Читать книгу: «The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 13, No. 369, May 9, 1829», страница 6

THE ANECDOTE GALLERY

INDEPENDENCE

Is the word, of all others, that Irish—men, women, and children—least understand; and the calmness, or rather indifference, with which they submit to dependence, bitter and miserable as it is, must be a source of deep regret to all "who love the land," or feel anxious to uphold the dignity of human kind. Let us select a few cases from our Irish village—such as are abundant in every neighbourhood. Shane Thurlough, "as dacent a boy," and Shane's wife, as "clane-skinned a girl," as any in the world. There is Shane, an active, handsome-looking fellow, leaning over the half-door of his cottage, kicking a hole in the wall with his brogue, and picking up all the large gravel within his reach to pelt the ducks with—those useful Irish scavengers. Let us speak to him. "Good morrow, Shane!" "Och! the bright bames of heaven on ye every day! and kindly welcome, my lady—and won't ye step in and rest—it's powerful hot, and a beautiful summer, sure—the Lord be praised!" "Thank you, Shane. I thought you were going to cut the hayfield to-day—if a heavy shower comes, it will be spoil'd; it has been fit for the sithe these two days." "Sure, it's all owing to that thief o' the world, Tom Parrel, my lady. Didn't he promise me the loan of his sithe; and, by the same token, I was to pay him for it; and depinding on that, I didn't buy one, which I have been threatening to do for the last two years." "But why don't you go to Carrick and purchase one?" "To Carrick!—Och, 'tis a good step to Carrick, and my toes are on the ground (saving your presence,) for I depindid on Tim Jarvis to tell Andy Cappler, the brogue-maker, to do my shoes; and, bad luck to him, the spalpeen! he forgot it." "Where's your pretty wife, Shane?" "She's in all the woe o' the world, Ma'am, dear. And she puts the blame of it on me, though I'm not in the faut this time, any how: the child's taken the small pock, and she depindid on me to tell the doctor to cut it for the cow-pock, and I depindid on Kitty Cackle, the limmer, to tell the doctor's own man, and thought she would not forget it, becase the boy's her bachelor—but out o' sight out o' mind—the never a word she tould him about it, and the babby has got it nataral, and the woman's in heart trouble (to say nothing o' myself;) and it the first, and all." "I am very sorry, indeed, for you have got a much better wife than most men." "That's a true word, my lady—only she's fidgetty like sometimes, and says I don't hit the nail on the head quick enough; and she takes a dale more trouble than she need about many a thing." "I do not think I ever saw Ellen's wheel without flax before, Shane?" "Bad cess to the wheel;—I got it this morning about that too—I depinded on John Williams to bring the flax from O'Flaharty's this day week, and he forgot it; and she says I ought to have brought it myself, and I close to the spot: but where's the good? says I, sure he'll bring it next time." "I suppose, Shane, you will soon move into the new cottage, at Clurn Hill. I passed it to-day, and it looked so cheerful; and when you get there, you must take Ellen's advice, and depend solely on yourself." "Och Ma'am, dear, don't mintion it—sure it's that makes me so down in the mouth, this very minit. Sure I saw that born blackguard, Jack Waddy, and he comes in here, quite innocent like"—"Shane, you've an eye to 'Squire's new lodge," says he. "Maybe I have," says I. "I am y'er man," says he. "How so?" says I. "Sure I'm as good as married to my lady's maid," said he; "and I'll spake to the 'Squire for you, my own self." "The blessing be about you," says I, quite grateful,—and we took a strong cup on the strength of it; and depinding on him, I thought all safe,—"and what d'ye think, my lady? Why, himself stalks into the place—talked the 'Squire over, to be sure—and without so much as by y'er lave, sates himself and his new wife on the laase in the house; and I may go whistle." "It was a great pity, Shane, that you didn't go yourself to Mr. Clurn." "That's a true word for ye, Ma'am, dear; but it's hard if a poor man can't have a frind to DEPIND on."—Sketches of Irish Character, by Mrs. S.C. Hall.

THE GATHERER

 
"A snapper-up of unconsidered trifles."
 

SHAKSPEARE

POTATOES

One is almost induced to imagine that certain orders of London conceive that "takers," as they commonly call them in their uncooked state, is a generical term; and that they only become entitled to the prefix of "pot," after they have been boiled.

DINING LATE

A wag, on being told it was the fashion to dine later and later every day, said, "he supposed it would end at last in not dining till to-morrow!"

MOORE'S LIFE OF BYRON

Moore has printed between three and four hundred pages of his Life of Lord Byron, which is interspersed with original letters and poems, of singular merit—after the manner of Mason's Life of Gray, and Hayley's Life of Cowper. Nearly the whole of the manuscript is in town, and the work, consisting of a thick 4to. volume, will be published during the season.—Court Journal, No. 1.

PISTRUCCI

This gifted improvisatore (who is poet to the King's Theatre,) sometimes astonishes his acquaintance—especially if a new one—by holding his hand close over the flame of a candle, or an argand lamp, for several minutes together. It is a singular fact that several of the male branches of this family—of whom the unrivalled artist who cut the die of the sovereign, with the St. George upon it, is one—have one of their hands covered with a thick coat of horn-like matter, as hard as tortoiseshell, and perfectly insensible.—Ibid.

WRITTEN EXTEMPORE IN A COPY OF COKE UPON LITTLETON, 1721

 
O thou who labours't in this rugged mine,
Mays't thou to gold th' unpolish'd ore refine;
May each dark page unfold its haggard brow,
Fear not to reap, if thou canst dare to plough;
To tempt thy care may each revolving night,
Purses and maces glide before thy sight;
So when in times to come, advent'rous deed,
Thou shalt essay to speak, to look like Mead,
When ev'n the bay and rose shall cease to shade
With martial air the honours of thy head,
When the full wig thy visage shall enclose,
And only give to view thy learned nose,
Safely thou may'st defy beaux, wits, and scoffers,
And tenant in fee simple stuff thy coffers.
 

T.H.