The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 10, No. 285, December 1, 1827

IRISH TWINS

The Miss Mac Taafs were both on the ground, and both standing enough in profile, to give Lord Arranmore a full and perfect view of their figure, without being seen by them. His first opinion was, that they were utterly unchanged; and that like the dried specimens of natural history, they had bidden defiance to time. Tall, stately, and erect, their weather-beaten countenance and strongly marked features were neither faded nor fallen in. The deep red hue of a frosty and vigorous senility still coloured their unwrinkled faces. Their hair, well powdered and pomatumed, was drawn up by the roots from their high foreheads, over their lofty "systems;" and their long, lank necks rose like towers above their projecting busts; which, with their straight, sticky, tight-laced waists, terminating in the artificial rotundity of a half-dress bell-hoop, gave them the proportions of an hour-glass. They wore grey camlet riding habits, with large black Birmingham buttons (to mark the slight mourning for their deceased brother-in-law): while petticoats, fastened as pins did or did not their office, shewed more of the quilted marseilles and stuff beneath, than the precision of the toilet required: both of which, from their contact with the water of the bog, merited the epithet of "Slappersallagh," bestowed on their wearers by Terence O'Brien. Their habit-shirts, chitterlings, and cravats, though trimmed with Trawlee lace, seemed by their colour to evince that yellow starch, put out of fashion by the ruff of the murderous Mrs. Turner in England, was still to be had in Ireland. Their large, broad silver watches, pendant from their girdle by massy steel chains, showed that their owners took as little account of time as time had taken of them. "Worn for show, not use," they were still without those hands, which it had been in the contemplation of the Miss Mac Taafs to have replaced by the first opportunity, for the last five years. High-crowned black-beaver hats, with two stiff, upright, black feathers, that seemed to bridle like their wearers, and a large buckle and band, completed the costume of these venerable specimens of human architecture: the tout ensemble recalling to the nephew the very figures and dresses which had struck him with admiration and awe when first brought in from the Isles of Arran by his foster mother, to pay his duty to his aunts, and ask their blessing, eighteen years before. The Miss Mac Taafs, in their sixty-first year, (for they were twins,) might have sunk with safety ten or twelve years of their age. Their minds and persons were composed of that fibre which constitutes nature's veriest huckaback. Impressions fell lightly on both; and years and feelings alike left them unworn and uninjured.—The O'Briens, and the O'Flahertys, by Lady Morgan.

AUTUMN

BY JOHN CLARE

 
Me it delights, in mellow Autumn tide,
To mark the pleasaunce that mine eye surrounds:
The forest-trees like coloured posies pied:
The upland's mealy grey, and russet grounds;
Seeking for joy, where joyaunce most abounds;
Not found, I ween, in courts and halls of pride,
Where folly feeds, or flattery's sighs and sounds,
And with sick heart, but seemeth to be merry:
True pleasaunce is with humble food supplied;
Like shepherd swain, who plucks the brambleberry.
With savoury appetite, from hedge-row briars,
Then drops content on molehills' sunny side;
Proving, thereby, low joys and small desires
Are easiest fed, and soonest satisfied.
 

The Amulet.

THE GATHERER

"I am but a Gatherer and disposer of other men's stuff,"—Wotton.

HOLY WATER

A friend of mine (says Mr. Lambert, in his Travels,) was once present at the house of a French lady in Canada, when a violent thunder storm commenced. The shutters were immediately closed, and the room darkened. The lady of the house, not willing to leave the safety of herself and company to chance, began to search her closets for the bottle of holy water, which, by a sudden flash of lightning, she fortunately found. The bottle was uncorked, and its contents immediately sprinkled over the ladies and gentlemen. It was a most dreadful storm, and lasted a considerable time; she therefore redoubled her sprinklings and benedictions at every clap of thunder or flash of lightning. At length the storm abated, and the party were providentially saved from its effects; which the good lady attributed solely to the precious water. But when the shutters were opened, and the light admitted, the company found, to the destruction of their white gowns and muslin handkerchiefs; their coats, waistcoats, and breeches, that instead of holy water, the pious lady had sprinkled them with ink. W.P.

QUID PRO QUO

Louis XVIII. asked the Duke of Wellington familiarly, how old he was; the latter replied, "Sire, I was born in the year 1768." "And so was Buonaparte," rejoined the king; "Providence owed us this compensation." C.F.E.

NAUTICAL EPITAPHS

In the west part of Fife, in the churchyard of the village of Torryburn, part of an epitaph remains, which deserves notice. A part was very absurdly erased by the owner of the burying ground, to make way for the names of some of his kindred. The whole epitaph formerly stood thus:

 
At anchor now, in Death's dark road,
Rides honest Captain Hill,
Who served his king, and feared his God,
With upright heart and will:
In social life, sincere and just,
To vice of no kind given;
So that his better part, we trust,
Hath made the Port of Heaven.
 

Another, in the parish of Duffus (Morayshire), runs thus:

 
Though Eolus' blasts and Neptune's waves have toss'd me to and
fro,
Yet now, at last, by Heaven's decree, I harbour here below;
Where at anchor I do lie, with others of our fleet,
Till the last trump do raise us up our Admiral Christ to meet.
 

CHARLES STUART.

ON A DRUNKEN COBBLER

 
Enclosed within this narrow stall,
Lies one who was a friend to awl;
He saved bad souls from getting worse,
But d–n'd his own without remorse;
And tho' a drunken life he pass'd,
Yet say'd his soul, by mending at the last!
 

E.L.I.

WATER GRUEL

In an old paper, dated Friday, 13th Aug. 1695, is the following curious advertisement:—

"At the marine coffee-house, in Birchin-lane, is water-gruel to be sold every morning from six till eleven of the clock. 'Tis not yet thoroughly known; but there comes such company as drinks usually four or five gallons in a morning." G.S.

A clergyman being on the road to his country living, (to which he pays an annual visit,) was stopped by a friend, who asked him where he could be going so far from town,—"Like other people," replied he, "to my parish." C.F.E.

THE LETTER C

Curious coincidences respecting the letter C, as connected with the lamented Princess Charlotte.

Her mother's name was Caroline, her own name was Charlotte; that of her consort Coburg; she was married at Carlton house; her town residence was at Camelford house, the late owner of which Lord Camelford, was untimely killed in a duel; her country residence, Claremont, not long ago the property of Lord Clive, who ended his days by suicide; she died in Childbed, the name of her accoucheur being Croft. C.F.E.

GIVING AND TAKING

(From the French.)

 
"I never give a kiss (says Prue)
To naughty man, for I abhor it."
She will not give a kiss, 'tis true;
She'll take one though, and thank you for it.
 

GEORGE SAVILLE CAREY

This amiable man told me that his affecting song, "When my money was gone," &c. was suggested by the real story of a sailor, who came to beg money while Carey was breakfasting, with an open window, at the beautiful inn at Stoney Cross, in the New Forest.

He also declared that his father, Henry Carey, wrote the song of "God save the King," in the house in Hatton-Garden, which has a stone bracket, a few doors from the Police-office.

[In No. 282 of The MIRROR, we omitted our acknowledgment to a well-executed illustrative work (now in course of publication), intitled "London in the Nineteenth Century," of which our artist availed himself for his View of Hanover Terrace, Regent's Park. The drawing in the above work is by Mr. T.H. Shepherd; and the literary department (of which we did not avail ourselves) is by Mr. Elmes, author of "the Life of Sir Christopher Wren."]