'Brady, me jewel, I'm glad to see you're fond of a big glass yet.'
At the time of the Crimean War, John Reynolds, a very energetic citizen, was perpetually raising the question about the dangerous practice of driving outside cars from the side instead of the box—in which he was undoubtedly right.
When he went to the theatre, a gallery boy shouted:—
'Three cheers for Alderman John Reynolds the hero of Kars.'
The Lord Mayor of the period who sat beside him was a tallow chandler, and the same spokesman shouted out:—
'Three cheers for his grease the Lord Mayor just back from the races at Tallagh.'
That sort of thing seems to be particularly indigenous, the only parallel being when undergraduates or medical students get gathered together.
The eloquence of Irish members in the House of Commons has really nothing to do with my reminiscences, but I remember one occasion when it was uncommonly well excelled by a stolid Englishman.
Fergus O'Connor—an Irishman, as his name betrays—was an ardent Chartist, and before the Reform Bill was introduced he said in the House that he had been accused of being a personal enemy of King William's. This was quite untrue, for if there were only good laws he did not care if the devil were King of England.
Sir Robert Peel replied:—