Little Journeys to the Homes of Good Men and Great
Paperback
Currently unavailable to order
ISBN10: 1154280632
ISBN13: 9781154280630
Publisher: General Books
Pages: 52
Weight: 0.33
Height: 0.22 Width: 9.01 Depth: 5.98
Language: English
ISBN13: 9781154280630
Publisher: General Books
Pages: 52
Weight: 0.33
Height: 0.22 Width: 9.01 Depth: 5.98
Language: English
Book may have numerous typos, missing text, images, or index. Purchasers can download a free scanned copy of the original book (without typos) from the publisher. 1895. Excerpt: ... OLIVER GOLDSMITH Jarvis. A few of our usual cards of compliment--that 's all. This bill from your tailor; this from your mercer; and this from the little broker in Crooked Lane. He says he has been at a great deal of trouble to get back the money you borrowed. Honeydew. But I am sure we were at a great deal of trouble in getting him to lend it. Jaevis. He has lost all patience. Honeydew. Then he has lost a good thing. Jarvis. There's that ten guineas you were sending to the poor man and his children in the Fleet. I believe that would stop his mouth for a while. Honeydew. Ay, Jarvis, but what will fill their mouths in the meantime? The Good-Natured Man. OLIVER GOLDSMITH. i. IRELAND has the same number of square miles as the State of Indiana; it also has more kindness to the acre than any other country on earth. Ireland has five million inhabitants; once it had eight. Three millions have gone away, and when one thinks of landlordism he wonders why the five million did not go, too. But the Irish are a poetic people and love the land of their fathers with a childlike love, and their hearts are all bound up in sweet memories, rooted by song and legend into nooks and curious corners, so the tendrils of affection hold them fast. Ireland is very beautiful. Its pasture lands and meadow lands, blossom-decked and water-fed, crossed and re-crossed by never-ending hedgerows, that stretch away and lose themselves in misty nothingness, are fair as a poet's dream. Birds carol in the white hawthorn and yellow furze all day long, and the fragrant summer winds that blow lazily across the fields are laden with the perfume of fairest flowers. It is like crossing the dark river called Death, to many, to think of leaving Ireland--besides that, even if they wanted to go they have n't money to buy a steerag...
