She fell, as if shot; and striking her head in the fall upon a projecting part of the terrace, was mortally wounded, and expired.—­Lettere su Venezia—­Translated in the Oxford Literary Gaz.

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THE ANECDOTE GALLERY.

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INDEPENDENCE

Is the word, of all others, that Irish—­men, women, and children—­least understand; and the calmness, or rather indifference, with which they submit to dependence, bitter and miserable as it is, must be a source of deep regret to all “who love the land,” or feel anxious to uphold the dignity of human kind.  Let us select a few cases from our Irish village—­such as are abundant in every neighbourhood.  Shane Thurlough, “as dacent a boy,” and Shane’s wife, as “clane-skinned a girl,” as any in the world.  There is Shane, an active, handsome-looking fellow, leaning over the half-door of his cottage, kicking a hole in the wall with his brogue, and picking up all the large gravel within his reach to pelt the ducks with—­those useful Irish scavengers.  Let us speak to him.  “Good morrow, Shane!” “Och! the bright bames of heaven on ye every day! and kindly welcome, my lady—­and won’t ye step in and rest—­it’s powerful hot, and a beautiful summer, sure—­the Lord be praised!” “Thank you, Shane.  I thought you were going to cut the hayfield to-day—­if a heavy shower comes, it will be spoil’d; it has been fit for the sithe these two days.”  “Sure, it’s all owing to that thief o’ the world, Tom Parrel, my lady.  Didn’t he promise me the loan of his sithe; and, by the same token, I was to pay him for it; and depinding on that, I didn’t buy one, which I have been threatening to do for the last two years.”  “But why don’t you go to Carrick and purchase one?” “To Carrick!—­Och, ’tis a good step to Carrick, and my toes are on the ground (saving your presence,) for I depindid on Tim Jarvis to tell Andy Cappler, the brogue-maker, to do my shoes; and, bad luck to him, the spalpeen! he forgot it.”  “Where’s your pretty wife, Shane?” “She’s in all the woe o’ the world, Ma’am, dear.  And she puts the blame of it on me, though I’m not in the faut this time, any how:  the child’s taken the small pock, and she depindid on me to tell the doctor to cut it for the cow-pock, and I depindid on Kitty Cackle, the limmer, to tell the doctor’s own man, and thought she would not forget it, becase the boy’s her bachelor—­but out o’ sight out o’ mind—­the never a word she tould him about it, and the babby has got it nataral, and the woman’s in heart trouble (to say nothing o’ myself;) and it the first, and all.”  “I am very sorry, indeed, for you have got a much better wife than most men.”  “That’s a true word, my lady—­only she’s fidgetty like sometimes, and says I don’t hit the nail on the head quick enough; and she takes a dale more trouble than she need about many a thing.”