That confidential conversation went no further; but I have never been sure that Lord Clonmel in the least overstated the case.
This renewed allusion to the lower regions that appears so closely connected with Irish affairs reminds me of an amusing incident which took place in a Dublin tram. Two members of the fair sex were discussing their plans for the summer in the interior of a car, and one of them in a mincing brogue said to the other:—
'I think I shall go to England this summer; it is so difficult in Ireland to get away from the vulgar Irish.'
'Faix,' screamed in much indignation an old Biddy sitting opposite, 'if it's the vulgar Irish you want to avoid, and the English you want to be meeting, it's to hell you must go, and you'd better go there this summer.'
That's the sort of quick retort which a Scotchman calls Irish insolence, but then, who expects appreciation of real wit from any one canny? Wit is irresponsible, a truly Irish propensity.
The two mincing young women were almost as much disgusted as another old lady who found herself opposite a stalwart working man, who incensed her by his frequent expectoration. Gathering her skirts round her somewhat ample form, she called the conductor and asked:—
'Is spitting allowed in this tram?'
'By all manes, me lady,' was the gallant reply, 'shpit anywhere you like.'
While alluding to trams, I cannot forbear relating one other Dublin tale, which Lord Morris picked up from me and was fond of telling. Its brief course runs thus:—
'Would you tell me, if you plaze, where I'll find the Blackrock tram?' asked a fussy little old woman of a policeman, busily engaging in manoeuvring the traffic of a crowded street.