Curate (rapturously).  “How awfully good of you to remember!  What a capital likeness!  Where is he?”

Carpenter.  “Why, sir, don’t you remember?  He’s dead.”

Curate. “Oh yes, of course, I know that.  I mean, where’s the man that took the photograph?”

The art of disguising an unpleasant truth with a graceful phrase was well illustrated in the case of a friend of mine, not remarkable for physical courage, of whom a tactful phrenologist pronounced that he was “full of precaution against real or imaginary danger.”  It is not every one who can tell a man he is an arrant coward without offending him.  The same art, as applied by a man to his own shortcomings, is exemplified in the story of the ecclesiastical dignitary who gloried in his Presence of Mind.  According to Dean Stanley, who knew him well, he used to narrate the incident in the following terms:—­

“A friend invited me to go out with him on the water.  The sky was threatening, and I declined.  At length he succeeded in persuading me, and we embarked.  A squall came on, the boat lurched, and my friend fell overboard.  Twice he sank; and twice he rose to the surface.  He placed his hands on the prow and endeavoured to climb in.  There was great apprehension lest he should upset the boat.  Providentially, I had brought my umbrella with me, I had the presence of mind to strike him two or three hard blows over the knuckles.  He let go his hold and sank.  The boat righted itself, and we were saved.”

The art of avoiding conversational unpleasantness by a graceful way of putting things belongs, I suppose, in its highest perfection, to the East.  When Lord Dufferin was Viceroy of India, he had a “shikarry,” or sporting servant, whose special duty was to attend the visitors at the Viceregal Court on their shooting excursions.  Returning one day from one of these expeditions, the shikarry encountered the Viceroy, who, full of courteous solicitude for his guests’ enjoyment, asked:  “Well, what sort of sport has Lord——­had?” “Oh,” replied the scrupulously polite Indian, “the young Sahib shot divinely, but God was very merciful to the birds.”  Compare this honeyed speech with the terms in which an English gamekeeper would convey his opinion of a bad shot, and we are forced to admit the social superiority of Lord Salisbury’s “black man.”

If we turn from the Orient to the Occident, and from our dependencies to the United Kingdom, the Art of Putting Things is found to flourish better on Irish than on Scotch or English soil.  We all remember that Archbishop Whately is said to have thanked God on his deathbed that he had never given a penny in indiscriminate charity.  Perhaps one might find more suitable subjects of moribund self-congratulation; and I have always rejoiced in the mental picture of the Archbishop, in all the frigid pomp of Political Economy, waving off the Dublin beggar with “Go away, go away; I never give to any one in the street,”