An Eastern Romance Narrated In Songs.
By Aubrey De Vere.
He Sang.
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VIII.
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X.
After mature reflection, the Lady from Idaho pronounced the Dublin ladies the most beautiful in Europe. I consider the judgment an important one. If the fair arbiter had any prejudice, it could only be a general one against the recognition of beauty in others of her sex. I have been informed by young gentlemen of my acquaintance who profess a thorough knowledge of womankind that such a prejudice is not unusual in feminine minds. I think Madame Idaho was rather astonished at the result of her observations. It is possible that, before her visit to Ireland, she supposed that feminine beauty in Ireland offered only one style: that of the robustious or “Irish washerwoman” type. She did not say so, however. While I agreed with her, in general, in her estimate of the Dublin beauties, I ventured to ask if their lovely feet were not a trifle too flat and too large for perfect symmetry.
“Not at all,” was the reply. “It is the horrid, clumsy, broad-toed English chaussure that makes the ladies' feet look so broad and flat. If they wore American brodequins, their feet would look as small, in proportion, as—ahem!—as those of any other nation.”
No more on those feet.
Of the various manifestations of Irish beauty, the most engaging is the union of black or dark-brown hair with soft blue eyes, a skin with the whiteness of milk, and cheeks with the bloom of the rose. It is inexpressibly soft and attractive. And that wonderful blush that decks the cheek of youth and age! Is it the soft moisture of the climate which makes the grass so green, even in the winter of the year, that causes the cheek to bloom so rosily, even in the winter of old age?
A magnificent jeunesse of the sterner sex may also be seen on promenade in Grafton Street every afternoon. Bright, intelligent-looking, of splendid physique, well dressed, not “flashy,” the students of the university and the other colleges—the picked youth of the country—are not inferior in appearance to any class of young men in the great educational institutions either at home or abroad. They have an amiable weakness for light-colored Jouvins and single eye-glasses. You shall not find two out of twenty unprovided with a glazing for the left eye. They are armed with canes—for use as well as ornament. I witnessed a “Town and Gown” row in January of 187-, in which the canes did vigorous service. A little snow had fallen. Snow is a very precious thing in Ireland. It does not last long, and must be used at once. The foolish janitors had swept the snow into little heaps. This was temptation too strong for undergraduates. Snow-balling commenced. The young gentlemen paid their compliments to the town through the railings of College Green. The unwashed young gentlemen [pg 527] of the town replied vigorously. The fun grew fast and furious. In the delightful excitement of the moment some of the students, not having the fear of the board before their eyes, paid their compliments to some of the dons, who happened to cross the outer quadrangle in cap and gown, with snowballs of no contemptible solidity. The excitement increased. The gownsmen went outside the college grounds, and charged on the town ragabrashes who were collected outside. The police intervened in the interest of order, and were attacked by both parties. The policeman is the natural enemy of the student as well as of the ragabrash. The police proceeded to make some arrests among the leaders of the gownsmen, and began brandishing their clubs. Snowballs were thrown aside, and canes were used. It was a sight to see the canes go up and down. The gownsmen succeed in rescuing the prisoners from the police, and retire within the walls, taking a captive policeman with them, and cheering in triumph. The police invade the college precincts, and rush to the rescue of their captured comrade. They are driven out, and the victorious students follow them into the street. The police suddenly turn on their pursuers, seize one of the college leaders, and, by a pretty piece of strategy, lift him on an outside car, and drive off with him at full speed to the nearest police station. Rescue was out of the question, the coup was executed so quickly. Everybody rushes after the car, and the green is deserted.
After a week of “hearings” at the police court and intense excitement among the university men, the ringleaders were fined. The fines were paid at once. The captured policeman, who was a little battered and bruised, received ten pounds from the students for “sticking-plaster.” The board wisely let off the offenders with a reprimand, and the trouble ended in a grand display of fireworks by the students.
Old Trinity is an imposing structure. Life-size statues of Burke and Goldsmith are placed at either side of the principal entrance. The college grounds cover about thirty acres—a beautiful green spot in the heart of the city. In the centre of the outer quadrangle is a pretty campanile. The provost has a pleasant residence within the college limits. Entry into the grounds is free to all. A chief porter, in a swallow-tailed coat and black-velvet jockey-cap, watches over the principal entrance. The examination-hall, the library, the lecture-rooms, the museum, etc., are each under charge of a special Cerberus in a jockey-cap, who shows you the room or building under his particular charge. Each Cerberus expects a gratuity. He will be very obsequious if he gets what his modesty considers a sufficient douceur, and the reverse if he does not. The new museum building is a fine edifice. The entrance-hall and principal stair-case are remarkable for the splendid specimens of every variety of native marble they contain. The old rooms, where the museum now is, are damp and cheerless. There is an interesting collection of ancient Irish weapons, ornaments, etc. What is said to have been the harp of Brian Boroihme will be pointed out to you by the jockey-capped janitor, who will also inform you that, though the public is admitted, the collection [pg 528] is intended for the use of the students, and not as an exhibition of curiosities.
Lectures, to which the public are admitted free, are given twice a week by the various professors during term-time. I had the pleasure of attending some lectures by Sir Robert Stewart, the professor of music, and one by the professor of ancient history. The latter gentleman handled Mr. Froude in an eminently courteous and scholarly manner, but at the same time most decidedly “without gloves.” His lectures, however, were but poorly attended, while Sir Robert crammed the examination-hall with the taste and fashion of Dublin, from the lady-lieutenant down. All flocked to hear his comparison of the Scotch and Irish bag-pipes, illustrated by performers on these instruments. Lady Spencer, it seems, has taken the Irish bag-pipes under her patronage. Her ladyship seems to be a very amiable and charming person, but as to her taste in musical instruments—well! dêgustibus non.
Trinity College is on the east side of College Green. On the north is the principal façade of the old Parliament House. It was sold to the Bank of Ireland after the Union. The House of Commons is now the teller's office. The principal façade is of the same order. It is grandly simple and impressive. The semi-circular colonnades of Ionic columns produce a noble effect. This building is said to be the finest development of the order among modern structures in Europe. I am inclined to think that this pretension is not without foundation. The dingy appearance of all public buildings in Ireland and throughout the British Islands—the effect of smoke and almost continual rain—detracts greatly from their effect. A porter in livery, with a scarlet waist-coat and a nose to match, shows you the House of Lords. A statue of George III. stands where the throne formerly stood. In all other respects the room remains as it was when Ireland had “a Parliament House of her own.” Tapestries of the Siege of Derry and the Battle of the Boyne are hung on the walls. If you give your red-breasted conductor a sufficient gratuity, he will ask you to “take a chair,” that you may be able to say “you had a seat in the House of Lords.”
One must not leave College Green without paying his compliments to the equestrian statue of William III., which stands nearly opposite the Bank of Ireland. The king is costumed en Romain. The bronze representative of the glorious and pious Dutchman and his charger have suffered severely at the hands of their enemies. The steed's fore-leg, which is raised, as in the act of stepping, has been broken off more than once, and replaced in contempt of proportion. A curious critic has calculated that, if the leg were straightened out, it would prove to be about half a foot longer than the other legs. A gilded wreath on the brows of the statue gives it rather a “gingerbread” appearance.
At the end of College Street is a bronze statue of Thomas Moore. The Dublin critics call it “a gloomy horror that murders the memory” of the poet. The unrivalled songster is enveloped in a long cloak, and holds a tablet and pencil. He seems to be taking an inventory of the cabs and “outsides” that pass his station. The statue reminded me of that of Mr. Lincoln in [pg 529] Union Square. Both have the same weather-beaten, “Ancient Mariner” appearance, even to the trowsers of truly nautical extent. At the end of Westmoreland Street—which is a continuation of College Street—is a statue of William Smith O'Brien, which is quite respectable in design, and does not lack spirit in execution. The artist saw that voluminous trowsers are incompatible with bronze or marble.
Two minutes' walk brings us to the City Hall—formerly the Exchange—situated on Cork Hill. It is a fine building of Portland stone with a Corinthian portico of six lofty columns. It is surmounted by a cupola. In the hall is a statue of Grattan by Chantrey, one of O'Connell by Hogan, of Dr. Lucas by Rontilias, and of the Third George by Van Nost. If you wish to see the Council Chamber—which has nothing more attractive than portraits of the various lord-mayors, O'Connell among the number—a gruff and crusty old porter in blue coat and brass buttons will admit you, moyennant finance. Even an extra obolus will not soften this rough old Cerberus.
We are now close by the Cork Hill entrance to “the Castle.” A figure of Justice, or Fortitude—I really forget which—surmounts the gate, and a private of the Coldstream Guards stands sentry. He will not stop you, as entry is free to all. About eleven in the morning is a good time to visit the castle-yard. At that hour the guard is relieved, and a magnificent military band will delight your ears with most excellent music.
The castle is a rambling structure, situated in a poor quarter of the city. There are two quadrangles: the upper and the lower castle-yard. In the upper are the apartments of the viceroy; in the lower, the offices and the castle chapel. The only portion of the original building now standing is the Record Tower, anciently known as the Ward Tower. Irish prisoners of state were here formerly confined. General Arthur O'Connor, I believe, was the last state prisoner who had to endure its hospitality.
The castle chapel is really a Gothic gem. It is built of Irish limestone and oak. The carving in the interior is exquisite. The windows bear the arms of the various lord-lieutenants in stained glass. The verger—a patriarchal-looking Englishman in a long, gray beard—was very polite and attentive. He looked so “respectable,” so venerable, that we hesitated to offer him a gratuity, lest we might offend him. He soon undeceived us on this point, for he accepted an English shilling; and pocketed it with an expression of thanks. The traveller through the three kingdoms never fails to discover a great many very respectable-looking persons who are not above receiving gratuities of sums from a three-penny piece upwards.
S. Patrick's Cathedral is situated in a poor and squalid portion of the city. The poor buildings which cluster close around it mar its general effect. It was closed when we reached it, but a silver key will open S. Patrick's, like most other buildings, at most hours. We were informed that in one of the dingy tenements hard by we should find a person who would admit us. We did find him—a man still young, dressed in very rusty black. He smelled very strongly of whiskey, entre nous. The interior of the cathedral is simple and grand. In the choir hang the helmets, swords, and banners [pg 530] of the Knights of S. Patrick. The spot where Swift and Stella sleep was the one most interesting to us, and thither our guide led us at once. Swift's memorial is a plain slab of marble affixed to one of the pillars. He is buried in front of it. The church is damp and cold. Our guide seems to feel the need of another stimulant. His voice trembles as he reads the caustic dean's inscription on Marshal Schomberg's tomb; for our guide has picked up some Latin—off the tomb-stones, probably. The dean made several applications to the descendants of Schomberg for funds to raise a monument to their deceased ancestor. But they never vouchsafed a reply to the dean. He finally put up a tablet at his own expense. The inscription, which was written by him, shows that he was very bitter on the subject. The place where Swift lies now needs a little care. Our conductor said he had called attention to it in vain; but, as I said before, he smelt strongly of the native beverage. There is a very fine monument to the officers and men of the 18th Royal Irish who fell in the Indian Rebellion. But the oldest and most remarkable monument in the church is that of Boyle, the first Earl of Cork. It is from twenty to thirty feet high, and represents the earl and countess lying side by side, surrounded by their children, thirteen in number, if I remember rightly. The figures are kneeling. They are life-size, and are colored.
S. Patrick's has been recently restored in its original style by a wealthy brewer of Dublin at a cost of seven hundred thousand dollars. It procured him a baronetcy. The grandeur of the interior is not marred by pews. The movable seats—such as one sees in Notre Dame and the Madeleine—are adopted. A pregnant notice is posted on each chair. It informs the public that “the future sustentation” of the cathedral depends solely on the voluntary contributions made by the public at the Offertory. Pity the sorrows of the disendowed Irish Church!
We were not able to visit Christ Church and the tomb of that ancient filibuster, Strongbow, as the church was closed for repairs. A wealthy distiller has undertaken the restoration of this cathedral at his own expense. It is said that he also expects to get a baronetcy for his money, like his rival, the manufacturer of “Foker's Entire.” Money is a glorious thing, if one has plenty of it. Tom Stumps, who sells just enough of man's brain-stealing enemy to eke out a miserable living, is a low, disreputable fellow. Bob Shallow, who manufactures the liquid madness en grana and makes a fortune by selling it to Tom Stumps and his like, becomes a distinguished patriot, a public benefactor, and “Sir Robert Shallow, Esq., Justice of the Peace and coram.”
The cathedral in Marlborough Street is in the Grecian style, with a portico of Ionic columns, in imitation, as we are told, of the façade of the Temple of Theseus at Athens. Massive columns separate the nave and aisles. The interior decorations are of great richness. In my humble judgment, they trench on the florid.
The Four Courts, on Usher's Quay, rise in solemn grandeur over the Liffey. This building stands on the site of the ancient Monastery of S. Savior. It was finished in 1800. The central front has a fine portico of six Corinthian [pg 531] columns surmounted by a rich pediment. On the left stands a statue of Moses. On either side are statues of Justice and Mercy. At the extremities of the façades are reclining figures of Wisdom and Authority. The main building is flanked by spacious quadrangles enclosed by arcades of stone. The quadrangles are entered by broad and lofty gateways. The main hall is circular in shape, and about seventy feet in diameter. The “Four Courts,” Chancery, Queen's Bench, Exchequer, and Common Pleas, open into this hall. It is a busy, buzzing place in term-time. Lawyers with plenty of briefs, and plenty of lawyers without briefs, may be seen there, the former having hurried interviews with their clients, the latter dawdling about with quizzing glasses on their eyes, exhibiting their wigs and gowns, and eating oranges and “currant-buns.” The court-rooms are small, uncomfortable, badly lighted, and ill ventilated. The hall is covered by a lantern and a dome supported by Corinthian pillars. In the spaces between the windows are allegorical alti-relievi—Justice, Wisdom, Liberty, Law, etc., and medallions of Moses, Lycurgus, Solon, and other great law-givers. During night sessions a colossal statue of Truth, holding a torch lit by gas, illuminates the hall. Over the entrances to the court-rooms are bas-reliefs of subjects in English and Irish history. The hall contains statues of Lord Plunkett and other legal celebrities.
The custom-house is on Custom-House Quay, four or five squares east of the Four Courts, and, like the latter building, looks upon the Liffey. The riverfront is about a hundred and thirty yards long. The portico is Doric. The Union of England and Ireland is allegorically represented in alto-relievo. The sister kingdoms are sailing in the same shell, while Neptune drives away Famine and Despair. The building is surmounted by a lofty dome which bears a statue of Hope.
Dublin is well supplied with means of locomotion at cheap rates. There are omnibuses, street-railroads, outsides, insides, covered cars, and four-wheelers. The four-wheeler is something the same as the New York coupé. The fares for cars or coupés are sixpence English per trip for two persons, sixpence for each additional person, and an additional sixpence for each stoppage or “set-down.” The street-cars, or “tramway cars,” have seats on the roof, which are a few cents cheaper than the seats in the interior. The “top seats” are much used by all classes in fine weather. The city ordinances are very strict regarding cabmen and car-drivers, and the magistrates show the “jarveys” no mercy when they are proved to have made overcharges or illegal demands. The drivers are consequently very careful in their dealings with the general public. If you have a trans-Atlantic flavor about you, “jarvey” will expect a gratuity. You give him his exact fare. In order to keep within the law, he does not make a demand for a greater sum, but, allowing the coin to rest on his open palm, he looks at it with an air of superb disdain, and then, eyeing you with a sidelong glance, he asks with an air of primitive innocence:
“An' what's this for, sir?”
“For your fare,” you reply sharply, with a determination not to be imposed upon.
“Humph!” he says. “Shure it's [pg 532] a mighty long dhrive for half a bob. Faith, it's hard for a poor divil to make a livin' nowadays.”
Ten to one you agree with him, and give him an additional threepence or sixpence, which he receives with enthusiastic wishes that your life may be prolonged to an indefinite extent.
Our party patronized the four-wheelers extensively, but never had the hardihood to venture on an “outside” in daylight. We were averse to public display. During our stay in Ireland we tried the “outside” on one occasion only; then it was against our will. Fortunately, it was at night. We reached Dublin, from a visit to some friends in the south, by the 10 p.m. train. All the coupés and covered cars were engaged. Our lodgings were about two miles from the railway station. Walking, with the travelling “traps” necessary on British railroads, was out of the question. We were compelled to take an “outside.”
“How do you feel?” I asked the Lady from Idaho after we were seated and had started.
“Rather out of place,” she replied. “I feel as if I ought to be a little intoxicated.”
Her answer expressed my feeling exactly. It seemed to me that I was going “on the biggest kind of a spree.”
Railroads furnish rapid transit to suburban retreats where reside professional and commercial men whose business is in the city. One can live in the pleasant little village of Kingstown, the harbor of Dublin, six miles from the city, and reach Dublin in fifteen minutes. Trains run each way every half-hour. It has taken me an hour and a half to come from Eighty-sixth Street to the City Hall by the street-cars. This was when we met with no accidents, and made a good trip. But New York has the worst locomotive arrangements of any city in the world, and immeasurably the dearest.
I had counted upon finding a great many beggars in Ireland. I expected, whenever I alighted from coach or car, to have to run the gauntlet of a crowd of hungry petitioners. I was most agreeably disappointed. During my stay in Ireland I was asked for charity in the public streets only once. It was in Dublin, by a wretched-looking woman with a sick child.
A fine view of Dublin is obtained from one of the eminences in the Phœnix Park. It takes in the entire line of quays. This view has something of a reduced and smoke-blackened effect of Paris. The Phœnix is one of the finest and most extensive parks in the world. It covers nearly eighteen hundred acres. It is true that art has not done much for it, but nature has done a great deal. It possesses some of the most beautiful characteristics of English park scenery—beautiful green lawns, dotted with clumps of trees. Large herds of deer course swiftly over the uplands, or stop in groups, half frightened, to reconnoitre, in a coy side-glance, the intruder into their domain. Charming rides, drives, and walks invite the dwellers in the city to pure air and healthful exercise. A portion of the park is railed off into a “People's Garden,” where poor as well as rich have free ingress, and can gladden their town-weary eyes with the sight of growing shrubs and budding flowers, and graceful water-fowl sailing on the pretty meres. A lofty monument to the Duke of Wellington—not possessed of any artistic grace, [pg 533] however—crowns one of the knolls. On the right of the main avenue is the Viceregal Lodge. Near it is the column, mounted by a phœnix, erected by the celebrated Lord Chesterfield, who first caused the park to be thrown open to the people. The English Government never sent to Ireland a viceroy who had less prejudices against the people he was sent to govern. Somewhere in his celebrated letters he speaks of “his friends the Irish,” and says: “They always liked me, and I liked them.” The Viceregal Lodge, with its dependent buildings, is a delightful summer retreat. I do not wonder that the viceroy should be glad to see the return of spring, that he might get away from the poor locality in which the castle is situated. The Hibernian school for soldiers' children is situated at the lower extremity of the park.
The Zoölogical Gardens are not far from the King's Bridge entrance. The collection is a fair one, but the damp climate does not agree with the animals, and they have the same woe-begone appearance as their fellow-sufferers in the Regent's Park. The elephants have a faded, mildewed appearance. The furred animals are suggestive of worn-out hair trunks. In neither the Dublin nor the London Gardens do they look so bright and sleek as, under the brighter sky and more genial atmosphere of Paris, in the Jardin des Plantes and the Jardin d'Acclimatation. The collection of lions is good. Among them is a noble leo which the keeper informed us was born in the gardens.
“Why, he is an Irish lion!” said one of our party, hazarding a gentle joke. There was no response from the keeper. Not the merest ripple of a smile. Decidedly, the Irish in Ireland are becoming a serious people.
Between the Under Secretary's Lodge and the Hibernian School is the historical tract known as “The Fifteen Acres.” It was a celebrated duelling-ground in the old days, when a “crooked look” was followed by an invitation to pistols and coffee. There it was that “the Queen's Bench went out with the Common Pleas,” and the “Chancery winged the Exchequer.” It was there that Daniel O'Connell met Mr. d'Esterre, and killed him. Beyond the park lie the famous “Strawberry Beds,” where the Dubliners crowd, in the season, to enjoy their “sweet strawberries smothered in cream.”
An omnibus plies regularly between the city and the Botanical Gardens at Glasnevin; but it is better to take a four-wheeler, and suit your own time and convenience. Make your bargain with Jehu before you start, however. The gardens are about thirty acres in extent. The cemetery where lie the ashes of the great orators, Curran and O'Connell, is at Glasnevin. The monument to O'Connell is an imitation of that puzzle to antiquarians—the Irish Round Tower. The effect of the monument is not good. It seemed to me grotesque and out of place. I could not at first explain to myself why it produced such a harsh, unpleasing effect. A glance at the veritable Tower of Clondalkin enlightened me. The mock tower wants the mellowing touch of artist-centuries to soften down its hard, new outlines, and make it seem in keeping with the repose that reigns in the City of the Dead.
A pilgrimage to the birthplace of Thomas Moore was a labor of love which we promised ourselves [pg 534] would be among the first performed after reaching Dublin. We learned that the spot where the bard first saw the light was in Anngiers Street, generally pronounced by the Dubliners Aingers Street. Everybody we asked professed to know all about it, yet nobody could tell us the number of the house. Anngiers Street is not a very long street. We concluded to go through it from end to end, and at either side, examining every house in detail. Anngiers Street commences at Stephen Street, in rear of the castle, and extends to Bishop Street. It is not a particularly clean street. It is only just to say, however, that it is no dirtier than continental, transatlantic, or Britannic streets of like degree. We began our pilgrimage at the wrong end, but our patient search was at length rewarded. The house is No. 12, at the corner of Anngiers Street and Little Longford Street. It was then occupied by “Thomas Healy, Wine and Spirit Merchant.” According to some of little Tom's biographers, the old house has always been devoted to the sale of intoxicating beverages. His father was what Uncle Sam calls by the undignified name of “rumseller.” But “honor and shame from no condition rise,” and Tom's muse may owe her seductive, anacreontic blush to his early associations.
A weather-soiled and smoke-blackened bust of the poet occupies a niche between the windows of the second story. The house has been recently painted and renovated. When these repairs were commenced, the bust was removed by the proprietor, and was not replaced at their completion. The worthy vender of wine and spirits who occupied the house, though he believed in filling bumpers fair, and their power of smoothing the brow of Care, was probably rather bored by the continual visits of votaries to the shrine of the poet. The sacrifices of these pilgrims to the rosy muse were most probably merely theoretical. They did not “send round the wine,” or order any of it sent to their address in the city. They took none of those “brimming glasses” generative of “wit's electric flame.” A plague on such pilgrims! say I, marry and amen! The bust of the bard shall no longer be a beacon for them. But the statesmen and critics who sit at the base of Nelson's Pillar soon noticed that the niche was empty. Their poetical ire was raised to an unpleasant degree. They brought such influences to bear on the proprietor of the Cradle of Genius that the bust was at once restored to its accustomed niche.
The Dubliners have a passion for flowers and rock-work. Every available foot of ground in front and in rear of their houses is devoted to the cultivation of flowers and the building of miniature grottos. The city is spreading very fast, and rows of cottages are building in the suburbs on all sides. In general, the houses are not what we Americans would call comfortable. The fire-places are very small; for coal is scarce and dear, and a bundle of kindling-wood, composed of half a dozen chips not much larger than matches, is an object of purchase. The grates seem constructed to throw out smoke instead of heat. In this they are well seconded by the moist, heavy atmosphere. Living is good and cheap, however—about one-fourth cheaper than it is in our principal cities on this side of the Atlantic. Liquors are good in quality and moderate in price. Clothing of all kinds costs two-thirds [pg 535] less than in New York, and is not “shoddy.” The English custom of wearing flowers in the button-hole prevails in Dublin. The commerce in flowers is therefore extensive, and the shops devoted to that charming traffic make delightful displays of floral treasures. The Irish fruit, however, with the exception of strawberries, gooseberries, and currants, is inferior to ours. American apples are for sale at all fruiterers', at prices very little greater than those of New York.
Carving in “bog-oak” is quite an important trade in Dublin. Indeed, it may much more probably be called an art. I have seen some very artistic specimens of bog-wood ornaments—statuettes, groups, etc. Ladies' chains, brooches, and bracelets of Irish bog-oak were very fashionable a year or two since. The fashion extended even to London and Paris.
The Dublin streets are dull at night. The quality of gas supplied the city is poor. Early closing is pretty general, and all the principal stores are closed at dark. Doubtless this is better for the clerks and shopmen, and more economical for their employers. But it is not so pleasant for that large class of the community who love to saunter along the lighted streets in the evening, and feast their eyes on the treasures in the illuminated shop-windows. There is little to tempt the tourist into the Dublin streets at night. I should advise him—or particularly her—to avoid promenading on Saturday evening. I regret to say that evening is very generally observed by handicrafts-men and laborers, and even by shopmen and clerks, as a Bacchanalian festival. The number of persons who sacrifice to the rosy god at the week's end is lamentably great. Monday is a workmen's holiday, and it is very hard to get mechanics to work on that day.
The unsavory localities of Dublin are designated by strange names. Here are a few by way of example: Bow Lane, near the Insane Hospital founded by Dean Swift, who, as he says or sings,
Cook's Lane, Paradise Row, Cuff Street, Bride Alley, Lung Lane, Smoke Alley, Black Horse Lane, Bull Alley, Pill Lane, Marrowbone Lane, Pig Town, and Stony Batter.