Читать книгу: «The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 14, No. 390, September 19, 1829», страница 6
"Oh! then, ov all the sights ever I see, an' it's that was the finest! There was the Prence Ragin' himself, mounted up upon his elegant throne, an' his crown, that was half a hundred weight ov goold, I suppose, on his head, an' his sceptre in his hand, an' his lion sittin' on one side ov him, an' his unicorn on the other.—'Morrow, Dan,' says he, 'you're welcome here.'—'Good morning, my Lord,' says I, 'plase your Reverence.'—'An' what do you think ov my place,' says he, 'Dan, now you're in it?'—'By Dad! your worship,' says I, 'it bates all the places ever I see, an' there's not the like ov id for fun in the wide world, barrin' Donnybrook Fair.'—'I never was at the fair,' says he, 'bud I'm tould there's plenty ov sport there for them that has money, an' is able to take their own part in a row.'—'Throth, Majesty,' says I, 'your honour may say that; an' iv your holiness 'ill come an' see us there, it's myself that 'ill give you a dhrop ov what's good, an' show ye all the divarsion ov the place—ay, an' leather the best man in the fair, that dare say, Black is the white ov your eye!'—'More power to ye, Dan!' says he, laughin'; 'an' what id you like to dhrink now?'—'Oh, by Gor!' says I, 'I'm afeard to take any thing, for I was dhrunk last night, an' I'm not quite study yet.'—'By the piper that played afore Moses,' says he, 'ye'll not go out ov my house till ye dhrink my health;' so wid that he mounted down off his throne, an' wint to a little black cupboard he had snug in the corner, an' tuck out his gardy vine an' a couple of glasses. 'Hot or cowld, Dan?' says he.—'Cowld, plase your reverence,' says I. So he filled a glass for me, an' a glass for himself.—'Here's towards ye, Dan,' says he.—'The same to you, Majesty!' says I;—an' what do ye think it was? May I never tell a lie iv id wasn't as good whiskey as ever you see in your born days. 'Well,' says I, 'that's as fine sperits as ever I dhrunk, for sperits like id; might I make bould to ax who does your worship dale wid?'—'Kinahan, in Dublin,' says he.—'An' a good warrant he is,' says I: so we wint on, dhrinkin' and chattin', till at last, 'Dan,' says he, 'I'd like to spar a round wid ye.' 'Oh,' says I, 'Majesty, I'd be afeard ov hurtin' ye, without the gloves.'—'Arrah, do you think it's a brat ov a boy ye're spakin' to?' says he; 'do ye're worst, Dan, and divil may care!' An' so wid that we stud up.
"Do you know he has a mighty purty method ov his own, bud thin, though id might do wid Oliver, it was all nonsense wid me, so afore you could say Jack Lattin, I caught him wid my left hand undher the ear, an' tumbled him up on his throne. 'There now,' says I, 'Majesty, I tould ye how id would be, but you'd never stop until you got yourself hurt.'—'Give us your fist, Dan,' says he, 'I'm not a bit the worse of the fall; you're a good man, an' I'm not able for you.'—'That's no disgrace,' says I, 'for it's few that is; but iv I had you in thrainin' for six months, I'd make another man ov ye;' an' wid that we fell a dhrinkin' again, ever till we didn't lave a dhrop in the bottle; an' then I thought it was time to go, so up I got.—'Dan,' says he, 'before you lave me I'll make you a knight, to show I have no spite again ye for the fall.'—'Oh,' says I, 'for the matter ov that, I'm sure ye're too honourable a gintleman to hould spite for what was done in fair play, an' you know your reverence wouldn't be easy until you had a thrial ov me.'—'Say no more about id, Dan,' says he, laughin', 'bud kneel down upon your bended knees.' So down I kneeled.—'Now,' says he, 'ye wint down on your marrow bones plain Dan, but I give ye lave to get up Sir Dan Dann'ly, Esquire.'—'Thank your honour,' says I, 'an' God mark you to grace wherever you go.' So wid that we shook hands, an' away I wint. Talk of your kings and prences, the Prence Ragin' is the finest Prence ever I dhrunk wid."
I'D BE A PARODY
BY THOMAS HAYNES BAYLEY
I'd be a Parody, made by a ninny
On some little song with a popular tune,
Not worth a halfpenny, sold for a guinea,
And sung in the Strand by the light of the moon.
I'd never sigh for the sense of a Pliny,
(Who cares for sense at St. James's in June?)
I'd be a Parody, made by a ninny,
And sung in the Strand by the light of the moon.
Oh! could I pick tip a thought or a stanza,
I'd take a flight on another bard's wings,
Turning his rhymes into extravaganza,
Laugh at his harp—and then pilfer its strings!
When a poll-parrot can croak the cadenza
A nightingale loves, he supposes he sings!
Oh, never mind, I will pick up a stanza,
Laugh at his harp—and then pilfer its strings!
What though you tell me each metrical puppy
Might make of such parodies two pair a day;
Mocking birds think they obtain for each copy
Paradise plumes for the parodied lay:—
Ladder of fame! if man can't reach thy top, he
Is right to sing just as high up as he may;
I'd be a Parody, made by a puppy,
Who makes of such parodies two pair a day!
Sharpe's Magazine.
THE ANECDOTE GALLERY
VISIT TO FERNEY IN 1829
Sharpe's London Magazine, (No, 3.),
Contains a pleasant article under the above title, describing the present state of Ferney, the residence of Voltaire, an engraving of which appeared in our No. 384. We would willingly have made the journey, and written our description in the Poet's salon, could we have "stayed time;" but as the old dials quaintly tell us, time "tarryeth for no man," and we were then compelled to adopt the most recent description.
Such of this last "Visit to Ferney" as relates to the Château will therefore be interesting, as a supplement to our previous illustration:—
"The road leading from Geneva to this celebrated spot is delightful, bordered on each side with superb villas, and presenting picturesque points of view only to be found in the environs of that enchanting city. A handsome avenue conducts the traveller to the château, the architecture of which is nothing very remarkable. After mounting three steps, and crossing a narrow vestibule, we entered the salon, which in its day received most of the wits and celebrated personages of Europe: for as a contemporary of Voltaire observed, 'to have been admitted at Ferney, is to have taken out a patent for genius.' The appearance of this salon is far from brilliant: a few indifferent pictures, some old red tapestry, and antiquated furniture compose the whole of its ornaments. To the left we entered the chamber of Voltaire.
"On one side of the apartment an humble mausoleum has been reared, the sanctity of which was not however respected by the sabres of the Austrians. The inscription on the top (a happy inspiration of the husband of Mademoiselle Varicourt), contains these simple words: 'Mon coeur est ici; et mon esprit est partout.' The most elaborate panegyric could not have conveyed a finer eulogium.
"On entering, the spectator is struck with the view of a bed of simple materials, and which was pillaged by the Austrians. Hung round the room are the portraits of Frederick, of Catharine, of Lekain—one of Voltaire himself, taken at the age of forty, and full of expression, with a number of silhouettes of the celebrated men of the day.
"The window of this apartment looks upon the gardens, and upon a little wood, which has undergone many changes since the death of Voltaire. Time however has hitherto respected a long and thick row of elm trees, whither he was wont to repair at sunrise, and where he usually meditated and recited aloud the scenes of his tragedies when finished, to any one whom he could find. His jealousy of criticism on such occasions is matter of record.
"The gardener at present belonging to the château was there during the latter period of Voltaire's life, and related to us with much naïveté several anecdotes, not generally known, of his master.
"Where the thickly-spreading branches of the elm trees present the slightest opening, the spectator enjoys one of the most beautiful views that can be imagined. In the distance, that giant of the hills—Mont Blanc, crowned with its eternal snows, rises majestically. At the base of the mountain the eye is gratified with the sight of variegated plains, smiling with verdure, and cultivated with the most industrious care. The Rhone with its silver stream floats through the beautiful country that surrounds Geneva, which may be said to describe an amphitheatre just above the lake.
"A spacious park, not far from the château, usually formed the termination of Voltaire's rambles: in its cool shades he delighted to indulge his poetic meditations. To this place he was in the habit of driving daily in a little open calèche, drawn by a favourite black mare. The space which separates the park from the château, and which forms a gentle acclivity, is planted with vines."
THE GATHERER
"A snapper-up of unconsidered trifles."
SHAKSPEARE.
A WELSH RABBIT
Colonel A– baiting for the first time in his life at a Welsh inn, thought he would order for his dinner, a dish which must be perfection in its own country: viz. a Welsh rabbit. The dinner hour arrived, and the colonel lifting up the cover of the dish next him, exclaimed in angry astonishment to the waiter, upon beholding a large, dry-looking, fleshy animal before him. "What the d–l d'ye call this, a Welsh rabbit?" "Why, noo, noo, Sir!" replied the man, perfectly cool, and unconscious of the error, "Noo, it certainly an't exactly a Welsh rabbit, but 'tis a Monmouthshire one!"
J.R.
