“Well, I’ve lived in London just one week,” said I, “and my tastes are rather expensive. Just before I left Manchester a very experienced journalist told me I should be making a thousand pounds a year at the end of eighteen months; another, equally experienced, declared I should never make more than six pounds a week. I hope the second one won’t prove correct.”
It was in the middle of 1901 that I wrote to Mr Shaw about the particular brand of socialism from which at 12that time I was suffering. It must have been a very raw and crude brand, and my letter to Bernard Shaw must have amused him considerably. Certainly his reply was most diverting. Here it is:
I recounted to her the events of the morning. She listened attentively.
The Aga Kaga frowned. "Your manner—"
The Bishop glanced at the bowed head, cocked hind foot and listless tail: “Sof’nin’ of the brain, Bud,” smiled the Bishop; “they say when old folks begin to take it they jus’ go to sleep while settin’ up talkin’. Now, a horse, Bud,” he said, striking an attitude for a discussion on his favorite topic, “a horse is like a man—he must have some meanness or he c’u’dn’t live, an’ some goodness or nobody else c’u’d live. But git in, Bud, and let’s go along to meetin’—’pears like it’s gettin’ late.”
hurling himself across the field, crouched on the neck of his somewhat weedy mount, his stick swung like a lance—a pretty enough sight, for he was young and supple, and light in the saddle.
Last night a proud page came to me;
"I really had forgotten," exclaimed the poor marquis, turning very red, "I'm glad you reminded me, my dear."
Many of those included in the following selection were narrated by the peasants, either in Irish, or in the expressive Irish-English, which still retains enough of the ancient idiom to make the language impressively touching and picturesque. The ancient charms which have come down by tradition from a remote antiquity are peculiarly interesting from their deep human pathos, blended with the sublime trust in the Divine invisible power, so characteristic of the Irish temperament in all ages. A faith that believes implicitly, trusts devoutly, and hopes infinitely; when the soul in its sorrow turns to heaven for the aid which cannot be found on earth, or given by earthly hands. The following charms from the Irish express much of this mingled spirit of faith and hope:—
There was no response, and she turned to see George Coventry regarding her with serious eyes.
Dicky did not go back to the Hornet, but went ashore and to an inn, where, calling for a private room, he sat and tried to look the thing in the face like a man; but he couldn't. His profession gone, his mother's heart broken, separated from Polly, no longer Captain Carew, commanding his Majesty's ship Hornet, but plain Dicky Carew commanding nothing at all.
“He’s living there,” I answered bluntly.详情 ➢
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