“Not any,” replied Sherman, rising to depart: “but perhaps I can give you some; and that is, that Ireland is, beyond all dispute, the meanest country I ever travelled in. The only two objects worthy of note that I have seen in all Ireland are a lime-kiln and the foundation for a windmill!”
Upon resuming his seat in the carriage, Sherman laughed immoderately, although he evidently felt somewhat chagrined by this second mistake in searching for ancient castles.
Calling one day in one of the principal hotels in Dublin, I noticed among the “rules” framed and hung in the coffee-room for the warning, instruction, or entertainment of the guests of the house, the following:
“No Gambling or Politics will be allowed to take place in this house, by any parties whatever.”
How politics could “take place” in an Irish hotel, or elsewhere, would have been a mystery to me, if I did not remember that the “scrimmages” and rows, which often follow the mere discussion of politics, seemed to warrant the landlord in classing politics with gambling, or any other dangerous amusement which might take place in the coffee-room of an Irish inn.
Speaking of Irishmen, I am reminded of an illustration of ready Irish wit, which is located on the line of the Boston and Fitchburg Railroad. Some years ago, the Reverend Thomas Whittemore, a wealthy Universalist minister, who was a large stockholder in the road, was appointed president of the company; and, as he was exceedingly conscientious in the discharge of his duty, he once took upon himself to walk over every foot of the route, to see if every part of the road was in complete order. Walking along in this way and alone, he came to a place where a loose rail lay alongside of the track; and, seeing an Irishman near by, who was apparently employed on the road, Mr. Whittemore called out to him:
“Here, Pat, pick up this rail, and lay it alongside of the fence out of the way, till it is wanted.”
It never occurred to Mr. Whittemore that every man whom he met did not know him and his official position; but Pat, not dreaming that his virtual employer, the president of the railroad company, was giving him an order, sharply answered:
“Jist go to the divil, will ye?”
“My dear friend,” said the smiling Whittemore, who instantly comprehended “the situation”—that is, that Pat did not know him, and no particular wonder, either—“ ‘go to the devil?’ why, that is the last place I should desire to go to!”