in his broken English was more entertaining than any reproduction I can give.
To illustrate the proverbial grumbling of the average bucolic swain, he told a good anecdote which he heard Francis Deak, the Hungarian patriot statesman, tell.
Deak, whose nobility of soul would allow him to accept of no return for his splendid and disinterested services to his country, used occasionally to spend a few weeks' pleasant retirement from the cares of politics, at the farm of a well-to-do brother-in-law in the country.
On his arrival, on one occasion, he found his host and relative in a very bad humour—brow clouded, manner abrupt and unamiable; and on asking what was the matter, his query elicited a querulous burst of bewailing over his wretched bad fortune.
"Why, what's the matter?" queried the statesman; "potatoes failed?"
"Oh, no; potatoes are a good crop."
"Vines blighted, then?"
"No; the vineyards have borne well."
"Wheat a failure?"
"No; wheat and corn have given an abundant harvest."
"Well, what in the world are you bemoaning? Potatoes, vines, corn, wheat all excellent. What can have gone wrong? Are the cattle dying?"
"No, no!" responded the rich Hungarian; "but I tried a half acre of poppy this year, and it has turned out a dead failure."
