Reverting to David Burus:  on one occasion I remonstrated with him on the amount of whisky he drank.

‘I did drink a great deal of whisky, and I would have drunk more.’ was his reply, ‘if I had known it was going to be as dear as it is now.’

He evidently regretted not having thoroughly saturated himself with alcohol.  It was the only way in which he could have possibly increased his consumption.

He was wont to say that if he had known the trick Mr. Gladstone was going to play on honest, God-fearing men, with sound stomachs and a decent appetite, by imposing a ten shilling duty on every gallon of whisky, he would have drunk his fill beforehand, even if delirium tremens had been the penalty.

Such hard drinking as his, and so calmly avowed, must, even in the south of Ireland, be fortunately rare, for few constitutions can stand conversion into animated whisky vats.

There was a farmer at Kanturk railway station who confided to the stationmaster that he himself on the previous evening had been as drunk as the very devil.

A parson on the platform, overhearing him, said:—­

’You make a mistake, my friend, the devil does not drink.  He keeps his head cool for the express purpose of watching such as you.’

The countryman replied:—­

’You seem to be very well acquainted with the respected gentleman’s habits, your riverince.’

And then they walked off different ways.

Which reminds me of another clerical incident.

A parish priest within twenty miles of Tralee, who subsequently left the Church—­I will not say on account of his thirst, though, as that was unquenchable, it no doubt conduced to his retirement—­came into the parlour of the manager of the bank with two farmers to have a bill discounted.

The manager, having ascertained the farmers were good security, cashed the bill and gave the proceeds to the priest.  He was very much surprised on the following day at the two farmers walking into his room with the money.

‘What’s the meaning of this?’ says he.

’Well, your honour, we could not stay in the parish, if we refused to join his reverence in the deal, which was sure to be a very bad one for us.  So we thought the best thing to do was to get him a little hearty at his own expense on the way home.  And then we picked his pocket and have brought the money to your honour, whilst he is cursing every thief outside his parish, and will probably ask the congregation to make up the amount next Sunday.’

And that is a true story, and as illustrative of the Irish peasant as any you could ever get told to you.

A coffin-maker named Sullivan thrived in Tralee.  He received an order for a coffin for a man living about six miles away from the town.  It was not called for for a week, and so he went out to the house where the man lay dead to inquire the cause.