As to the incident which recently appeared in the papers under the head-line "Insulting an Ambassador," our old friend MICKY writes us as follows:--"Be jabers then, ye must know the truth. Me and Count MUNSTER was drivin' together. The Count's every bit a true-born son of Ould Ireland for ever, and descended from the Kings of Munster by both sides, and more betoken wasn't he wearin' an Ulster at the very moment, and isn't he the best of chums with the Dukes of CONNAUGHT and LEINSTER? Any way we were in our baroosh passin' the time o' day to one another as we were drivin' in the Bore, when whack comes a loaf o' bread, shied at our heads by an unknown military blaygaird. It missed me noble friend, the Count, and, as if to give him a lesson in politeness, it just took off the hat of a domestic alongside the coachman on the box. 'Tunder and turf!' says I, preparing to descend, and give the scoundrels a taste of my blackthorn all round. 'Whist! be aisy now, MICKY,' says the Ambassador to me, in what is, betune ourselves, his own native tongue; and with that he picks up the loaf, sniffs at it, makes a wry face ('it's a rye loaf,' says I), and then says he, out loud, with a supercilious look, 'Ill-bred!' Begorra, there was a whoop o' delight went up all round, which same was a sign of their purliteness, as divil a one of the ignoramuses could onderstand a wurrd the Court said in English or German, let alone Irish. 'Goot,' says MUNSTER to me, dropping into his German accent, which, on occasion, comes quite natural to him--the cratur! 'I'll give the loaf to the dog;' and he whistles up the mastiff, own brother to BISMARCK's. 'Eh, MICKY, ye gossoon, isn't the proverb, "Loaf me, loaf my dog"?' Ah! then was cheers for ould Ireland, and a mighty big dhrink entirely we had that same night. "Yours as ever, M.F." * * * * * HERRICK UP TO DATE. (_AFTER "THE BRACELET TO JULIA."_) [Illustration] Why tye I about thy wrist, JULIA, this my silken twist? For what other reason is't, But to show (_in theorie_) Thou sweet captive art to me; Which, of course, is fiddlededee! Runne and aske the nearest Judge, He will tell thee 'tis pure fudge; When thou willest, _thou_ mayst trudge; _I'm_ thy Bondslave, Hymen's pact Bindeth me in law and fact; Thou art free in will and act; 'Tis but silke that bindeth thee, Snap the thread, and thou art free: But 'tis otherwise with me. I am bound, and bound fast so That from thee I cannot go. (Hah! We'll have this altered, though. Man _must_ be a wing-clipp'd goose If he bows to Hymen's noose,-- _Heads you winne, and tails I lose!_) * * * * * MAGAZINE MANNERS. _Editor to Eminent Writer_.--Review promises to be deadly slow next month. Can you do something slashing for us? Pitch into somebody or other--you know the style.