So John promised to be as silent as the grave, but on the third afternoon, as the happy pair were ascending the stairs of the Victoria Hotel, they saw by the giggles and smirks of the chambermaids that their secret had been discovered.

The bridegroom rang his bell and went for John in a towering passion, but the fellow held his ground.

’Is it not unfair the way you are taking on?  Sure the other servants did ask me if you were on your honeymoon, but I was even with them, for I told them “devil a bit, your honour was not going to marry the lady until next month."’

I do not know how that alliance turned out, but the happy pair left the hotel early next morning.

I can tell rather more about the matrimonial experiences of an Archdeacon at Cork, who married firstly a woman who was very fond of society.  She died, and he then married another, who grew very stout.  She also died, and the indefatigable cleric married as his third experiment a widow cursed with a very violent temper.

He was one day chaffed on the practical demonstration he had given to the Romish doctrine of the celibacy of the Church, when he said:—­

’After all they were a trial, for I married the world, the flesh, and lastly the devil, and now I tremble whenever I think of recognition in eternity.’

This Cork story comes naturally, because at that time I was living near Cork and very happily too.

Now and again we took trips up to Dublin when I had business there.

I am not much of a playgoer, but in Dublin we always went to the theatre on the chance of hearing some of the proverbial wit of its gallery.

On one occasion, a lady in the play, when her lover had had some doubt of her fidelity, exclaimed:—­

‘Would there were a mirror in my side that you could see into my heart.’

Whereupon a voice from the gods shouted:—­

’Would not a pain [i.e. pane] in your stomach do as well.  I have one myself.’

Lord Chancellor Brady was of a notoriously convivial temperament, which did not prevent him being an admirable lawyer when he would allow his wits to get their heads above water, so to speak, though it was little enough that he used to dilute his spirits.

When Jenny Lind sang in some Italian opera, he occupied a seat in the vice-regal box, and gazed at her through a portentously enormous lorgnette.

This was too much for a wag in the gallery, who yelled:—­

‘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.’