  A Few Irish Stories IF you enter Ireland by the north, as I did, you will not hear really satisfying Irish dialect until you reach Dublin. The dialect in the north is very like Scotch, yet if it were set down absolutely phonetically it would be neither Scotch nor Irish to the average reader, but a new and hard dialect, and he would promptly skip the story that was clothed in this strange dress. But in Dublin one hears two kinds of speech, the most rolling, full and satisfying dialect and also the most perfect English to be found in the British Isles. It is a delight to hear one's mother tongue spoken with such careless precision, with just the suspicion of a brogue to it. I am told it is really the way that English was spoken when the most successful playwright was not Shaw, but Shakespeare. Dublin Bay The folk tale that follows was told me, not by a Dublin jarvey, but by a Dublin artist whose command of the right word was as great as his command of his brush. He regaled me with many stories of Irishmen and Ireland and never let pass a chance to abuse the English in the most amusingly good-natured way. To him the English as a race were a hateful, selfish lot. Most of the Englishmen he knew personally were exceptions to this rule, but he was convinced that the average Englishman was a man who was nurtured in selfishness and hypocritical puritanism. But this is far afield from his story of the first looking glass. Once upon a time (said my friend) Into the glass he looked and he saw there the face of himself. "Oh," said he, "'tis a picture of my father," and he took it to his cabin and hung it on the wall. And often he would go to look at it, and always he said, "'Tis a picture of my father." But one day he took to himself a wife, and when she went to the mirror and looked in she said: "I thought you said this was a picture of your father. Sure, it is a picture of an ugly, red-headed woman. Who is she?" "What have ye?" said the man. "Step away and let me to it." So she stepped away and let him to it and he looked at it again. "Ah," said he with a sigh (for his father was dead), "'tis a picture of my father." "Step away," said she, "and let me So he stepped away and let her to it, and she looked in it again. "An ugly, red-headed woman it is," said she. "You had a lover before me," and she was very angry. "Sure we'll leave it to the priest," said he. And when the priest passed by they called him in and said, "Father, tell us what it is that this picture is about. I say it is my father, who is dead." "And I say it is a red-haired woman I never saw," said the woman. "Step away," said the priest, with authority, "and let me to it." So they stepped away and let the priest to it, and he looked at it. "Sure neither you nor the woman was right. What eyes have ye? It is a picture of a holy father. I will take it to adorn the church." And he took it away with him, to But in the church was the picture of a holy man. Quite the folklore quality. I heard a story of a well-known Dublin priest, Father Healy, very witty and very kindly, who was invited by a millionaire, probably a brewer, to go on a cruise with him. Over the seas they sailed and landed at many ports, and the priest could not put his hand into his pocket, for he was the guest of the millionaire. At last they returned to Dublin and the millionaire, being a man of simplicity of character, the two took a tram to their destination. "Now it's my turn," said the priest, with a twinkle in his eye, and, putting his hand in his pocket, he paid the fare for the two. A Dublin Ice Cart And here's another. Two Irishmen were in Berlin at a music hall, and just in front of them sat two officers with their shakos on their heads. Leaning forward, with a reputation for courtesy to sustain, one of the Irishmen said, pleasantly, "Please remove your helmet; I can't see the stage for the plume." By way of reply the German officer insolently flipped the Irishman in the face with his glove. In a second the Irishman was on his feet and in another second the officer's face was bleeding from a crashing blow. Satisfaction having been thus obtained, the two Irishmen left the cafe and returned to their hotel, where they boasted of the affair. Fortunately kind friends at once showed them the necessity of immediately crossing the frontier. That the Irishman had not been run Speaking of fights, the other day an American friend of mine was taking a walk in Dublin and he came on a street fight. Four men were engaged in it, and no one else was interfering. Passers by glanced over their shoulders and walked on. Two women, evidently related to the contestants, stood by awaiting the result. My friend mounted a flight of steps and watched the affair with unaffected interest. A member of the Dublin constabulary happened to pass the street, and, glancing down, saw to his disgust that it was up to him to stop a fight. Slowly he paced toward them, giving them time to finish at least one round. But the two women saw him coming and, rushing into the mixture of fists and arms and legs, hustled the combatants into the house, and the policeman went I told a Dublin man of this incident, deploring my luck in not having come across it with my camera in my hand. He said: "That policeman was undoubtedly sorry that he happened on the row. He would much have preferred to let them fight it out while he sauntered by on another street all unknowing. Not that he was afraid to run them in, but that an Irishman loves a fight." Another sight that I saw myself at a time when my camera was not with me was two little boys, not five years apiece, engaged in a wrestling match under the auspices of their father, who proudly told me that they were very good at it. The little fellows shook hands, flew at each other, and wrestled for all they were worth. And from the time they clinched until one or the other was thrown they were laughing with joy. They wrestled How much better it is for little children to learn to fight under the watchful and appreciative eye of a kind father than to learn at the hands of vindictive strangers. O'Connell's Monument, Dublin |
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