There is a rare lot of truth in some witticisms.

For some illogical reason only known to my own brain—­perhaps with the desire of keeping up the fashion for inconsecutive and rambling observations common to all books of reminiscences—­the foregoing stories suggest to my mind the excuse made to me by a wary scoundrel for not paying his rent.

’I had an illegant little heifer as ever your honour cast an eye over, and who is a better judge than yourself, God bless you?  But the Lord was pleased to take her to Himself, and it would be flat heresy for me not to say He is not as good a judge as your honour’s self.’

There was an action brought against a veterinary surgeon for killing a man’s horse.

Lord Morris knew something of medicine, as he did of most things, and asked if the dose given would not have killed the devil himself.

The vet. drew himself up pompously, and said:—­

‘I never had the honour of attending that gentleman.’

‘That’s a pity, doctor,’ replied Morris, ‘for he’s alive still.’

The Government introduced into the House of Lords an additional bill for the complication and confiscation of landed property in Ireland.

Lord Morris said it reminded him of the bill a veterinary surgeon sent in to a friend of his, the last item of which ran:—­

‘To curing your grey mare till she died, 10s. 6d.’

Never was the Irish question more happily expressed than in his famous reply to a lady who asked him if he could account for disaffection in Ireland towards the English.

’What else can you expect, ma’am, when a quick-witted race is governed by an intensely stupid one?’

Lord Morris told many stories, but for a change, here is one told of him.

A Belfast tourist was riding past Spiddal, and asked a countryman who lived there.

’One Judge Morris, your honour; but he lives the best part of his time in Dublin.’

‘Oh yes,’ says the other, ‘that’s Lord Chief Justice Morris.’

’The very dead spit of him, your honour; and I was told he draws a thousand a year salary.’

‘He has five thousand five hundred a year.’

‘Ah, your honour, it’s very hard to make me believe that.’

‘Why don’t you believe it?’

’Because when he’s down here he passes my gate five days in the week, and I never saw the sign of liquor on him.’

Evidently the bigger salary the bigger profit to the whisky distiller was the rustic’s theory.

I have forgotten how the story came to my ears, but I told it to Lord Morris, who much appreciated it.

Another Kerry story, not unlike one narrated earlier in this chapter, runs thiswise:—­

Two men came to order a coffin for a mutual friend called Tim O’Shaughnessy.

Said the undertaker:—­

’I am sorry to hear poor Tim is gone.  He had a famous way with him of drinking whisky.  What did he die of?’