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[Pg 33]

THE IRISH PENNY JOURNAL.

LOUGH BRAY.

If the citizens of our capital have to acknowledge, and perhaps
lament, that they are unable to compete with some other
cities of the empire in the extent of their commerce, the number
of their manufactories, the wealth of their resident aristocracy,
or, in short, any of the various results which a long
and uninterrupted course of artificial prosperity is certain to
bestow, they may still console themselves with the reflection,
that in the singularly varied beauties of scenery with
which their city is surrounded they possess riches of greater
value, and enjoyments of a higher nature, of which they cannot
be deprived by any circumstance, and in which no other
city can ever hope to rival them. And although to the mere
grovelling pursuer of gain, who is incapable of a single elevated
or ennobling feeling, such a consideration may seem a
matter of trivial importance, to those of wiser, better, and
more happily constituted minds, it will always be a source of
self-gratulation, as affording pleasures easily procured, and
which they would not exchange for any of a grosser kind. It
is, indeed, beyond a question, that there is no city in the British
empire exhibiting around it such a variety of picturesque
beauties as our own dear Dublin. We have the villa-studded,
pastoral plain—the spacious bay, with all its variety of coast,
from the sandy beach to the bluff sea-promontory—the
richly-wooded valley with its limpid river—the lonely mountain
glen with its cataracts and tiny trout-streams—the purple
heath and the solitary tarn, or pool—the rural village and the
gay watering-place; while in addition to all these, the interest
imparted to natural scenery, by remains of ancient times, is
every where present. In short, there is no class of scenery
which the poet, the painter, the geologist, the botanist, or the
mere man of pleasure, could desire, that may not be reached
in a drive of an hour or two from any part of our city.
Nature has showered on us, with a generous hand, her various
riches—the riches derived from her and our Creator. It must,
however, be confessed that, as yet, we have not learned sufficiently
to appreciate these gifts, and, consequently, do not
sufficiently enjoy them. “The world is too much with us”—and
there are many scenes of striking interest within our
reach, which are more frequently seen by the stranger visitant
than by ourselves. Of these, one of the most remarkable
is the mountain lake called Lough Bray, of which we give
a sketch in our present number. How many thousands are
there of the citizens of Dublin who have never seen, perhaps
never heard of, this little mountain pool; and yet it is one of the
most perfect examples of scenery of its kind in Ireland—one
of those spots in which nature appears in her most stern and[Pg 34]
rugged aspect; solitary, gloomy, and unfit for the companionship
of man. Still it is not wholly a desert. The eagles which
build in its cliffs have seen a man of a kindred lofty spirit—an
eagle among men—build himself a nest amongst these solitudes;
and they have been often startled from their eyry by
the sounds of aristocratic joy and merriment, when the shores
of the dark lake have been enlivened by the presence of the
most distinguished in beauty and rank in Ireland.

It is perhaps of all situations a spot in which we should least
expect to find a gentleman’s villa; yet this innovation is not
materially injurious to the prevailing sentiment of the scene.
The house is in the Old English style of architecture, highly
picturesque, and in all respects worthy of the refined taste of
the late Mr William Morrison, the distinguished architect by
whom it was erected, and whose early death was an event
which may justly be regarded in the light of a national loss.
It was erected for Sir Philip Crampton, at the expense of
his Grace the Duke of Northumberland, who, while Viceroy
of Ireland, had spent some happy days with Sir Philip
in this romantic spot, in a cottage of humbler pretensions,
which had occupied its site, and was accidentally burned. The
gift was one equally worthy of the illustrious donor, and the
talented and estimable receiver; and there are few if any of
our readers who will not join us in the wish that he may long
live to enjoy it.

Lough Bray is situated near the head of the beautiful vale
called Glen Cree, in the county of Wicklow, into which it
sends a stream, which, subsequently uniting with the Glenisloreane
river, is called the Dargle and Bray river, and falls
into the sea to the north of Bray Head. Though the name is
generally used in the singular number, Lough Bray properly
consists of two lakes, called Upper and Lower; but the lower
is the principal one, both in point of beauty and grandeur of
scenery, as well as in extent of surface, its area occupying a
space of thirty-seven acres. It is nearly surrounded by mountain
precipices, in which eagles are wont to build, and has
very much the character of the crater of an extinct volcano.

Lough Bray is most easily visited from Dublin by the Military
Road, by which route the distance is little more than ten
Irish miles.

P.

THE SOD PARTY.

Of all the pleasant interludes in the drama of life, a sod
party, where every thing goes right, is one of the pleasantest.
What talking! what fuss! what discussions! what direfully
important arrangements for a week before-hand! what a
puzzle how to divide the various necessaries into such relatively
fair proportions that no individual should feel more
burdened than another. I do not mean one of those parties
where all the trouble and expense fall upon one unfortunate
individual, who, consequently, can derive no pleasure from the
affair, except that of seeing others enjoying themselves—a
very great pleasure, doubtless, considered abstractedly, but
rather too refined for every-day mortals—no; but a regular
pic-nic, where lots are drawn, and each supplies whatever
may be written on the slip that she or he holds, and furnishes
a quota of the trouble, as well as of the provisions; one individual,
nevertheless, being the director.

What a hurry-skurry on the morning of the eventful day!
Then the assembling of the carriages and other vehicles at
the place of rendezvous.

“Dear me,” said Mrs Harvey, on the morning of the day
appointed for her pic-nic, having consulted her watch for the
twentieth time; “dear me, where is Mr Sharpe? What can
possibly delay Mrs Molloy? Well, well, how hard it is to get
people to be punctual!”

“Oh, mamma, maybe they’ll meet us at Howth; we had
better set off. If they come here, they can be directed to follow
us, you know. Do, pray, mamma, let us move.”

“Oh, my dear, we must send a messenger to Mr Sharpe.
If he missed us, or took huff at our going without him (and
you know he’s very tetchy), it would be such a dreadful inconvenience,
for he has to supply the knives and forks, spoons
and glasses, and he would think nothing of leaving us in the
lurch, if he took it into his head; and Mrs Molloy is so forgetful,
that she might come without the roast beef, and never
think of it until it would be missed at table. George, dear,
will you desire John to step over to Mr Sharpe’s, and tell
him that the company is assembled. And, Mr O’Brien, will
you permit me to send your servant to Mrs Molloy with a
similar message?”

“Certainly, madam, with the greatest pleasure.”

And now the little annoyances inseparable from all sublunary
enjoyments, begin.

“John has received a severe hurt, my dear. In packing
some bottles, one of them broke, and a piece of it has cut his
wrist. I have sent him to the apothecary’s to get it dressed.”

“Mercy on us! I hope he’s not seriously injured. He
won’t be obliged to stay at home surely?”

“I am afraid he must, my dear.”

“If he does, every thing will go wrong, he is such a
careful creature, and so completely up to every thing on a sod
party, and has every thing so orderly and regular, and all
without fuss or hurry. Oh, dear! we shall be sadly off without
him.”

Mr Sharpe was announced, and a slight, small, dapper little
personage made his appearance. A physiognomist of the very
least discernment must at once have pronounced him to be a
satirical, irritable, genuine lover of mischief, for mischief’s
sake—mirthful after his own fashion, and as merry as a grig
upon a gridiron, when every face about him should be drawn
to a half yard in length by some unforeseen annoyance, or
petty disaster. He rubbed his hands, congratulating the ladies
on the fineness of the day. “Heavenly morning—fine road—Bay
of Dublin will be seen to such advantage—sea so smooth—coast
of Wicklow splendid—Killiney will look so bold”—talk—talk—talk;
he stunned every person with his extraordinary
volubility.

Mr O’Brien’s servant entered. “Please, ma’am, Mrs Molloy
is coming.” Scarcely was the message delivered when the
lady made her appearance.

“Oh, my dear Mrs Harvey, I hope I hav’nt kept you waiting
long. I totally forgot that this was the day appointed for
your party, until Sparks reminded me of it by calling me up.”

“Make no apologies, my dear madam; we havn’t waited
at all. Mr Sharpe has but just arrived, and our number is now
complete. Have you every thing packed?”

“Packed! Why, do you think we’ll have rain?—had I
better get my cloak and umbrella? But, sure, I can go in
your carriage, and as I shan’t be exposed on an outside car,
I won’t want them.”

“My dear Mrs Molloy, it is the beef I allude to. Is it
packed?”

“The beef! What beef?”

“Why, dear me, you surely havn’t forgotten that a six-rib
piece of roast beef was to be supplied by you?”

“I—declare—I—never—once—thought—of it. Well, now,
that’s very odd.”

Mr Sharpe’s countenance fell. The discovery had been
made too timely to please him.

“What’s best to be done now? I can purchase beef somewhere
as we go along, and we’ll get it dressed at Howth, in
some cabin or another.”

“Phwee—oo,” whistled Mr Robert O’Gorman, “what
the deuce would we do with ourselves for five or six hours, at
the least, that such a piece would take to roast, without any
thing to keep its back warm in an open cabin? I’ll tell you
what, ma’am: give me the money, and I’ll get as much cold
roast beef as you like, from Mulholland.”

“Who is Mulholland?”

“Oh, ’tis no matter; I’ll get the meat, if you want it.”

“Very well, Mr O’Gorman, do so, and you’ll oblige me;
here is a guinea. But why not tell who Mulholland is?”

Mr O’Gorman bolted, without making any reply.

Now, the fact of the matter was simply this, that Mulholland
was a sort of second-hand caterer, who purchased the
meat that was sent unused from the dining-hall of Trinity
College, and supplied it again to such students as felt too
economically inclined to attend commons, and thus save
money from the parental allowances, for other, and better (?)
uses. To this class did Mr O’Gorman sometimes belong.

In a very short time he re-appeared.

“You were not long, Mr O’Gorman; did you succeed in
getting a suitable piece?”

“Suitable? If sixteen pounds will suit you, I have got
that; and I gave him the change of the guinea,” addressing
Mrs Molloy, “for himself, ma’am, for his trouble in packing
it, and the loan of the basket, which of course he can’t expect
in reason ever to see again. Nobody would bring home
an empty basket.”

“The change of the guinea for himself! Why, Mr O’Gorman,
instead of giving him more than he asked, you should
have cut him down in his price. The change of the guinea[Pg 35]
for himself! Oh! gracious! did anyone ever hear of the
like? Oh! dear me! the change for himself! Oh! dear!”
and in a gentle repetition or two, in an under-tone, Mrs
Molloy’s surprise died away, like a retiring echo; for the bustle
of departure claimed all attention now.

It has been but too frequently remarked, that a party of
pleasure is seldom wholly unembittered by pain, and our party
was doomed not to be an exception to the rule; although the
point had been mooted, and the question discussed, at the first
meeting (an evening party at Mrs Harvey’s), where the preliminaries
were arranged, and it had been voted unanimously
that our party should be pleasant, and agreeable, and happy,
from the start to the return; and, further, that nothing
should go astray; and that if any person should be disagreeable,
he or she should be voted out; with fifty other resolutions,
that the secretary was unable to record, in consequence
of the movers and seconders, the president and audience, secretary
and all, talking rapidly and vehemently together, until
order was suddenly restored by Mr O’Gorman (who had the
loudest voice, and the knack of making himself heard above
any uproar, acquired by a long and regular course of practice
in the upper gallery of Crow-street theatre) shouting out,
“Order-r-r-r-r, ladies and gentlemen, order-r-r-r-r! The
rule of this society is, that not more than six shall speak at
a time; and I feel it to be my duty, madam, to call upon you,
for the sake of regularity, to preserve this rule inviolate.
This party of pleasure, madam, is to be a party of pleasure
unlike all the parties of pleasure that have gone before it.
Pleasure, madam, is to be the beginning, pleasure the middle,
and pleasure the end of it; and I shall conclude, madam, by
saying, that I have the pleasure of wishing that it may be so.”

Mr O’Gorman unfortunately had not the celebrated wishing-cap
on his head at the time.

Mr, Mrs, and Miss Harvey, a maiden sister of Mr Harvey,
Mrs Molloy, Mr Sharpe, Mr O’Brien, his mother and three
sisters, Mr O’Donnell and his daughter, O’Gorman, Fitzgerald,
Sweeny, Costello, and two or three more College men,
completed the muster roll of the party. The vehicles consisted
of Mr Harvey’s and Mr O’Brien’s carriages, Mr
O’Donnell’s jaunting-car, an outside jarvey that O’Gorman,
had brought, and Mr Sharpe’s gig.

Poor John’s wrist had been so sadly hurt that he could not
attend, and the gentlemen gave every assurance to Mrs Harvey
that he would not be missed by her, they would make themselves
so useful.

Every thing was at length announced to be ready. A
basket, covered with oiled silk, swinging conspicuously from
the axle-tree of the gig, rendered it unnecessary to ask Mr
Sharpe if he had all the requisites prepared; and Mrs Harvey,
having cast the last scrutinizing glance around, gave the
long-wished-for word to “take places.”

Now, all this time there were four hearts bent upon one
object, and four heads at work planning how to attain it.
The youngest of the Misses O’Brien was the sprightliest girl
of the party; and although Miss O’Donnell might dispute the
prize for beauty with her, the former was the most admired
by the young men upon the present occasion, and Messrs
O’Gorman, Fitzgerald, Sweeny, and Costello, had each resolved
to attach himself to her, if possible.

The first mentioned, who was a general favourite, had contrived
most successfully to keep near her during breakfast,
and pretty nearly to engross her attention during the subsequent
time that had elapsed previously to the discovery of
Mrs Molloy’s forgetfulness, by telling her tales of College life,
and adventures replete with wonders, that might have caused
the renowned Sinbad the sailor himself, or the equally celebrated
Baron Munchausen, to stare, and bite the bitter nail
of envy, while they could not withhold their meed of applause
from one who was their master at the marvellous, and could
give them lessons in the sublime art of invention.

It was Bob’s anxiety to get on the road that made him tender
his services in the supplying of the beef; and the certainty
that he had completely ingratiated himself with the young lady,
by his stories, at which she had laughed most heartily, made him
feel very little uneasiness at the prospect of a few minutes’ separation,
especially when she knew that he had only absented
himself for the purpose of expediting the arrangements that
were to give him an opportunity of catering for her amusement
for the remainder of the day. When he returned, and saw
her surrounded by the other three, he resolved to let them go
on quietly, and trusted to snatch her from them by some stratagem,
just at the last moment.

Now, it must be confessed that Miss Kate would have much
preferred the rattling, noisy, lying, merry, mischievous scamp,
as her companion, to any other, because she loved laughing,
and he supplied her plentifully with food for mirth; and she
was very well inclined, and quite resolved within herself, to
second any bold attempt that he might make to rescue her
from the trio by which she was surrounded. Great was her
chagrin to see that he took no manner of trouble about the
matter, but apparently occupied himself with the elder Miss
Harvey. What a taste he must have! thought she, to attach
himself to the old maid of the party; and it was with something
of pettishness that she stood, or rather jumped up, when
the order to move was given. Her glove fell. Fitzgerald
and Costello stooped, or rather dashed themselves down from
opposite sides at the same instant to secure the prize; their
heads came in contact, with a crash resembling that caused
by two cracked pitchers being jolted together, and so loud as
to astonish the hearers; and they recoiled from the collision
into a sitting posture, one under the table, and the other under
the piano.

When Xantippe, the wife of that great philosopher Socrates,
had failed in her efforts to vex him by abuse, her last
resource was to break some article of crockery upon his head:
it is recorded that he coolly wiped his face, which had been
deluged by the contents, merely saying, “After thunder comes
rain.” Now, I’d be bound that if we could ascertain what
Socrates said to himself at the time, we should find that for
all his smooth face and soft words he inwardly took some desperate
liberties with the heathen deities, and pitched Xantippe,
crockery, and all the makers of it, to Pluto, and all the
infernal gods, in a hurry. However, he kept his countenance,
which is more than can be said of Frank Costello, or Dick
Fitzgerald, or of Mr Sharpe, who nearly went into convulsions
with laughter; indeed, to do him justice, his was not
the only laughter, for no one could resist the excitement to
risibility contained in the picture before them. At the first
moment each of the gentlemen had uttered a loud exclamation
savouring strongly of impiety; then, immediately recollecting
the presence of ladies, they muttered what might have
been supposed by the charitable to be half-suppressed prayers,
but that their countenances were strangely discordant with
pious thoughts, for each with his hand on his head, his teeth
set, his lips apart and tightly drawn, and his eyes glaring with
pain and vexation, sat looking, or rather grinning, like a hyena,
at the other. That keen sense of the ridiculous which always
comes upon us so inopportunely, made them at length get up,
and the condolences offered on all sides, in the most tender
inflections of voice, but with countenances which but too
plainly showed how great was the effort to suppress laughter,
excited their anger against one another most terribly; nor
was it likely to be the more readily allayed by seeing Dan
Sweeny walking off with the prize, the contention for which
had caused their misfortune. It was with difficulty they could
be kept from fighting. Leaving them to settle the matter as
they pleased, Sweeny conducted the lady to her carriage,
close to which a new scene awaited them.

On the step of the hackney jaunting-car sat O’Gorman,
with his left foot upon his right knee, alternately rubbing his
shin very gently, and hugging the leg as if it was a baby,
groaning, and screwing his face into the most hideous grimaces.
After the scene they had just witnessed, this was irresistible,
and Miss Kate laughed long and heartily. Bob
looked at her, made a more hideous grimace than before,
groaned, rubbed more violently, and then giving himself a
most ludicrous twist, grinned, rubbed, and groaned again.

“Why—ha-ha-ha!—Mr O’Gorman, what ha-ha-ha!—has
happened you?”

“Oh! ah! oh! may the d—— I beg your pardon. But,
oh! hif! to the—och, I mean bad luck to all wood and iron!
Hif! oh! I attempted to jump up on this rascally step, when
my foot slipped off, and down I came, scraping all the skin
off my shin bone. Oh! bad luck to it—to the step, I mean.”

The manner in which he said this, made all who heard him
laugh more, but he did not seem to be in the least degree disconcerted;
and as to being angry, there was not a trace of it
on his countenance.

Sweeny, who prided himself upon being quite a ladies’ man,
and who was just then immensely elated at having distanced
all his competitors, but especially O’Gorman, whose retirement
from the competition he considered to be a tacit acknowledgment
of inferiority, offered a jesting sort of condolence to
him, and recommended him strongly to rub the injured part[Pg 36]
with vinegar, or whisky, or salt and water; it might smart a
little at first, to be sure, and make him grin and roar somewhat,
but it would be well in no time! But in the midst of
his badinage, Miss O’Brien missed her parasol, and he was
obliged to run back to the drawing-room to look for it.

As soon as he had disappeared within the hall door. O’Gorman
sprang to his feet, and, drawing the parasol from the
breast of his coat, tendered it, and his arm, to the young
lady, saying, with the greatest exultation, “Hoaxed, by jingo!
alas! poor Sweeny. Come, Miss Kate, your brother is so taken
up with Miss O’Donnell, that he can’t attend to any thing,
or any body. Never mind your mother; she can’t bawl out at
us, you know; and if she attempted to scold, she’d be voted
out. I’ve got Sharpe’s gig—come, jump up, and we’ll have
such a day! Oh! but havn’t I done them all brown! Hurrah
for Howth, and the sky over it! Oh! you little darling,”
added he, restraining himself with considerable difficulty from
giving her a hug and a kiss, as she laughingly complied with
his invitation, and seated herself with him in the gig, just as
Sweeny returned, protesting himself unable to find the parasol,
“oh, it got tired waiting for you, and came of itself. But
I say, Sweeny, capital receipt that of yours for sore shins;
quite cured mine in a moment—first application. Hollo! here,
you will probably want a pocket handkerchief during the day;
I’ll lend you one;” and Bob threw him his own. “I picked
his pocket in the drawing-room,” said he, turning to his delighted
companion; “I was determined that he should go back
for something; and here’s yours, which I secured also. Now,
then, if we follow those rumbling machines, we shall be smothered
with dust, so we had better show them the way.” Chick,
chick—and poor Mrs O’Brien could scarcely believe her eyes
when she saw her daughter whirl past her in a gig with one
of the most incorrigible scapegraces in the University.

He took good care that they should not be recalled, for he
was out of sight in a twinkling; nor did the party get a view
of him again until they had passed Clontarf, when they found
him walking the horse quietly, in order that they might over-take
him.

But I must postpone detailing the subsequent events of that
memorable day until the next number, having already occupied
more than my share of space.

Naisi.

SUMMER FLOWERS,

A CITIZEN’S LAMENT.

EQUIVOCAL GENTLEMEN.

Equivocal Gentlemen! Pray, who are they? Why, they
are rather a curious class of persons. But if you are in the
habit of noting character, we rather think you must know
them. They are to be seen in every city, and almost in every
town.

The equivocal gentleman has, in general manner and bearing,
and, as far as a very limited exchequer will allow, in dress
also, a curious smack of the real gentleman about him, of
whom he is, altogether, a sort of amusing caricature. His
pretensions are high, very high, and, conscious of the doubtfulness
of his claims, always noisy and obtrusive. He endeavours
to bully the world into respect for him. But it won’t
do. When he turns his back, the world winks one of its eyes,
and says, with a knowing smile, “that’s a queer sort of chap.”
It does’nt, in fact, know what to make of him—how to class
him. It has, however, a pretty good notion that, with all the
equivocal gentleman’s pretension, he has by no means an
unlimited command of the circulating medium.

And this is not an incorrect notion. Scarcity of funds is,
in truth, at the bottom of all the equivocal gentleman’s difficulties,
as, indeed, it is of almost all those of every body else.
He, however, may be emphatically said to be born of a warfare
between his poverty and “gentility.”

It is, of course, in the matter of dress that the equivocal
gentleman is most anxious to establish his claim to be considered
a genuine article; and it is in this matter, too, that his
peculiar position in the world is made most manifest; dress
being in his particular case, as it is less or more in all others,
a strongly marked and faithful expression of character.

The struggle here, then, to keep matters right, is dreadful.
None but himself knows how dreadful—none but himself
knows the thousand shifts and expedients he is compelled to
have recourse to, to maintain appearances in this most important
and most troublesome department.

First, of the hat. It is a merciless and unfeeling hat; for it
is obstinately hastening to decay, though it well knows that its
sorely perplexed owner does not know where on earth to get
another. See what a watching and tending it requires to keep
it from becoming absolutely unfit for the public eye, as the
headpiece of a gentleman! Why, the watching and tending
of a new-born infant is nothing to it.

Consider how carefully it must be examined round and round
every morning, that no new outward symptom of decay has
made itself manifest. Consider the brushing, the smoothing
down, the inking of corners and rims, the coaxing and wheedling,
by softly squeezing it this way, and gently pulling it that,
to induce it to keep as near as possible to its original shape.
Nay, desperate attempts may sometimes be detected to make
it assume yet a smarter form, in defiance of decay and dilapidation.

Then, there is the stock. Stitching and inking again, with
careful daily supervision. Then there is—— But we need
enlarge no further on this part of our subject.

But, mark, reader! every thing about the equivocal gentleman
is not in this state of seediness. He would not be the
equivocal gentleman at all, if this were the case. Some of
the particulars of his outward man are good—in fact, stylish—and
it is this incongruity that makes him out, that makes
him what he is, and which so much puzzles you to class him
when you see him.

The equivocal gentleman always manages to have one or
two of the component parts of his dress of unimpeachable
quality, but never can manage to have the whole in this palmy
state. There is always something wrong—something below[Pg 37]
par; and, we may add, generally something outré, absurd, or
extravagant. Perfect consistency and propriety in dress he
never can attain, and perhaps would not, if he could; for
one of the most marked features of his character is a craving
after singularity, in the art and fashion of his habiliments.

Overlooking himself what partial deficiencies there may be
in this department of his entire man, and thinking that the
world will overlook them too, the equivocal gentleman affects
the “bang up.” He is not content with desiring to impress
beholders with the idea of his being merely a respectable sort
of person: he desires much more than this. They must take
him, if not certainly for a lord, at least for some great personage—for
a—a—he does not himself, in fact, well know
what—for a mysterious, indeterminate somebody, of mysterious
and indeterminate consequence.

There are two or three points in which the equivocal gentleman
displays a very remarkable degree of ingenuity. One
of these consists in the dexterity with which he not only conceals
defects of dress, but converts them into positive elegancies.
Thus, if he have to button up for want of a clean
shirt, he contrives, by the very smart way in which he does
it, to make it appear not only to be matter of mere choice or
fancy, but, in fact, by much the genteeler thing.

But it is in the enacting of character that the equivocal
gentleman particularly shines.

Not having either the cash or the credit necessary to enable
him to adapt his dress to his identity, he is compelled to
adapt his identity to his dress. In other words, placing, for
the reason alluded to, little or no influence over the shape,
fashion, or quality of his clothes, but being obliged to conform
to circumstances in this matter to a most unpleasant extent—to
wear, in short, whatever he can most conveniently get—he
is driven to the expedient of adapting his character to the
particular description of dress he may be wearing at the time.
Thus, if it is a short coat, he probably enacts the country
gentleman, or sporting character; if a braided surtout, then
he is a military man; if he is driven to hide the deficiencies
of his other garments by a cloak, he adds a cloth cap with
tassels, frizzles up his whiskers, and comes forth a Polish
count; and so on of other varieties of dress.

In person the equivocal gentleman is stout and robust,
his age somewhere about forty. He is bushy-whiskered, and
affects a swaggering, bold, off-hand manner, talks large to
waiters, and looks with edifying ferocity on every body.

This rabidness of disposition on the part of the equivocal
gentleman proceeds partly from his habit of attempting to
bully the world into a high opinion of his consequence, and
partly from the irritation produced by a constant dread that
the world suspects the true state of his case. It is thus partly
affected, partly real.

Being always miserably short of funds, the equivocal gentleman
is necessarily much circumscribed in his enjoyments;
and this is particularly unfortunate, for he has a very keen
relish for the good things of this life. He likes good living,
good drinking, good every thing; but cruel fate has denied
them to him, except in very limited quantities, and on very
rare occasions. If he even gets them at all, it is by mere
chance, mere casual accident. Occasionally it is by an effort
of ingenuity, through which he has contrived, by some mysterious
means or other, to get possession of a little of the circulating
medium.

And pray, then, what is the equivocal gentleman? What
is he in reality, and what does he do? How does he support
himself? Why, friend, these questions are a vast deal easier
put than answered.

Just now, the equivocal gentleman is doing nothing—literally
and absolutely nothing. He was something or other at
one time; but at this moment, and for many years past, he
has pursued no calling whatever. The equivocal gentleman,
in short, is a gentleman of shifts and expedients. He has a
little world of his own, in which he manœuvres for a living.
Being rather respectably connected, his friends occasionally
remit him small sums, and these god-sends, few and far between,
and his own ingenuity, are all he has to depend upon.

The equivocal gentleman, notwithstanding the dashy appearance
he aims at, and the large style in which he speaks,
is, we are sorry to say it, a bit of a rogue in grain, and a
good deal of one in practice: he is, in short, somewhat of a
scamp, partly from circumstances, and partly from the natural
bent of his genius, which is ever urging him to take the
shortest cuts towards the objects he desires to possess. He is,
in truth, a sort of human bird of prey; tailors, bootmakers,
and lodging-house keepers, being his favourite quarries, and
the class who, therefore, suffer most from his non-paying propensities.
On one or other of these he is ever and anon
pouncing, and woe be to them if he once gets them within his
clutches: he will leave his mark, be sure, if he does.

The tailor, the bootmaker, and the lodging-house keeper,
again, knowing that he is their natural enemy—and as well do
they know him for this, as the small bird does the hawk—stand
in great awe of him; they have an instinctive dread of him,
and put themselves in a posture of defence the moment they
see him.

Our equivocal gentleman, in truth, lives in a constant state
of warfare similar to this with the whole world—not open
hostility, perhaps, but lurking, secret aversion. The world
looks shyly and doubtfully on him, and he looks fiercely and
angrily on the world in return.

Amongst the two or three little foibles by which the equivocal
gentleman is distinguished, is a rather urgent propensity
to strong drink. He is, in fact, pretty considerably dissipated,
as the florid or brick-red face on which his luxuriant
whiskers vegetate, but too plainly indicates. He is not, indeed,
always drunk; for his very limited command of means
keeps him, on the whole, pretty sober; but he gets drunk
when he can, and no gentleman can do more, nor can more be
reasonably expected of him.

The equivocal gentleman is a man of refined tastes, and
hence it is that he patronizes the drama. He is a great play-goer.
On such occasions he figures in the sixpenny gallery;
and here he has a difficult part to play, as difficult as any on
the stage. He has to make it appear to the gods, who wonder
to see so fine a gentleman amongst them, why he has come
to such a place, and at the same time to parry the very natural
conclusion, that it proceeds from a limited exchequer,
which he must on no account permit to be presumed for a
moment.

The way he manages this very ticklish point is this:—he
assumes a look at once dignified and supercilious, which look
is meant to impress you with the belief that his being in the
shilling gallery, which he generally enters at the half-price,
is a mere freak, a whim of one who could have gone to the
boxes had he chosen—that he has come where he is, just to
see what sort of a place it is, what effect the actors and the
scenery have when seen from such a distance.

To confirm this impression, the equivocal gentleman never
sits down in the gallery: this would look like premeditated
economy. He stands, therefore, during the whole time of the
performance, and stands aloof, too, from the ragamuffin audience,
with his arms folded on his breast, and an expression
of awful majesty on his brow.

Reader, do you know the equivocal gentleman now? We
are sure you do. That’s he there! see—that odd-looking personage
with the battered drab hat, the flashy surtout, the
shabby stock, the fashionable vest crossed by a German silver
chain, the questionable small-clothes, and the large patch on
his left boot.

IRISH PROVERBS.

The proverbs and moral sayings of a nation have always been
considered to possess a remarkable interest, not only on account
of the practical wisdom embodied in them, but for the
insight which to a great extent they afford into the peculiar
character and habits of thought of the people to whom they
belong. Wisdom, it is true, is essentially the same in all
countries, but the expression of it must vary according to
the temperament and modes of thinking which are found to
characterise the people of different nations; and hence the
proverbs of every people have been deemed worthy of preservation,
as well for purposes of comparison as for their own
intrinsic value. If, however, there be any nation the proverbs
of which remain almost wholly unknown to the people of the
British islands generally, it is the Irish, of whose popular sayings
no specimens have ever been given in an English dress,
except a collection of about eighty, which were contributed to
the first volume of the Dublin Penny Journal by our able and
estimable friend Mr O’Donovan, who well observes, that “a
perfect list of the proverbs of any people is, as it were, an index
to the national character, or the elements of the moral
notions, customs, and manners of a people.” A vast body of
such characteristic popular wisdom still remains hidden in the
obscurity of its original vernacular form, and we trust that
we shall render our readers an acceptable service in present[Pg 38]ing
them from time to time with translated portions, accompanied
by the original Irish, which we are equally anxious to
preserve.

1.

2.

3.

4.

5.

INTERESTING TRIAL.

The following account of an extraordinary criminal trial
which took place in Hertfordshire in the year 1628, we have
extracted from Reilly’s Dublin News Letter of the 16th of
August 1740. It was published for the first time in London
in the preceding year (1739) by Dr Rawlinson, who had discovered
it among the papers of the eminent lawyer, Sir John
Maynard, formerly one of the Lords Commissioners of the
Great Seal of England.

“The case, or rather history of a case, that happened in
the county of Hertford, I thought good to report here, though
it happened in the fourth year of King Charles the First,
that the memory of it may not be lost by miscarriage of my
papers, or otherwise. I wrote the evidence that was given,
which I and others did hear; and I wrote it exactly according
to what was deposed at the trial, at the bar of the King’s
Bench, namely,

Johan Norkott, wife of Arthur Norkott, being murdered,
the question was, How she came by her death? The coroner’s
inquest on view of the body, and depositions of Mary
Norkott, John Okeman, and Agnes his wife, inclined to
find Johan Norkott felo de se; for they informed the coroner
and jury that she was found dead in her bed, the knife
sticking in the floor, and her throat cut: That the night
before she went to bed with her child, her husband being absent,
and that no other person after such time as she was
gone to bed came into the house, the examinants lying in
the outer room, and they must needs have seen or known if
any stranger had come in. Whereupon the jury gave up to
the coroner their verdict, that she was felo de se; but afterwards,
upon rumour among the neighbourhood, and their observation
of divers circumstances, which manifested that she
did not, nor, according to those circumstances, could possibly
murder herself, thereupon the jury, whose verdict was not
yet drawn into form by the coroner, desired the coroner that
the body, which was buried, might be taken up out of the
grave, which the coroner assented to; and thirty days after
her death, she was taken up in the presence of the jury and
a great number of the people: whereupon the jury changed
their verdict. The persons being tried at Hertford assizes,
were acquitted; but so much against the evidence, that Judge
Hervey let fall his opinion that it were better an appeal were
brought, than so foul a murder escape unpunished. And
Pascha 4 Car., they were tried on the appeal, which was
brought by the young child, against his father, grandmother,
and aunt, and her husband Okeman. And because the evidence
was so strange, I took exact and particular notice, and
it was as follows:—

After the manner above mentioned related, an ancient
and grave person, minister to the parish where the fact was
committed (being sworn to give evidence according to custom),
deposed, that the body being taken up out of the grave
thirty days after the party’s death, and lying on the grass,
and the four defendants present, they were required each of
them to touch the dead body. Okeman’s wife fell upon her
knees, and prayed God to show a token of her innocency, or
to some such purpose; her very words I have forgot. The
appellees did touch the dead body; whereupon the brow of
the dead, which was before a livid and carrion colour (that
was the verbal expression interminis of the witness), began to
have a dew or gentle sweat arise on it, which increased
by degrees till the sweat ran down in drops on the face; the
brow turned and changed to a lively and fresh colour, and
the dead opened one of her eyes and shut it again; and this
opening of the eye was done three several times. She likewise
thrust out the ring or marriage finger three times, and
pulled it in again, and the finger dropped blood from it on
the grass.

Sir Nicholas Hide, Chief Justice, seeming to doubt the evidence,
asked the witness, Who saw this besides you?

Witness—I cannot swear what others saw; but, my Lord,
(said he) I do believe the whole company saw it; and if it
had been thought a doubt, proof would have been made of
it, and many would have attested with me.

Then the witness observing some admiration in the auditors,
he spoke further. My Lord, I am minister of the
parish, and have long known all the parties, but never had
any occasion of displeasure against any of them, nor had to
do with them, or they with me, but as I was minister. The
thing was wonderful to me; but I have no interest in the
matter but as called upon to testify the truth I have done.

This witness was a very reverend person, and, as I guessed,
was about seventy years of age; his testimony was delivered
gravely and temperately, but to the great admiration of the
auditory. Whereupon applying himself to the Chief Justice,
he said:—

My Lord, my brother, here present, is minister of the next
parish adjacent, and I am assured saw all done that I have
affirmed.

Therefore that person was also sworn to give evidence,
and did depose in every point—to the sweating of the brow,
the change of its colour, opening of the eye, and the thrice
motion of the finger, and drawing it in again. Only the first
witness added, that he himself dipped his finger in the blood
which came from the dead body, to examine it, and he swore
he believed it was blood.

I conferred afterwards with Sir Edmund Powell, barrister-at-law,
and others, who all concurred in the observation. For
myself, if I were upon oath, I can depose that these depositions,
especially of the first witness, are truly reported in substance.

The other evidence was given against the prisoners, namely,
the grandmother of the plaintiff, and against Okeman and
his wife; that they confessed that they lay in the next room
to the dead person that night, and that none came into the[Pg 39]
house till they found her dead the next morning; therefore,
if she did not murder herself, they must be the murderers.
To that end further proof was made.

First—That she lay in a composed manner in her bed, the
bed-clothes nothing at all disturbed, and her child by her in
bed.

Secondly—Her throat cut from ear to ear, and her neck
broken; and if she first cut her throat, she could not break
her neck in the bed, nor contra.

Thirdly—There was no blood in the bed, saving there was
a tincture of blood on the bolster whereon her head lay; but
no substance of blood at all.

Fourthly—From the bed’s head there was a stream of
blood on the floor, which ran along till it ponded in the bendings
of the floor to a very great quantity; and there was
also another stream of blood on the floor at the bed’s feet,
which ponded also on the floor to another great quantity, but
no continuance or communication of blood of either of these
two places from one to the other, neither upon the bed; so
that she bled in two places severally. And it was deposed,
turning up the mat of the bed, there were clots of congealed
blood in the straw of the mat underneath.

Fifthly—The bloody knife was found in the morning sticking
in the floor a good distance from the bed; but the point
of the knife as it stuck was towards the bed, and the haft
from the bed.

Lastly—There was a print of the thumb and four fingers
of the left hand.

Sir Nicholas Hide, Chief Justice, said to the witness—How
can you know the print of a left hand from the print of
a right hand in such a case?

Witness—My Lord, it is hard to describe; but if it please
that honourable judge to put his left hand upon your left
hand, you cannot possibly place your right hand in the same
posture. Which being done, and appearing so, the defendants
had time to make their defence, but gave no evidence to
any purpose.

The jury departed from the bar, and, returning, acquitted
Okeman, and found the other three guilty; who being severally
demanded what they could say why judgment should
not be pronounced, said, ‘Nothing;’ but each of them said,
‘I did not do it, I did not do it.’

Judgment was given, and the grandmother and the husband
executed; but the aunt had the privilege to be spared
execution, being with child.

I inquired, did they confess any thing at their execution;
but they did not, as I was told.”

JACK JOHNSTONE.

The times are sadly changed in Ireland as regards the drama,
and the enjoyments of its lovers, since the days when Jack
Johnstone used to delight his thousands of bearers, in old
“Crow street,” with his melodious warblings of Irish melodies,
and his never-to-be-equalled touches of Irish humour and
merriment. It can never be questioned that he was the truest
painter of Irish character that ever lived. There was no
trait to be found throughout its extensive range, from the accomplished
gentleman to the unlettered peasant, that he was
not equally master of, and which he did not depict with equal
spirit and vividness; and this always in such a way as to
make us pleased with the picture of ourselves, and acknowledge
its truth, while we laughed at its strange and often ludicrous
peculiarities. There was nothing in Jack Johnstone’s
personation that Irishmen would ever feel ashamed of, or that
they would not willingly allow to go forth to the world at
large as faithful delineations of their eccentricities and faults,
as well as of their drolleries and virtues; and hence not only
is the memory of this genuine Irish comedian honoured by
those of the last generation, who were his cotemporaries, but
his reputation as an actor has even descended with lustre to
our own times. So should it for ever live; and in this desire
of contributing our humble assistance towards perpetuating
his memory, we are induced to present our readers with a
short biographical notice of his career, which we are sure will
not be displeasing to the young, while it will hardly fail to revive
joyous recollections of happy days in the minds of our
readers of more advanced years.

Mr John Henry Johnstone was born at Tipperary in 1750,
and was the son of a small but respectable farmer, having a
large family. At the early age of 18 he enlisted into a regiment
of Irish dragoons, then stationed at Clonmel, commanded
by Colonel Brown. Being smitten with the charms of a neighbouring
farmer’s daughter, Johnstone used to scale the barrack-wall
after his comrades had retired to their quarters, for
the purpose of serenading his mistress, having a remarkably
sweet and flexible voice. He always returned, however, and
was ready at parade the following morning. He was much
esteemed throughout the regiment for a native lively turn of
mind, and peculiarly companionable qualities. Two of his
comrades (who had found out the secret of his nocturnal visitations)
scaled the wall after him, and discovered him on his
knee singing a plaintive Irish ditty beneath the window of his
inamorata. They instantly returned to quarters, and were
quickly followed by Johnstone. The serjeant of the company
to which he belonged eventually became acquainted with the
circumstance, but never apprised the colonel of the fact.
Shortly after, Colonel Brown had a party of particular friends
dining with him, whom he was most anxious to entertain: he
inquired what soldier throughout the regiment had the best
voice, and the palm of merit was awarded by the serjeant-major
to Johnstone. The colonel sent for him, and he attended
the summons, overwhelmed with apprehension that his
absence from quarters had reached his commander’s ears. He
was soon relieved, however, on this point, and attended the
party at the time appointed. The first song he sang was a
hunting one, which obtained much applause, although he laboured
under great trepidation. The colonel said that he had
heard he excelled in Irish melodies, and bade Johnstone sing
one of his favourite love songs. His embarrassment increased
at this order; but after taking some refreshment, he sang the
identical ditty with which he had so often serenaded his mistress,
in such a style of pathos, feeling, and taste, as perfectly
enraptured his auditors. Having completely regained his self-possession,
he delighted the company with several other songs,
which all received unqualified approbation.

The next day Colonel Brown sent for him and sounded his
inclination for the stage. Johnstone expressed his wishes favourably
on the point, but hinted the extreme improbability
of his success, from want of experience and musical knowledge.
The colonel overcame his objections, and granted him his discharge,
with a highly recommendatory letter to his particular
friend Mr Ryder, then manager of the Dublin theatre, who
engaged Johnstone at two guineas a-week for three years,
which, after his first appearance in Lionel, was immediately
raised to four (a high salary at that time in Dublin). His
fame as a vocalist gathered like a snow-ball, and he performed
the whole range of young singing lovers with pre-eminent eclat.

Our hero next formed a matrimonial alliance with a Miss
Poitier, daughter of Colonel Poitier, who had then the command
of the military depôt at Kilmainham gaol. This lady
being highly accomplished, and possessing a profound knowledge
of music, imputed to her husband the secrets of the
science, and made him a finished singer.

Macklin having the highest opinion of Johnstone’s talent, advised
him to try the metropolitan boards, and wrote a letter to
Mr Thomas Harris, of Covent-garden, who, on the arrival of
Johnstone and his wife, immediately engaged them for three
years, at a weekly salary of £14, £16, and £18. Johnstone
made his first appearance in London on the 3d October, 1783, in
his old character of Lionel, and made a complete hit, fully sustaining
the ten years’ reputation he had acquired on the Dublin
stage. After remaining several years at Covent-garden, and
finding his voice not improving with time, he formed the admirable
policy of taking to Irish parts, which were then but very
inadequately filled. His success was beyond example; his
native humour, rich brogue, and fine voice for Irish ditties,
carried all before him. In fact, he was the only actor who
could personate with the utmost effect both the patrician and
plebeian Irishman. He next performed at the Haymarket,
being one of those who remonstrated with the proprietors of
Covent-garden in 1801, against their new regulations. In
1803, he visited his friends in Dublin, where martial law being
then in force, on account of Emmett’s rebellion, the company
performed in the day-time. On his return to London his wife
died, and he afterwards married Miss Boulton, the daughter of
a wine-merchant, by whom he had Mrs Wallack, who with
her children succeeded to the bulk of his large property. In the
records of the stage no actor ever approached Johnstone in
Irish characters. Sir Lucius O’Trigger, Callaghan O’Brallaghan,
Major O’Flaherty, Teague, Tully (the Irish gardener),
and Dennis Brulgruddery, were pourtrayed by him in
the most exquisite colours. In fact, they stood alone for felicity
of nature and original merit.

[Pg 40]

Mr Johnstone died in his house in Tavistock-street, Covent-garden,
on the 26th December 1829, at the advanced age of
seventy-eight years, and his remains were interred in a vault
under the church of St Paul, Covent-garden, near the eastern
angle of the church. His will was proved in Doctors’-Commons,
and probate granted under £12,000 personal property.
Rumour gave Johnstone the credit of being worth £40,000 or
£50,000. He left a gold snuff-box and a ring to each of his
executors, Mr George Robins and Mr O’Reilly: a ring to his
friend Mr Jobling, of the Adelphi; and a ring to Mr Dunn, the
treasurer of Drury-lane; and as the latter gentleman was a
staunch disciple of Isaac Walton, Johnstone left him all his
fishing-tackle. To a female servant who nursed him during
the last eight or ten years of his life, he bequeathed an annuity
of £50 a-year. The remainder, with the exception of a legacy
of £500 to Mrs Vining, was left to the children of his daughter,
Mrs Wallack.

AMUSEMENTS—MUSIC.

In every community there must be pleasures, relaxations, and
means of agreeable excitement; and if innocent ones are not
furnished, resort will be had to criminal. Man was made to
enjoy as well as to labour; and the state of society should be
adapted to this principle of human nature. France, especially
before the revolution, has been represented as a singularly
temperate country; a fact to be explained, at least in part,
by the constitutional cheerfulness of that people, and by the
prevalence of simple and innocent gratifications, especially
among the peasantry. Men drink to excess very often to
shake off depression, or to satisfy the restless thirst for agreeable
excitement, and those motives are excluded in a cheerful
community. A gloomy state of society, in which there are
few innocent recreations, may be expected to abound in drunkenness,
if opportunities are afforded. The savage drinks to
excess because his hours of sobriety are dull and unvaried;
because, in losing the consciousness of his condition and his
existence, he loses little which he wishes to retain. The labouring
classes are most exposed to intemperance, because they
have at present few other pleasurable excitements. A man
who, after toil, has resources of blameless recreation, is less
tempted than other men to seek self-oblivion. He has too
many of the pleasures of a man to take up with those of a
brute. Thus the encouragement of simple, innocent enjoyments,
is an important means of temperance.

These remarks show the importance of encouraging the
efforts which have commenced among us, for spreading the
accomplishment of music through our whole community. It
is now proposed that this shall be made a regular branch in
our schools; and every friend of the people must wish success
to the experiment. I am not now called to speak of all the
good influences of music, particularly of the strength which it
may and ought to give to the religious sentiment, and to all
pure and generous emotions. Regarded merely as a refined
pleasure, it has a favourable bearing on public morals. Let
taste and skill in this beautiful art be spread among us, and
every family will have a new resource. Home will gain a new
attraction. Social intercourse will be more cheerful, and an
innocent public amusement will be furnished to the community.
Public amusements, bringing multitudes together to
kindle with one emotion, to share the same innocent joy, have
a humanizing influence; and among these bonds of society perhaps
no one produces so much unmixed good as music. What
a fulness of enjoyment has our Creator placed within our
reach, by surrounding us with an atmosphere which may be
shaped into sweet sounds! And yet this goodness is almost
lost upon us, through want of culture of the organ by which
this provision is to be enjoyed.—Dr Channing’s Address on
Temperance.

Churchyards.—Formerly (says Captain Grose) few persons
chose to be buried on the north side of a church; the
original reason was this: in the times when the Roman Catholic
religion prevailed, it was customary, on seeing the tombstone
or grave of a friend or acquaintance, to put up a prayer
for their soul, which was held to be very efficacious. As the
common entrance into most churches was either at the west
end or on the south side of the church, persons buried on the
north side escaped the notice of their friends, and thereby lost
the benefit of their prayers. This becoming a kind of refuse
spot, only very poor, or persons guilty of some offence, were
buried there: persons who, actuated by lunacy, had destroyed
themselves, were buried on this side, and sometimes out of the
east and west directions of the other graves. This is said to
be alluded to in Hamlet, where he bids the grave-digger cut
Ophelia’s grave straight. The same was observed with respect
to persons who were executed. Observe the yew-tree;
in many churchyards they are of a prodigious size. Some
have supposed that yew-trees were planted in churchyards in
order to supply the parish with bow staves, but more probably
it was from the yew being an evergreen, and conveying an
allusion to the immortality of the soul, and therefore considered
as a funereal plant. This reason is likewise given for
the use of rosemary and rue; but, probably, these were carried
to prevent any infection from the open grave on a near
approach to the coffin.

Romantic Marriage.—William, the second Viscount Ashbrook,
when very young, and residing with his family in the
county of Kilkenny, was captivated with the beauty of an
Irish peasant girl, named Elizabeth Ridge, who was in the
habit of punting a ferry-boat across a stream in the vicinity
of Castle Durrow. The love-sick youth took every opportunity
of enjoying the society of the fascinating water-nymph,
but carefully concealed his passion from his parents. He
held at that time an ensign’s commission in a regiment which
was quartered in the neighbourhood, but he was as yet too
young to think of matrimony; nor was the object of his love
either old enough, or sufficiently educated, to become his wife.
She had been reared among the Irish peasants, had been unused
to shoes or stockings, was scarcely acquainted with the
English language, and was wholly uninformed in matters of
the world; yet the young ensign fancied, that, notwithstanding
these disadvantages, he could perceive in her an aptitude
of mind, and soundness of intellect, united with great sweetness
of temper, in addition to her personal attractions. Under
these circumstances, he conceived the romantic idea of
placing her under the superintendence of some respectable
female, capable of rendering her, through the influence of
education, a suitable associate. The lovely ferry-girl was
accordingly removed to the house of a lady, where our hero,
who had meantime been promoted to the rank of captain, occasionally
visited her, and marked from time to time, with all
the enthusiasm of a romantic lover, her rapid progress in various
polite accomplishments. Elizabeth Ridge remained in
this situation for three years, when the lapse of time, as well
as some domestic occurrences, enabled Captain Flower, in
1766, to reap the reward of his constancy and honourable
conduct. And thus the blushing daughter of the Emerald
Isle became ultimately the Viscountess Ashbrook, and lady of
that castle beneath whose walls her early charms had, like
the rays of the rising sun, beamed for a time unnoticed, only
to become more effulgent and more admired. By the Viscount
she had several sons and daughters; among the former,
the present Viscount; among the latter, the mother of the
present Lady Wetherell.

The Irish in the reign of Queen Elizabeth are represented
by many as quite ignorant and barbarous. Read the letters
of their chiefs to the Spaniards in the Pacata Hibernia, and
judge for yourself.—Dr Browne, F.T.C.D.

Irish Volubility.—A conversation with a young Irishman,
of good natural abilities (and among no race of men are
those abilities more general), is like a forest walk; in which,
while you are delighted with the healthy fresh air and the
green unbroken turf, you must stop at every twentieth step
to extricate yourself from a briar. You acknowledge that
you have been amused, but that you rest willingly, and that
you would rather not take the same walk on the morrow.—Landor.

No man is free from fear; he is not who says he never feels
it; he fears to be thought a coward; and, whether we tremble
before a sword or a supposition, it is alike fear!

The power of enjoying the harmless and reasonable pleasures
of life is not only essential to a man’s happiness, but an
indication of several valuable qualities, both of the heart and
the head, which can hardly exist without it.

Printed and Published every Saturday by Gunn and Cameron, at the Office
of the General Advertiser. No 6. Church Lane, College Green, Dublin.—Agents:—London:
R. Groombridge, Panyer Alley, Paternoster Row,
Manchester: Simms and Dinham, Exchange Street, Liverpool: J.
Davies, North John Street, Birmingham: J. Drake, Bristol: M.
Bingham, Broad Street, Edinburgh: Fraser and Crawford, George
Street, Glasgow: David Robertson, Trongate.

Transcribers’ Note

Erratic placement of apostrophes [hav’nt, havn’t, does’nt] as in the original