Buchanan County bulletin. [volume] (Independence, Iowa) 1869-1891, 1874-08-21

Pursues the dark and awful swells,
Thus till the stars to roam.
And turn when. like mothers voice,
We hear the tender evening-bel
Gliding us sweetly home!
-Harriet PrescOn Spcford in Hdrper's Baznr.
IRISH SKETCHES.
From a work recently issued. il
London, entitled, "Life and unpub
lished Papers of Samuel Lover" thu
following extracts are made:
THE IRISH rosr-BoY (lss5).
In the Irish post-boy you are no
presented with the white.jacketed
si!k-hatted, top-booted, and bright
spurred gentlemen we are accustom
ed to in England, as trim as his owl
horses, and as silent, till he touches
his hat to get his fee for driving
them. The Irish post-boy, on the
contrary, is as scanty in his attire as
he is abundant in his intelligence
having always something to tell his
passenger of the localities as they
pass through, as though he took him
for book-maker who was taking
notes on the way. He fulfills a
double junction-he is guide as
well as a driver, and his humor often
lies as much in what he does as what
he says. He will commence some.
thing in this fashion:
"Do you see that house, yer honor
yonder? l suppose you know that's
MIR. d'Arey's."
ayes, l do. Mr.. darcy is very
rich, l believer"
"Well, sir, maybe he is and maybe
he isn't"
"Why, thought he was a man OF
"Well, you see, he was purity well
off, till he got howld of the proper
ty."
"Till he got it; what do you
mean?"
"Why, sir, when he was heir to
the property he had great expecta-
tions, and SO, 'on the strength of
that, you see, he got whatever money
he wanted"
"Well, and so he ought, when he
was heir to five thousand pounds a
year."
"That's true, yer honor, that's true
sir. But then you'll understand, he
was heir to five thousand pounds a
year that was spint."
"Oh, see!'
$50, when he got the property, of
course the gintleman was ruined"
"IIillo! take care you were nearly
in the ditch then"
"Never fear, sir, its that blackguard
mare that is always shyin'!-Hur-
rup."
"How close her her ears are cut"
"Yis, they are sir-oh, they're close
enough; but nothing will cure the
villain"
'Cure her! How do you mean?"
"Why, sir, persaved that when
ever she started, she always cooked
her ears up, so l cut them off, you
see, to make her lave off the trick of
of startin'; but bad luck to the vaga-
bone! she's just as bad as ever"
In a particularly dangerous part of
the road, with precipice on one side
of you, you observe the post-boy
keeps casting an enquiring glance to-
ward his vehicle"
"What's the mattcr?" you inquire,
''rather an awkward bit of road
here"
ooh it's nothin', sir; it's grand
prospect"
eyes, of going over. Why, it is
some hundred feet to the bottom.'
"Well it may be-but look at the
prospect, sir; them mountains-oh,
they're grand, sir; they beat the
world for dignity. You'd never see
their likes again, if you was to go
over twenty precipusses."
After many other tales and diff
ticulties, you reach your journeys
end, and then the post-boy, as you
have surmised, expects good graf
uity. You give him what you con-
slider to be a handsome reward of
his services, but still he is not con-
tented.
"Sure," he says, "your honor
wouldn't mind another shillin'?"
"No," you reply, 81 think l have
naid Won literally"
"But you'll consider the way l
drove you, sir?"
"Not a pleasant one by any
means"
''And the power of stories 1 told
you?"
"Somc of which l have heard be-
fore"
"Well, then give me another shil-
lin, sir, and I'll tell you somethin'
which l will undertake to say you
have never heard before"
Every good; then there's shil-
ling. Now what's the story l have
never heard?"
"Well, then, of course your honor
remembers the three miles we came
along with the cliff upon one side of
us?"
"Remember it'll shall never for
get it!''
"Well, then, you don't know, sir,
that 1 drove you them three miles
without linchpin?"
IT'S MIGHTY IMPROVIN'.
The Irish peasantry have tales of a
parabolic character-stories which,
by means of some striking action or
circumstance, set forth hearty NOR
al. On hearing such, their usual
phrase is, ooh, it is mighty improv-
in'," and that, too, is what Molly Mo-
lone, worthy washer-woman, used
to say-and say almost invariably
after hearing a sermon on Sunday.
One day, however, her clergyman,
who was not quite content with this
generality, spoke to her respecting
his discourse, and Molly suddenly be-
came what they call in Ireland a lit