A .1314.71.01, of Shamrocks ; being a Co/tethers of Irish
Tales and Sketches. By E. Owens Blackburne. (Newman and Co.)—No more lively volume of Irish tales then this has heon pualished for many years. It bears the impress of true fidelity to the Irish character, and thorough knowledge of lreland, and is as full of Irish humour as it is of the details and facts of Irish life. :Nothing but thorough knowledge, as well as insight, for instance, could have given us such a conversation as this, betweeu the squire's daughter in an irish village and one of the tenantry who applies to her for a dispensary- ticket :—
"Bridget is a power in Duntobbor; unlike the generality of women of her class in Ireland, she has no respect for her superiors, and the priest, the doctor, and even Miss Honor herself, not unfrequently re- -ceive from her what she graphically calls 'the linth an' broth av her tongue.' Her audacity is proverbial, and her powers of rhetoric would Ell a Billingsgate fish-wife with envy. Secretly, Miss Honor is rather afraid of Bridget, and in an abject and cowardly manner writes down whatever symptoms the virago may think fit to detail. Other patients may be managed ; Bridget Morris is unmanageable. 'it's not for meself I want the ticket, Miss Plonera she says, in reply to that young
lady's interrogations,it's for Con, the ornadhawn I'm sorry to hoar that, returns Miss. Honor, with whom simple, good-natured, -credulous Con is a favourite,-1 Keep yor pity for them that wants it,' retorts the virago irascibly ; Con eatched cowld be his own galli- vantini Will yell write the ticket, Miss Honor ?'—' Certainly, Bridget ; what ans 1 to say P' asks Miss Honor, in a cowardly tone; how old is 'Con ?'—' Fifty, or thereabouts,' responds Bridget, in an off-hand manner.—' Fifty,' repeats Miss Honour, as she writes.—' Or there- ' abouts,' amends Bridget emphatically, and adding warningly, Mind, Miss Honor, Tom Blake can read writina an' av yeh don't put down
exact what yer towld, tell the doethor an yeh—so put down the a' thereabouts," for Con might be sixty for all 1 know !' With a mirthful twinkle in her eye, Miss Honor obeys, ` Now road it, miss,' demands Bridget. Ago—fifty, or thereabouts ; might be sixty for all his wife knows,' gravely reads Miss Honor. 'Ooh! ehure, that's splinel id ! the doothor can't make no mistake now.'—' /Int what is the matter with • Con, Bridget P'—' I'm cotnin' t' that, Miss Honor, I'm combs' t' that. First an' foremost he has u, quer:mese in his head, an' a rumblin' an' rearlita in his inside ; an' his brathinas short, miss, for all the wurruld like an (add bells athout a snout. Put that all down miss, for Con said himself that's exactly how he felt, an' sure lie ought t' know, miss, bein' a bale-maker:: Afraid to trust herself to make an answer, Miss Honor writes in silence ; as she pauses, Bridget asks-^-
4 Is that all down, miss Yes ; don't you think it is enough to say la _a Antal, Miss Honor, that's not the half av it ! Say his skin's as hot as a biled piatee.'—' Skin burning,' writes Miss Honor. is that ilone, miss F'—'Yes—skin burtengas-' Put like a hot piatee !' says Bridget, peremptorily ; shure how's the doothor t' know av yeh don't tell him P'—' There's no .more room on the ticket, Bridget.'—' Thim that med thim ought t: make then bigger thin !' retorts Bridget, adding, 4 Yeb'll come up an see Con, Miss Honor Certainly, after you come and tell me if the doctor says I may.' a
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