Summary

Portrait of Samuel Lover Samuel Lover Handy Andy: A Tale of Irish Life…

Oh, you are the most misfortunate divil, Andy Rooney, this day in Ireland—why did I rear you at all?”
Squire O'Grady dead!” said Andy, in surprise and also with regret for his late master.
“Yis—and you've lost the mournin'—augh!”
“Oh, the poor Squire!” said Andy.
“The iligant new clothes!” grumbled Mrs. Rooney. “And then luck tumbles into your way such as man never had; without a place, or a rap to bless yourself with, you get a rich man's daughter for your wife, and you let her slip through your fingers.”
Source: Gutenberg

Portrait of Samuel Lover Samuel Lover Handy Andy: A Tale of Irish Life…

Why, sir, what merit is there in writing about feelings which any common labourer can comprehend? There's no poetry in that; true poetry lies in a higher sphere, where you have difficulty in following the flight of the poet, and possibly may not be fortunate enough to understand him—that's poetry, sir.”
“I told you I am no poet,” said Tom; “but all I know is, I have felt my heart warm to some of Edward's songs, and, by jingo, I have seen the women's eyes glisten, and their cheeks flush or grow pale, as they have heard them—and that's poetry enough for me.”
Source: Gutenberg

Portrait of Samuel Lover Samuel Lover Handy Andy: A Tale of Irish Life…

Literature is a bad trade, my dear Tom!—'tis an ungrateful world—men of the highest aspirations may lie in gaol for all the world cares; not that you come within the pale of the worthless ones; this is good-natured of you to come and see a friend in trouble. You deserve, my dear Tom, that you should have been uppermost in my thoughts; for here is a note I have just written to you, enclosing a copy of verses to you on your marriage—in short, it is an epithalamium.”
“That's what I told you, sir,” said Goggins to Tom.
Source: Gutenberg

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