Bentley's Miscellany, Volume II

"No, no," cried another; "it's the famous Sea Cook and his sons wot uncovered the Sandwich Islands!"

"I say, commodore, how are they all in the Fleet?" roared out a costermonger.

"Poor old gentleman! his eyebrows are worn out, looking out for squalls through a grating?" said a fourth.

While a boatswain sang out, and whistled in Cannon's ear,

"Yer, yer! man the sides! there's the flying Dutchman coming on board!"

"Sing out for Captain Yokell, cockswain!" bellowed an impertinent sailor.

Now, strange to say, these observations, which might have offended some sensitive persons, highly gratified our travellers. They had already obtained what they so ardently desired —notoriety, and had a chance of seeing their names in print; for, even when a man is abused and ridiculed, if it is in print, the sting carries with it its own antidote. He becomes public property; he is something; "There goes that confounded ass, Mr. Such-a-one! there goes that rum cove, Mr. What's-his-name!" Then, if he can but get himself caricatured, he is a made man. Were it not for the gratification derived from such publicity, would so many people walk, and talk, and dress, or undress, in the absurd manner we daily witness in our lounges? A certain lord was honoured with an hebdomadary flare-up by a certain weekly paper as regularly as church-bells are rung on the sabbath. It was expected that his lordship would have purchased the editor's silence, – absurd expectation! One might as well expect that a jolly prebend would decline sitting in half-a-dozen stalls at the same time. No, no; the editor abused on until he was tired of abusing gratis; when his lordship was so much annoyed that he paid to have scurrilous articles inserted, forwarded by himself.

Two packets were about starting, a French one and an English one. The Cannons were resolved to punish their ungrateful countrymen, and embarked under the colours of France. A numerous French family were repairing on board; and, as the gentlemen wore a red riband in their button-holes, our party concluded they were noblemen. The two families were grouped near each other; and the French, with their usual condescension, honoured the Cannons with their countenance, conversing as well as persons scarcely acquainted with each other's language can conveniently converse.

The morning was fine; but lowering clouds and a white sun would have induced experienced mariners to expect a fresh breeze. With great volubility of execrations the Gaul got under weigh, and paddled on slowly, while the English packet shot by like a dart. The French captain smiled at this swiftness, and, shrugging up his shoulders, exclaimed,

"Ces Anglais! ça n'a pas d'expérience! – nous verrons tout à l'heure!" he added, rubbing his hands with delight.

The influence of dress is wonderful. A certain costume seems to impart to the wearer, ideas pertaining to the class of society which he then personates. A lawyer's wig and gown make a man fancy that he could plead, and he regrets that he was not brought up to the bar. A civilian, who attends a fancy ball in a splendid uniform, is inspired with courageous ideas, which a free potation of refreshment fans into a martial ardour. Now the Cannons did truly consider themselves sailors. The young men walked up and down the deck boldly, endeavouring to show how they could tread a plank or a seam on "sea legs" without staggering, although there was no more motion than under Kew-bridge; and then they would cast a knowing eye at the compass as they passed the binnacle, to ascertain if the helmsman steered judiciously, although the compass was as little known to them as the Koran. Then they would suddenly stop, and look at the sky; then suck their fingers, and hold them up, to see which way the wind blew; and, when their cigars were out they would whistle or hum "Rule Britannia!" or, "You gentlemen of England, who live at home at ease," while they were lighting other havannahs.

Old Cannon was equally busy; but he was seated amongst the ladies, encouraging them against sea-sickness, which he said was all nonsense, and, if they were very sick, recommended them most particularly to turn their faces to the wind, and to keep their veils before them not to see the sea. Then to the French gentlemen he endeavoured to describe the battles of the Nile and of Trafalgar; and the Frenchmen of course concluded from his age, language, and appearance, that he was at least an admiral.

A "cat's-paw," as the sailors call it, had now ruffled the surface of the water, and the vessel commenced heaving; ere long, most of the passengers assisted the packet in conjugating the verb "heave;" when, strange to say, the powers of the pea-jacket and the anchor-buttons were exhausted, and all the Cannons were drawn out, – a broadside of unutterable misery. Old Cannon roared out "he was a-dying," and begged they would send for a doctor; and while he was rolling, and twisting, and twining upon the deck in agony, the cabin-boy was cleansing him with a wet swab. As to the Miss Cannons, they were assisted below, – not by their brothers, who, with dismay in their countenances, were "holding on" at every thing and every one they could catch, until a sudden regurgitation made them rush in desperation to the bulwark, with closed eyes and extended arms. Strange to say, the French gentlemen were not sick! possibly their red riband was more effectual than blue jackets; but they indulged their mirth at the expense of old Cannon, exclaiming,

"Mais, voyez donc, ce pauvre Monsieur de Trafalgar!"

It now was blowing fresh, and, to add to their misery, the paddles, by some mismanagement of the engineer, got obstructed, and the vessel was completely water-logged.

The French passengers got frightened, and began shaking old Cannon, roaring out,

"Monsieur de Trafalgar, à la manœuvre! à la manœuvre!"

"Oh Lord! oh Lord!" exclaimed the old man in a piteous tone, "are we arrived?"

"No, sare! we sall all arriver down to de bottom. Mon Dieu! mon Dieu!"

"Monsieur de Trafalgar, you do see! vat is de matter!" exclaimed a poor Frenchwoman, who had rolled over him.

The captain swore that it all arose from their having an English steam-engine, which his owner had insisted upon. Fortunately for the party, there happened to be an English sailor on board, who had all the while been sleeping on the bows, and who started at the uproar and the loud curses of the French crew: every one giving an advice which no one followed and all contradicted. He jumped down below, and in a few moments all was right again. When he returned upon deck, the captain, with a smile of importance, observed,

"I do suppose, sare, dat you have been vere long time in France; dat is de metod of which we do make use in circonstances similar."

"Circumstances similar!" exclaimed Jack, as he thrust a quid in his cheek, "then, why the h – didn't you do it yourself, you beggar?" and off he went to roost, as the Frenchman, pale with rage, muttered a "sacré Godam!"

Soon, however, the harbour of Boulogne was made, and the crowd of its idle inhabitants were congregated as usual on the pier, to variegate the sameness of their amusements by the arrival of fresh food for curiosity and gossip regularly supplied by the packets. Unfortunately it was low water, and the steamer could not get in; it therefore became necessary that the passengers should be landed on the backs of fisherwomen, who are always ready saddled on these occasions for the carriage of voyagers. Great were the cries and the shrieks of the Miss Cannons and their mamma when thus mounted; but old Cannon, recovered from his sickness, seemed quite delighted. He jumped upon the shoulders of a fat old woman, who staggered under the weight, with a "'Cré chien, qu'il est lourd!" But Mr. Cannon was not satisfied with his natural weight, and, wishing to show the natives that he could ride à l'Anglaise, he stuck his knees in the sides of his biped steed, and began rising in his saddle, despite the tottering Boulonnaire, who was roaring out, "'Cré Dieu, Monsieur l'Anglais! est-ce que vous étes enragé! Nom d'un Dieu! vous m'ereintes! Ah Jesus, je n'en puis plus!" and, suiting the action to the word, down she rolled in the mud, pitching her rider head over heels, amidst convulsive roars of international laughter.

This accident did not halt the cavalcade, and Cannon's affectionate spouse and children endeavoured in vain to rein in their chargers. On they trotted until they landed them at the pier, leaving Cannon in the hands of the fisherwoman, who not only insisted upon her fare in the most vehement language, but on compensation for the damage occasioned by her fall, which she justly attributed to his bad riding.

The old gentleman, soused to the skin, was most anxious to reach some hotel where he could put on dry clothes; but he was in France, – and plans of comfort are not of easy execution in that land of freedom. He was stopped with his whole generation at the custom-house, where fresh annoyances awaited them. It had never occurred to him that in pacific times a passport was required, and he had neglected this necessary measure. In vain he roared out that his name was Cannon. "Were you the pope's park of artillery," replied the insolent scrivener of the police, "you must be en règle." While this warm discussion was going on, Commodus heard loud shrieks in a room into which his wife and daughters had been politely pushed. He asked for admittance in vain, bawling out that they were the Miss Cannons. It was indeed his astonished young ladies, whom a custom-house female official insisted upon searching. Another more terrific alarm shook his nerves; a terrible fracas took place at the door, and he thought he heard the voice of Sam Surly cursing the entire French nation in the most eloquent Yorkshire dialect. Alas! it was he; but in what a degraded situation, – what a disgraceful condition for a free-born British yeoman! and yet we are at peace with the Gaul! Sam was stretched upon the ground, surrounded by what appeared to Cannon to be soldiers, with drawn swords, threatening his life, while he was emphatically denouncing their limbs. But, oh, horror! another soldier was pulling off his corduroys in presence of the multitude; while another, and another, and another were drawing out of them about two hundred yards of bobbinet! This operation over, the douanier proceeded to draw out a specification, or procès verbal, not only regarding the seizure, but a black eye and a bloody nose that Sam had inflicted on "des soldats Français," for which his life alone could atone; but an English gentleman standing by, assured Cannon that a napoleon would manage these braves, if they had been half kicked to death. Money settled the business, and all the party proceeded toward the town, surrounded by a crowd of curious people in roars of laughter; the male part of the family were swearing most copiously, the ladies crying most piteously, and Sam Surly offering to box any one for a pot of porter.

The name of Cannon had passed from mouth to mouth, and had reached Stubb's corner before the party. This celebrated laboratory of reputation and crucible of character is simply the front of a circulating library, – a very emporium of works of fiction. A group of idlers were, as usual, assembled at this saluting battery, who loaded so soon as the approach of what a wag called the battering train was announced.

This spot proved to the Cannon family a second baptismal fount, for, as they passed by, they all received cognominations according to their external appearance, which ever after have stuck to them. Commodus Cannon, a short, plump, dapper man, was called the Mortar; Mrs. Cannon, also of respectable embonpoint, and of a tournure between an apple dumpling and a raspberry bolster-pudding, was named the Howitzer; Miss Molly, a tall slight figure, was favoured with the appellation of the Culverin; Biddy, a squat cherub-looking girl, was basely named the Pateraro; Lucy, who had rather a cast in each eye, which had induced the wits of Muckford to christen her Miss Wednesday (as they pretended that she looked both ways to Sunday,) – Miss Lucy, those pernicious sponsors called the Swivel; Kitty, a stout, short, beautiful creature, in whose form graceful undulations made up for length, they nicknamed the Carronade. The senior of the junior Cannons was a Short Nine; George, a Four Pounder; Cornelius, a Cohorn; Peter, a Long Six; and Oliver, a Pétard, the most horrible and degrading patronymic that could be bestowed upon any poor traveller in France.

At last, after passing under this volley from Fort Stubb, they all arrived, more dead than alive, at a hotel. Here, to their additional comfort, they were informed that half of the ladies' things that had not been made up were seized, or, in other words, made over to the douaniers. Exhausted and despairing, they asked for some soup, expecting a bowl of mock-turtle or of gravy. A potage de vermicelle was served up, the sight of which was not very encouraging for digestive organs just recovering from an inverted peristaltic motion. Cannon tasted it, and swore it was nothing but "hot water and worms." Miss Molly told him he ought to be ashamed of himself, before strangers, not to know wermichelly. Cannon swore lustily that they might swallow the wormy-jelly themselves, and asked for some other potage. A soupe maigre, made of sorrel and chervil, followed. Cannon had scarcely tasted the sour mixture, when he swore he was poisoned with oxalic acid, and roared out for a doctor, when he was informed to his utter dismay that all the doctors in the town had struck.

Doctors strike! – never heard of such a thing. To be sure, they may strike a death-blow now and then; but doctors striking was a new sort of a conspiracy. The French waiters only shrugged up their shoulders with a "Que voulez vous, monsieur!" a most tantalizing reply to a man who cannot get anything that he wants.

An English resident in the room explained matters. "We have, sir," he said, "several British practitioners in this place: many of them are men of considerable merit; but the learned body have just been thrown into a revolution by a Scotch physician, a Dr. M'Crusoe. The usual fee here, is a five-franc piece, or four shillings and twopence English; a sum so very small that many English are ashamed to tender it. M'Crusoe therefore proposed to his brethren that they should claim a higher remuneration."

"Jantlemen," he said, "it's dero-gatory tul the deegnety of a pheeseecian like huz, who hae received a leeberal eeducation, mare aspeecially mysel', wha grauduated at Mo-dern Authens, tul accep' sic a pautry fee as four an' tippence. No maun intertains mare contemp' for siller than aw do; but the varry least we aught tul expec' is ten fraunks for day veesits, an' eleven fraunks for nighet calls; fare from the varry heegh price of oil and caundles, at the varry lowest caulculation, it costs me mare than ten baubees per noctem to keep my noghcturnal lamp in pro-per trim. An' aw therefore houp in this deceesion we wull support each eather ho-nestly and leeberally. Aw need na remind jantlemen of yere erudeetion of the wee bit deformed body Æsop's fable, o' the bundle o' stucks, or o' the faucees of the Ro-man leectors, union cone-stitutes straingth. Therefore aw repeat it, aw trust ye wull enforce this raigulation like men o' indepaindence, an' conscious of the deegnity o' science."

All the doctors acquiesced in the expediency of his project, and to that effect signed a resolution, with which M'Crusoe walked off, and read the document with a loud and audible voice, as sternly as a magistrate could read the riot act, at Stubb's corner. The indignation of the community knew no bounds; their wrath foamed and bubbled like the falls of Niagara; they swore by the heads of Galen and Esculapius that they would rather die of the pip, expire in all the agonies of hepatitis, gastritis, enteritis, and all the itises that were ever known, than give one centime more than five francs; nay, in their fury, they swore they would throw themselves into the hands of French doctors, and swallow a gallon of tisane a day for a fifteen-pence fee; and hundreds of letters were sent off to Scotland for cheap doctors.

This was what Dr. M'Crusoe wanted: he immediately circulated himself in every hole and corner to inform the public that,

"In consequence of illeeberality o' ma breethren, under exusting cercumstaunces, aw feel mysel' called upon by pheelauntropy and humaunity to tak' whatever ma patients can afford to gie me."

Such was the state of the faculty of Boulogne when Cannon swore he was poisoned. A French doctor came and ordered him four grains of tartar emetic in a gallon of hot water; and as French doctors are very kind and attentive to their patients, acting both as physicians and nurses, Cannon's attendant had the extreme benevolence to remain with him until he had not only swallowed, but restored, every minim of this bounteous potation, which really amounted to the full capacity that Cannon possessed of containing fluids.

Whether there was anything deleterious or not in the soupe à l'oreille, it is difficult to say; but the ladies were afflicted all night with what physicians call tormina, and tenesmus, and intus-susceptio, and iliac passion, and borborygma in their epigastric and their hypochondriac regions; for all and several of which, the French doctor duly irrigated them with hot water and syrup of gum, threatening them with a cuirasse de sangsues if they were not better in the morning, as he said that they all laboured under an entero-epiplo-hydromphalo-gastrite: while poor Cannon, writhing under the effect of l'eau émétisée was denounced as being threatened with entero-epiplomphale, entero-merocèle, entero-sarcocèle, and entero-ischiocèle. Sick as they all were, they looked upon the native practitioner as a very learned man, and gladly gave thirty sous a head for so much information, when an impudent English quack would have asked them ten francs for merely telling them that they had what is vulgarly called the mulligrubs.

After an intolerable night, Morpheus was shedding his poppies over the exhausted travellers, when they were all roused by the most alarming cries; and Miss Lucy Cannon and Molly Cannon were dragged out of their beds by two French gentlemen, who had just jumped out of theirs, and, clasped in their arms, were forthwith carried out into the court-yard.

THE RELICS OF ST. PIUS

Saint Pius was a holy man,And held in detestationThe wicked course that others ran,So lived upon starvation.He thought the world so bad a placeThat decent folks should fly it;And, dreaming of a life of grace,Determin'd straight to try it.A cavern was his only house,Of limited expansion,And not a solitary mouseDurst venture near his mansion.He told his beads from morn to night,Nor gave a thought to dinner;And, while his faith absorb'd him quite,He ev'ry day grew thinner.Vain ev'ry hint by Nature given,His saintship would not mind her;At length his soul flew back to heaven,And left her bones behind her.Some centuries were gone and past,And all forgot his story,Until a sisterhood at lastReviv'd his fame and glory.To Rome was sent a handsome fee,And pious letter fitted,Requesting that his bones might beWithout delay transmitted.The holy see with sacred zealTheir relic hoards turn'd over,The skeleton, from head to heel,Of Pius to discover;And having sought with caution deep,To pious tears affected,They recognised the blessed heapSo anxiously expected.And now the town, that would be madeIllustrious beyond measure,Was all alive with gay paradeTo welcome such a treasure.The bishop, in his robes of state,Each monk and priest attending,Stood rev'rently within the gateTo view the train descending;The holy train that far had goneTo meet the sacred relic,And now with joyous hymns came on,Most like a band angelic.The nuns the splendid robes prepare,Each chain, and flower, and feather;And now they claim the surgeon's careTo join the bones together.The head, the arms, the trunk, he found,And placed in due rotation;But, when the legs he reached, aroundHe stared in consternation!In vain he twirl'd them both about,Took one, and then took t'other,For one turn'd in, and one turn'd out,Still following his brother.Two odd left legs alone he saw,Two left legs! 'tis amazing!"Two left legs!" cried the nuns, with aweAnd anxious wonder gazing.The wonder reach'd the listening crowd,And all the cry repeated;While some press'd on with laughter loud,And some in fear retreated.The bishop scarce a smile repress'd,The pilgrims stood astounded;The mob, with many a gibe and jest,The holy bones surrounded.The abbess and her vestal train,The blest Annunciation,With horror saw the threaten'd stainOn Pius' reputation."Cease, cease! ungrateful race!" cried she,"This tumult and derision,And know the truth has been to meRevealed in a vision!"The saint who now, enthron'd in heav'n,Bestows on us such glory,Had two left legs by Nature given,And, lo! they are before ye!"Then let us hope he will no moreHis blessed prayers deny us,While we, with zeal elate, adoreThe left legs of St. Pius."C.S.L.

DARBY THE SWIFT;

OR,

THE LONGEST WAY ROUND IS THE SHORTEST WAY HOME

CHAPTER III"Tipsy dance and jollity." —L'Allegro

A full hour after Darby's departure I ventured to open the little dog-eared volume which he had thrown upon my table. The title-page was a curious specimen of that lingual learning which is so often to be met with in the remotest districts of Ireland. Gentle reader, a description of it would only spoil it; I therefore lay it before you as it appeared to me then, with this slight difference, – that the printer informs me he has no letter that can adequately express or imitate the rustic simplicity, the careless elegance both of the character and setting up. It was as follows:

THE DARBIAD!A BACCHI-SALTANT EPIC. IN ONE BOOKAUCTORE CLAUDICANTE KELLIO

Containing an Account of a Great Festival given at "The Three Blacks," by one Mr. Darby Ryan, on the occasion of his coming into his Fortune, and all the Songs an' Dances as perform'd there in honor to him.

Dulce est desipere in loco

Printed by Mary Brady, Xher mark, at the sign of the Cross Quills in Monk's Lane, opposit the Friary. Price sixpence; and to be had of all Flyin' Stationers, and Dancin' Masthers.

I could not but admire the classical taste and ingenuity with which Mr. Kelly, the author, had Latinized his name. He had read, no doubt, that Ovid was called Naso from the excessive size of his nose; and, with a delicacy peculiar to himself, had elegantly concealed the vulgar cognomen of Lame Kelly, – by which he was known, – in the more pompous-sounding Roman appellation of Claudicante! Kellio, too, was another "curiosa felicitas;" for, while it was in perfect accordance with grammatical accuracy, it sounded like an ingenious anagram of O'Kelly, an ancient Irish name. But, to the poem itself.

INVOCATIONInspire me, Phœbus! in the song I sing,And to my aid the nine twin-sisters bring;No common deeds I celebrate or praise —Darby the Swift is hero of my lays!After a hurling-match by Darby won,Although his nose bad suffered in the fun,He, with his rivals, now no longer foes,To the Three Blacks in peaceful triumph goes!Two blacks already had he in the fray,But whereabouts I won't presume to say:'T would spoil the beauty of a hero's mien,Though by the candles' glare they scarce were seen.Many were met; of sisters, brothers, cousins,Aunts, uncles, nieces, sweethearts, wives, some dozens.First, Widow Higgins, with her daughters three,Bedizen'd out as fine as fine could be,Came on her low-back'd car, with feather-bed,And ornamental quilt upon it spread.She look'd a queen from the luxurious EastReclining on an ottoman: – the beastThat drew her, chicks and all, drew seventy stone at least!And he to horse was what to man is monkey,In epics 't would be bathos, or I'd call him donkey.But (who can read the secret book of Fate?)Just as the party pass'd the inn-yard gate,A startled pig – a young and timorous thingThat in a puddle had been weltering —Woke from some rapturous dream, and in its frightRush'd 'tween the nag's forelegs, who, woful sight!Employ'd his hinder ones so wondrous well,That Widow Higgins, bed, and daughters, fell(Alas, my muse!) into the porker's bath!Oh, day turn'd night! oh, pleasure sour'd to wrath!But soon they did recover mirth, and jok'd,For 'twas the feather-bed alone that soak'dThe stagnant pool: – no stain's impurityDefil'd their rainbow-riband'd dimity,Save one; and that was on the widow's crupper,Who said, "I wish they'd scald that pig for supper!"Next came Miss Duff, in a light pea-green plush,That beautifully show'd her blue-red blush.Miss Reeves soon follow'd, spite of summer weather,In pelerine of goose-down, and a feather.The two Miss Gallaghers, the four Miss Bradys,With I know not how many other ladies.Amongst them Nelly Jones, with her first child,That squeak'd and squall'd; then, cock-a-doodle, smiled.Reader! I tell this for your private list'ning,To have the clargy at his feast, a christ'ningOur Darby thought would be a trick with art inTo nail the presence of big Father Martin,Who was the bochel-bhui of jolly sinners,At wakes or christ'nings, weddings, deaths, or dinners!Suppose Jack Falstaff had ta'en holy orders,And then I'll say your fancy somewhat bordersUpon the plumpy truth of this round priest,Who ne'er refus'd his blessing to a feast.One slender damsel, that seem'd not fifteen,With younger brother, in the throng was seen;Shy and confused, as when a violet,Suddenly snatch'd from its dark-green retreat,First meets the gaudy glaring of the day,And seems to close its beauty from the rayOf unaccustom'd light that rudely prysInto its gentle, modest, azure eyes.What led her thither I could never learn.But, hark! who comes? it is Miss Pebby Byrne,All spick and span, to grace our hero's feast; —And last, Miss Reilly, who, tho' last, not least,Contributes by her dress and portly mienTo swell the splendour of the joyous scene.Juno herself ne'er walk'd with such an air!A bright-blue band encircled her red hair,Clasp'd on her forehead by a neat shoe-buckle!Her dress was gaudy, – though as coarse as huckle-24Back, or the web call'd linsey-woolsey, – flowingIn graceful negligence; tho' sometimes showingIt had been out for a more sylphid shape,As sundry pins, o'ertir'd, releas'd the cape!But now the christ'ning's o'er: of wine and cakesFirst Father Martin, then each fair, partakes;The youths incline to porter and potcheen.Miss Reilly condescends to be the queen,Presiding o'er the rites of dear bohea,Whose incense in one corner you might seeRising in volumes from four sacred stills,Which, as Miss Reilly empties, Darby fillsWith boiling fluid from a cauldron spoutless,That had been ages at the Three Blacks, doubtless.But now the pipes are smoking both and playing:"Come, boys!" says Father Martin, "no delaying!Let's have a song. Come, you first, Tommy Byrne,And then we'll get a stave all round in turn."Tommy, obedient, put his dudheen25 inHis waistcoat pocket, and thus did begin: — Tune– "Alley Croker."IYour furreners, that come abroadInto our Irish nation,Expectin' nothin' else but fraudAnd cut-throat dissertation;What is't they find on landin' firstBut hundred millia-falthas,And kindness that we still have nurs'd?Tho' slav'ry near has spoilth us!Wirra! wirra! wirrasthrue!Wouldn't Erin's glory,With the penOf clever men,Make a weepin' story?IISays one, – "You lazy pisant! whyParmit that pig so durtyTo sleep beside you, when a styHe'd find more clane and purty?" —They little know that gratitudeTo us was early sint, sir!And so we think no place too goodFor him that pays the rint, sir!Wirra! wirra! wirrasthrue!Wouldn't Erin's glory,With the penOf clever men,Make a dacent story?Here a loud squeak of grunting praise was heardFrom the new pig-house in the stable-yard:Th' applause awhile the minstrel's music drown'd;  }But soon he did resume, and all around }Remark'd how much his voice of late improv'd in sound.}IIIAnother says, – "You idle dog,Why do ye lock your door up,And every sason quit your bogTo thravel into Europe?"Sure we would gladly stop at homeThe whole year round, and labour,But for the harvest-pence we roamTo pick up in the neighbour-Hood of England, wirrasthrue!Wouldn't Erin's glory,With the penOf clever men,Make a pleasant story?

[I could not help laying the book down at this passage to reflect whether the imputation of idleness can be justly thrown upon the Irish. Men who year after year toil through the perils and privations of a journey into another land for the sake of a few shillings, can scarcely be termed lazy; and it is to be regretted that some mode of employment at home is not devised by those in whose power it is to meliorate and tranquillise their condition.]