Of course an Irishman would take a bribe one way and calmly vote another.  But even this diplomatic tendency is outwitted by the priests, for nowadays, when they have any doubt of the political sincerity of a man, they insist on his declaring himself an illiterate voter.  Then the whole question of who is to be voted for is gone through audibly and verbally, so that the honesty of the voter is known to those hanging round.  In the parish of Milltown, the education is as complete as in any in Ireland, but at the last election, one third of the voters confessed themselves illiterate, with the result anticipated by the priest.

If the priest understands his parishioner—­a thing which admits of no possible shadow of doubt—­it is equally certain that the Englishman does not, as is shown by the following frivolous tale, always a favourite of mine.

‘Paddy,’ said a tourist at Killarney, ’I’ll give you sixpence if you’ll tell me the biggest lie you ever told in your life.’

‘Begorra, your honour’s a gentleman!  Give me the sixpence!’

No one would have thought of making such an offer to an English loafer, and no English loafer would have had the wit to so neatly earn his emolument.

It is the assumption of simplicity that does the trick, and so well is that put on that it comes close to the real thing.

The other day, when the King and Queen were at Punchestown, a Britisher chartered a car at Naas to drive out to the course, and on the way remonstrated with the carman on the starved condition of his horse, whose ribs would have served for an anatomical study.

‘Well, your honour,’ the jarvey explained, ‘it’s an unlucky horse.’

‘How unlucky?’ asked the Englishman.

’Well, it’s this way, your honour.  Each morning I toss with that horse whether he shall have his feed of oats or I have my glass of whisky, and would your honour credit it, the horse has lost these ten days past.’

I am reminded of the reply given by Lord Derby to a gentleman who sent him a dozen of very light claret, which he said would suit his gout.  Lord Derby subsequently thanked him, but said he preferred the gout, and I have no doubt that that horse, had he been able to give tongue, would have been an ardent upholder of teetotalism when it ensured him a feed of oats.

One more story of Lord Derby, as I have just mentioned his name:—­

A worthy trader had bothered him to let him stand for a certain borough on the Tory ticket, but the Whig was returned unopposed on the day of the nomination, and the candidate was subsequently attacked by Lord Derby for not coming forward as he had promised.

The man was almost as shaky in his aspirates as in his political propensities, and his reply was:—­

’I would have stood, my lord, but there was a ‘itch in the way.’

‘It was the more necessary for you to come to the scratch,’ was the immediate retort.