‘Success to the breeches!  Success to the breeches!’

Imagine the horrified confusion of the poor ‘Princess Royal,’ not then eighteen.

This episode reminds me of the modern Scottish story of a tiresome small boy who wanted more cake at a tea-party, and threatened his parents with dire revelations if they did not comply with his demands.  As they showed no signs of intimidation, he banged on the table to obtain attention, and then announced:—­

‘Ma new breeks are made out of the winter curtains.’

An incident connected with one of the earliest private carriages in Kerry is worth telling.  The vehicle in question had just been purchased by a certain Miss Mullins, daughter of a former Lord Ventry, who regarded it on its arrival with almost sacred awe.  A dance in the neighbourhood seemed an appropriate opportunity for impressing the county with her newly acquired grandeur, but the night proving wet, she insisted on reverting to a former mode of progression, and rode pillion behind her coachman.

The result was that she caught a violent chill, which turned to pneumonia, and as her relatives were assembled round her deathbed, the old lady exclaimed, between her last gasps for breath:—­

‘Thank God I never took out the carriage that wet night.’

CHAPTER II

PARENTAGE AND EARLY YEARS

My father, Peter Bodkin Hussey, was for a long time a barrister at the Irish Bar, practising in the Four Courts, where more untruths are spoken than anywhere else in the three kingdoms, except in the House of Commons during an Irish debate.  All law in Ireland is a grave temptation to lying, and the greatest number of Courts produced a stupendous amount of mendacity—­or it was so in earlier times, at all events.

Did you ever hear the tale of the old woman who came to Daniel O’Connell, outside the Four Courts, as he was walking down the steps, and said to him:—­

’Would your honour be so kind as to tell me the name of an honest attorney?’

The Liberator stopped, scratched his head in a perplexed way, and replied:—­

‘Well now, ma’am, you bate me intoirely.’

My father had red hair, and was very impetuous.  Therefore he was christened ‘Red Precipitate’ by Jerry Kellegher.

This legal luminary was a noted wit even at the Irish Bar of that time, a confraternity where humour was almost as rampant as creditors—­irresponsible fun, and a light purse are generally allied; your wealthy fellow has too much care for his gold to have spirits to be mirthful.

The tales about him are endless.  Here are just a few I have heard from my father’s lips.

Jerry had a cousin, a wine merchant, who supplied the Bar mess, and a complaint was lodged that the bottles were very small.

To which Jerry retorted:—­

‘You idiot, don’t you know they shrink in the washing,’ which satisfied the grumbler.  And that always seemed to me the strangest part of the story.