  St. Patrick's Day The season of spring gives us lamb and violets, salmon and patron saints. St. David and St. Patrick are commemorated in March, St. George only waits until April. (Of this last-named saint a very careful notice has for some time been in preparation, to include six autobiographical anecdotes of his boyish days, a selection from his unpublished correspondence with his laundress, and an authentic portrait of his chief antagonist—the Dragon.) Sunday at the Zoo.—"Excuse me, sorr; but can ye direct me to the goin' out intrance?" St. Patrick's Day! the heart leaps up with uncontrolled delight, and a flood of popular airs comes rushing o'er the brain. What reminiscences of by-gone days invade the territory of the mind! All the population of Dublin, headed by the Lord-Lieutenant and Ulster King-at-Arms, abroad at daybreak, looking for four-leaved shamrocks in the Phoenix Park, and singing Moore's Melodies in unison; an agreeable mixture of whiskey and water provided in unlimited quantities in every market town in Ireland, the expense of the water This leaning of the Saint to potheen is viewed, however, by one section of the community with manifest displeasure—the Temperance and Teetotal Societies—who remain indoors the whole of the day with the blinds closely drawn down and straw in front of their houses, and employ paid emissaries to distribute tracts amongst their excitable countrymen. Irish porter (thrusting his head into a compartment as the train stops at small, dingy, ill-lit country station). "Is thur annybody there for here?" The notorious fact that St. Patrick lived to be considerably more than a hundred, cut a wisdom tooth at ninety-eight, never had a day's illness in his life, was possessed of funded property, and could see to read without spectacles until within six weeks of his untimely end (caused by a fall from a cherry tree), speaks libraries for the tonic and salubrious qualities of that stimulating spirit, which has ever since his day been known and highly appreciated under the name of "L.L.," or Long Livers' Whiskey. A curious custom is kept up by the Knights of the Order of St. Patrick (founded by King Brian Boroo the Fourteenth) on the morning of this day, the origin of which is lost among the wilds of Connemara. Before it is light the Knights all go up in their robes and shamrocks, one by one, into the belfry of the Cathedral, and toll the great bell one hundred and twenty-three times, the exact number of years to which the Saint, in forgetfulness of Sir George Cornwall Lewis and the Editor of Notes and Queries, is said to have attained. Grandiloquence.—Captain of schooner. "What 'a' you got there, Pat?" Pat (who has been laying in some firewood and potatoes). "Timber and fruit, yer honour!!" St. Patrick's tastes were athletic. He had a wart on his forehead, and a cousin in the militia; and displayed a profound acquaintance with the laws of short whist, then in its infancy. He was an early riser, a deep thinker, and a careless dresser, and foresaw, with an eagle glance, the gradual development of the railway system, while his declining years were soothed by the devoted attentions of some of the oldest families in Ireland. New Bulls v. Old Cows.—At the Thames Police Court Mr. Benson condemned the owner and vendor of a quantity of old Irish cow beef to penalties for selling meat unfit for human consumption. This should be a warning to all whom it may concern, that though new Irish bulls may be introduced freely, and even be relished in this country, there is no toleration for old Irish cows on this side St. George's Channel. Irish Driver. "Yes, yer 'onner, it's a nasty bit o'road, it is, an' it's likely ye are to 'ave a fall out, if ye aren't drivin' careful!" "Circumstantial."—Counsel for the Prisoner. "And you tell me, sir, you saw that blind, helpless fiddler kick the prosecutor on the head along with his other assailants?" Witness. "I did, surr! In the thick o' the shindy, I seen the ould vagabone a-feelin' round an' round that honest poor man down on the flewer till he'd found a vacancy, whin he ups wid his fut an' lits fly, the divil's own shoe-full clane into the centre ov't!!!" "Hope springs eternal——."—Irish Landlord (in distressed district, who had paid compensation for not receiving his rents, and was sinking his capital in draining-works, and otherwise "disturbing" his tenants). "Well, Pat, I hope, with a good harvest, we shall get on without all this 'relief' next season——" Pat (an optimist). "Och, plaze heaven, yer honour, we'll have another bad year yet!!" When you are about it.—Magister Familias (parting with his butler). "Here is the letter, Flanagan. I can conscientiously say you are honest and attentive, but I should have to stretch a point if I were to say you are sober." Mr. Flanagan. "Thank you, sor. But when you are afther strritchin' a point, sor, wouldn't you, plase, sthritch it a little further, and say I'm aften sober!!" Levelling up.—Subaltern (just arrived by rail). "How much to the barracks?" Car-driver. "Ah, shure, thin, captin, the manest ov 'em gives me t'ree and sixpence!" "So this is your native place, Pat?" "Yes, your riverence—that is, par-r-t of the toime!" "A Private View."—Pat. "What d'ye think of the Home Rule Bill, Murphy?" Murphy (puzzled). "Begorra, if it means staying at home with the ould woman every blessed day, home rule won't do for me at all, at all!" |
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