can scarcely sustain itself even by its manners. Amidst the incongruities of haut-bas new knights and corporators, all that the gentleman can do is to drink toasts, and writhe in grace: the flow of the mind is checked, and runs back into a chilly ebb; the sparks of light are smothered as they rise; and when one sees, that to indulge in unrestrained conviviality, dignity should sink into

buffoonery, self respect takes the alarm, seeks refuge in silence, submits in arid assentation to qald and unheeded remark, or languishes under the conceits of animalized vivacity, in which the soul has no commerce, sympathy, interest, or elision. The traveller was much disappointed; and seeking an occasion to meet Mr. Curran a few days after at dinner, not apprised of the unbroken intimacy and friendship which politically and privately ever subsisted between those gentlemen, he indiscreetly observed, that he never felt any thing more lowering to Mr. Grattan, than in comparing his great character with himself; that he appeared to possess nothing striking in conversation, and to have exhibited nothing of those extraordinary powers for which he was so celebrated. Mr. Curran started, and replied, "Surely, Sir, you cannot expect that the sun will be always found in its meridian: permit me, however, to ask you where you had the good fortune to have met this gentleman." On being answered, at a city feast; "Oh, yes: it is very true: I comprehend it perfectly. Yet, take my word for it, my good sir, he is still a sweet bird, though he never sings but in his own climate."

The following anecdote does no discredit to any relater, and I think it is to Mr. Curran I am indebted for it. When the French armies got possession of Switzerland, they gasconaded in

their usual manner; and, flushed with the insolence of victory, which they never had generosity to enjoy in the pure spirit of valour, some of their officers were parading in a coffee-room at Basle, kicking their iron heels, canistering their swords, and swaggering with offensive noises through the coffee-houses. At length one of them was heard to say, "This country is not fit for the Swiss they are hireling soldiers, and fight for money, while we fight for glory." An old Swiss general mildly raised his head from his newspaper, and calmly replied, "Much of what you say, Sir, is true-we both fight for what we want."

Passing his first summer at Cheltenham, generally inattentive as he was to his dress, he was in a sort of disguise, and little notice being taken of him, and probably not much known, he had resort to a story to draw himself into notice. With the straight forward, credulous character of the English he was perfectly well acquainted, with which he often eked out a tale. The conversation of the table turning altogether on the stupid, savage, and disgusting amusement of cock-fighting, he was determined to put an end to it, by the incredible story of the Sligo cats. He prefaced it by saying, that in his country there prevailed a barbarous custom of fighting these animals in the same way as mastiffs are fought in England, or bulls in Spain. That

being once in Sligo, a fishing town in the northwest of Ireland, he was invited to see this grand spectacle. That the people of rank and condition in that part of the country had these cats regularly bred and trained for the purpose.; and crowded into town, and took lodgings for the week, whenever these games were to be celebrated. The Corinthian chariot-races were never more highly the scenes of gaiety and mirth in Greece, than these were at Sligo. At one of them three matches were fought on the first day with the most furious courage, with all that intrepidity of valour and skill, all that brutal rage, that feudal clans could furnish; and before the third of them was finished (on which bets ran very high), dinner was announced in the inn where the battle was fought. The company agreed, though reluctantly, to return, and

“Let wretches die, that jurors may go dine,"

and to lock up the room, leaving the key in trust to Mr. Curran, who protested to God, he never was so shocked, that his head hung heavy on his shoulders, and his heart was sunk within him, on entering with the company into the room, and finding that the cats had actually eaten each other up, save some little bits of tails which were scattered round the room. The Irish part of the company saw the drift, ridicule, and impossibility of the narrative, and laughed immoderately,