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“Bless me! this friendship is a foolish act;
You didn't know with the parish I contract:
A TALK ABOUT TITLES.-FRENEAU.
ONE Sabbath-day morning, said Sampson to Sue, “ I have thought and have thought that a TITLE will do ; Believe me, my dear, it is sweeter than syrup To taste of a title, as cooked up in Europe; Your ladyship’here, and your ladyship’ there, Sir knight,' and your grace,' and his worship the mayor !' But here, we are nothing but vulgar all over; The wife of a cobbler scarce thinks
above her. What a country is this, where madam and miss Is the highest address from each vulgar-born cur, And I-even I-am but MISTER and sir ! Your EQUAL-RIGHT gentry I ne'er could abide; That all are born equal, by me is denied, And Barlow and Paine shall preach it in vain. Look even at brutes, and you 'll see it confest That some are intended to manage the rest. Yon dog that so stately along the street stalks, You may know he's well-born from the way that he walks : Not a better-born whelp ever snapped at his foes ; All he wants is a GLASS TO BE STUCK ON HIS NOSE ; And then, my dear Sue, between me and you, He would look like the gemman whose name I forget, Who lives in a castle, and never pays debt.”
“ My dear," answered Susan, “ 'tis said, in reproach, That
you climb like a bear when you get in a coach : Now, your nobles that spring from the nobles of old, Your earls and your knights, and your barons so bold,
From nature inherit so handsome an air,
that have cobbled, and I that have spun,
“ No matter," said Sampson, “a coach shall be bought;
Tho' the low-born may chatter, I care not a groat:
Stranger. I have lost my way, good friend; can you assist me in finding it?
O Callaghan. Assist you in finding it, sir ? ay, by my faith and troth, and that I will, if it was to the world's end, and further too.
Str. I wish to return by the shortest route to the Black Rock.
O’Cal. Indade, and you will, so plase your honor's honorand O'Callaghan's own self will show you the way, and then you can't miss it
know. Str. I would not give you so much trouble, Mr. O'Callaghan. O’Cal. It is never a trouble, so plase your honor, for an Irishman to do his duty. (Bowing.)
Str. Whither do you travel, friend?
O’Cal. To Dublin, so plase your honor-sure all the world knows that Judy O'Flannaghan will be married to-morrow, God willing to Pat Ryan; and Pat, you know, is my own foster-brother-because why, we had but one nurse between us, and that was my own mother ; but she died one day—the Lord rest her swate soul! and left me an orphan, for
my father married again, and his new wife was the divil's own child, and did nothing but bate me from morning till night. Och, why did I not die before I was born to see that day! for by St. Patrick, the woman's heart was as cold as a hailstone.
Str. But what reason could she have for treating you so unmercifully, Mr. O'Callaghan?
O’Cal. Ah, your honor, and sure enough there are always reasons as plenty as pratees for being hard-hearted. And I was no bigger than a dumpling at the time, so I could not help myself, and my father did not care to help me, and so I hopped the twig, and parted old Nick's darling; och, may the divil find her wherever she goes. But here I am alive and lapeing, and going to see Pat married; and faith to do him justice, he's as honest a lad as any within ten miles of us,
and no disparagement neither; and I love Pat, and I love all his family; ay, by my shoul do I, every mother's skin of them--and by the same token, I have travelled many a long mile to be present at his wedding. Str. Your miles in Ireland are much longer than ours,
O’Cal. Indade, and you may believe that, your honor, because why, St. Patrick measured them in his coach, you know. Och, by the powers ! the time has been--but, 'tis no matter, not a single copper at all at all now belongs to the family—but as I was saying, the day has been, ay, by my troth, and the night too, when the O'Callaghans, good luck to them, held their heads up as high as the best; and though I have not a rod of land belonging to me, but what I hire, I love my country, and would halve my last pratee with any poor crea. ture that has none.
Str. Pray, how does the bride appear, Mr. O'Callaghan?
O‘Cal. Och, by my shoul, your honor, she's a nate article ; and then she will be rigged out as gay as a lark and as fine as a peacock; because why, she has a great lady for her god. motber, long life and success to her, who has given Judy two milch cows, and fire pounds in hard money; and Pat has taken as dacent apartments as any in Dublin--a pate comely parlor as you'd wish to sec, just six fate under ground, with a nice beautiful ladder to go down-and all so complate and gentale--and comfortable, as a body may say.
Str. Nothing like comfort, Mr. O'Callaghan.
O Cal. Faith, and you may say that your honor. (Rubbing his hands.) Comfort, is comfort, says I to Mrs. O'Callaghan, when we were all seated so cleverly around a great big turf fire, as merry as grigs, with the dear little grunters snoring so swately in the corner, defying wind and weather, with a dry thatch, and a sound conscience to go to sleep upon.
Str. A good conscience makes a soft pillow.
O’Cal. Och, jewel, sure it is not the best beds that make the best slapers; for there's Kathleen and myself can sleep like two great big tops, and our bed is none of the softest-because why, we slape on the ground, and have no bed at all at all. Str. It is a pity my honest fellow, that
should want one. There-giving him a guinea), good-by, Mr. O'Callaghan.
O’Cal. I'll drink your honor's health, that I will; and may God and the blessed Virgin bless you and yours, as long as grass grows and water runs.
THE SUN-BURNT MAN.-STAHL.
An affidavit was made by Augustus Dormouse yesterday afternoon, against Clarence Fitz-Butter, for burning him with a burning-glass.
Augustus Dormouse, being sworn by the Recorder, deposed: Time of the alleged offence was about two o'clock. P. M., on Tuesday afternoon. Place, shade of a tree, on the Neutral Ground. Deponent was asleep; was oppressed by the sultriness of the weather, and wished for a little repose.
Was quite sound asleep when accused came across him.
Felt something sting him behind on the back, between the shoulders. Had no jacket on. Shirt slightly torn. Pain increased till it felt like a coal of fire. Screamed, and awoke. Saw accused draw back a burning-glass, and slip it in his pocket.
Cross-examined: Does not consider himself a vagrant. Is of a poetical temperament, and likes the look of green things. Has no particular residence. Does small chores for a living. Native of Indiana——of highly respectable family.
Clarence Fitz-Butter, a quizzical-looking vagabond, who was much better dressed than the plaintiff, and carried several stumps of cigars in his pockets, very offensive to the smell, and an incongruous assortment of burning, mostly spectacle, glasses, here begged the Recorder to allow him to explain.
The Recorder granted the request of the prisoner.
“ I am a pliilosopher," observed Fitz-Butter, “and am peculiarly inclined to the investigation of light. I have perused the works of Herschel, Davy, Daguerre, Faraday and Draper. My vest-pocket is a laboratory. In it I constantly keep a supply of sun-glasses. I make it a point to draw a focus as often as possible. I wish not to allow a ray to pass me. Every beam I subject to my glass. Sir, this is necessary with my theory of nature. I am of the opinion that everything in nature is combustible, or it is not combustible. How simple an arrangement! how concise a method! Combustible--non combustible. With my illuminated foci, I explore the hidden arcana of nature. I carry the torch into her darkest labyrinths. I apply a match to her, and she reports or she does not report. I have, in my busy and devoted life, accumulated a great store of facts. I will give your honor a list of the combustible objects in nature--a list"-