There was once a man of a peculiarly gentle temper--a man of mere milk--a perfect Nathaniel, whom nobody could ever provoke to say so much as an ill word of any body. The most atrocious villains who came to the gallows were pitied by this man. He found an excuse for every folly--a pardon for every crime. Somebody, at last, by way of trying his temper, related to him the whole story of Nero--how he killed his mother, set fire to Rome, and would have slain his whole people by one blow if he could. “What--what do you think of that man?” inquired the narrator at last, expecting to hear him pronounced upon as a monster in human shape. “Why,” said the man of sillibub, “I think he must have been a _wag_!” TECHNICAL REMARK. A printer observing two bailiffs pursuing an ingenious but distressed author, remarked, “that it was a new edition of ‘The Pursuits of Literature,’ _unbound_, but _hot-pressed_.” SHERIDAN AND THE GREAT SEAL. At a canvas, in which Sheridan was engaged at Westminster, soon after the Great Seal of England was so strangely abstracted, the mob saluted him with loud cries of,--“Who stole the Seal? Sherry stole the Seal,” &c.; and one fellow at last exclaimed, “I suppose if there had been a watch at it, he would have stolen it too.” “No,” said Sheridan; “if there had been a _watch_ at it, it probably would not have been stolen at all.” WELL-SUSTAINED CONVERSATION. A country gentleman of great taciturnity, and whose servant quite understood all his ways, was one day crossing a bridge, when he took it into his head to look back and ask his attendant if he liked eggs. John answered, “Yes,” and no more passed at that time. Exactly on that day twelvemonth, he happened to cross the same bridge, about the same hour of the day. “How?” cried he to the servant, who rode behind him. John, not _behind_ in one respect, instantly replied, “Poached, sir.” The conversation then dropped. SHERIDAN AND DIGNUM. On the 5th of December, 1803, Mr. Reynolds, the prolific dramatist, produced a musical afterpiece at Drury-Lane, entitled, “The Caravan; or, the Driver and his Dog.” There was some pretty music in it, composed by Reed, and it had a very great run, and brought much money to the treasury. The chief attraction of the piece was a dog called Carlo. “One day, Mr. Sheridan having dined with me,” says Kelly in his Memoirs, “we went to see the performance of this wonderful dog; as we entered the green-room, Dignum (who played in the piece) said, ‘Sir, there is no guarding against illness; it is truly lamentable to stop the run of a successful piece like this--’ ‘Really! what?’ cried Sheridan, interrupting him. ‘I am so unwell!’ continued Dignum, ‘that I cannot go on longer than to-night.’ ‘You!’ exclaimed Sheridan, ‘my good fellow, you terrified me; I thought you were going to say that the dog was taken ill.’” SODORIFIC AND SOPORIFIC.