Pray let me no wat his Magisty and the Prim Ministir think of Stock Poggis’s constitution, and believe me conclusively my deer Mrs. Humphris most frendly and trully
BRIDGET JONES.
TUMULTUM IN PARVO.
THE FURLOUGH.
AN IRISH ANECDOTE.
“Time was called.”—BOXIANA.
IN the autumn of 1825, some private affairs called me into the sister kingdom; and as I did not travel, like Polyphemus, with my eye out, I gathered a few samples of Irish character, amongst which was the following incident.
I was standing one morning at the window of “mine Inn,” when my attention was attracted by a scene that took place beneath. The Belfast coach was standing at the door, and on the roof, in front, sat a solitary outside passenger, a fine young fellow in the uniform of the Connaught Rangers. Below, by the front wheel, stood an old woman, seemingly his mother, a young man, and a younger woman, sister or sweetheart; and they were all earnestly entreating the young soldier to descend from his seat on the coach.