of Oscar Wilde anything but Irish, and was always glad it possessed no
national attributes--unless impudence was one.

At one of his own first nights in London (I think it was on the occasion
of the production of _An Ideal Husband_ at the Haymarket) he was
summoned before the curtain by the customary shouts for 'Author,
author.'

He stood there for a moment amid the cheering, and then, in response to
cries for a speech, calmly took a cigarette case out of his pocket,
selected one of the contents, and, having very deliberately lighted it,
said:--

'Ladies and gentlemen, I do not know what you have done, but I have
spent a very pleasant evening with my own play. Good night.'

His brother, known as 'Wuffalo Will' among his friends, is the hero of
many stories.

Once he went up to a policeman and said:--

'Which is the way to heaven?'

'I don't know, sir; better ask a parson.'

'What do you think I pay taxes for? It's your business to be able to
tell me the way to heaven. As for the bally parsons, they don't
understand.'

A broad smile came over the constable's face.