Punch (71.1876)

September 30, 1876.] PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. 139

GENTILITY IN GREENS.

(Mrs. Brown finds Sandymouth a very different place from what she remembers it

years ago I)

Greengrocer. " Cabbage, Mum ! ? "We don't keep no Second-Class Vege-
tables, Mum. You'll get it at the Lower End o' the Town !"

HAPPY-THOUGHT NOTES IN IRELAND.

From Pathdrum—By Car—A Cheerful Party—Dubious Phrase— What I
Expected—What I Didn't See—Notes—Something_ about Wakes—An Offer
—The Lamb—The Brothers—Sentiment—Probabilities—Clara and Lara—
Romance—Lord Byron—Morning Air—Glendalough—The Seven Churches
■—Psychological Inquiries—Notes—Songs—Idea for^ one—An Appeal—A
Command—On the Track.

From Pathdrum.—In the early morning. Beautiful. "We meet eight
miners, dressed in their Sunday best apparently, walking about ten yards in
front of three stalwart police officers. All laughing and talking, and taking it
very leisurely. Two of the police engaged on nuts. These officers, I see, have
no side-arms, only thick walking-sticks.

"It's a summons for foightin," my Driver explains. "They'11 be foined
elevin and sixpence, and spend double in goin' back in cars."

I express my astonishment at their being so well dressed.

"Ah," says my Carman, J'.they 're daycent boys, but they get foightin on
pay-day, and then the Po-lis is down on them. Shure, they march to Mass on
Sundays with a band playin', and they crowd the Chapel of the Seven Churches
so that for last prayers ye can't move at a snail's pace along the road."

He points out to me the Brockagh Chapel,—and, leaving the car below, I
mount the hill and enter it. It is a fine sized building, open all day, as are
most of the "Chapels," (they call all the Catholic Churches " Chapels,"—a
traditional custom, ! suppose, derived from the times of the Protestant ascen-
dency,) fitted up with only a very few benches.

" From seven to eight hundred miners," my Carman informs me, " hear Mass
here every Sunday, without reckoning farmers; and there '11 be more outside
than inside."

Looking upon this description as perhaps intended for a cynical double
entendre, which I can take just whichever way my bias inclines me, I put the
question to him straight:

"When you say ' there are more outside than inside,' do you mean that the
people who don't go to mass are more than those who do f "

He is scandalised at such a turn being given to his words.

"Ah begorr no ! " be cries, " that's not the way of it
at all at all. The Chapel's as full as it can hold, and
there's as many more again outside, so that ye see, Sorr,
His full inside and out.1'

Is this the case at home in our mining "districts ?
Do all our miners in a body turn out for a Church
parade ? If they do, they must be much belied.

Note by the way. What I had been led to Expect to
See I have not Seen.—I have not seen a drunken Irish-
man ; nor a fight of any description ; not even a row. I
have seen, as abovementioned, eight men taken up for
having been previously drunk and disorderly. I believe
this also happens, occasionally, in England; and, per-
haps, such a case is not absolutely unknown in our
mining districts.

I have not seen anybody with the traditional long coat
and cape, brandishing a shillelagh. Sorry that ancient
customs should be dying out. Perhaps all the old stock
has been sold to the theatres.

I have not seen a " Wake." Somebody offered to take
me to one; but having been informed that '' sham
wakes " are got up for the benefit of a stranger (and of
course for the special benefit of the performers in it), I
decline with thanks.

My driver, however, makes me a genuine offer for a
genuine wake. "A dacent body," he says, is the widow
at whose house the wake is to take place, where it
appears there will be " lashins to drink all round." I
can come, if I am so minded.

"But surely," I object, "on such an occasion, a
stranger, a visitor, would not be welcome. And besides,"
I add, '' I thought that only the family and the most
intimate friends could be present at what, after all, is a
part of the funeral."

" Ah, begorr, that's a fact, then," replied my friend ;
"but sure, Sorr, I'd take you meself, and ye'd go as a
relation of the corpse."

Happy Thought, for being present at a Wake.—Go as
a relation of the Corpse ! If it were not for the hurry
I'm in, and Pltjmpton and Spry in the distance, I should
like to appear in this new character.

Further on the road we meet, coming into Rathdrum
for the market, a party which I should like to sketch,
but can't. There are four good-looking, brawny peas-
ants, marching solemnly, two in front and two in the
rear, and exactly in the middle is trotting the prettiest,
whitest, perkiest, merriest little Lambkin I've ever
seen. The Lambkin is clearly enjoying the grandeur
of the ceremony. Regardless of his doom, the little
victim trots. I could almost swear to the Lambkin's
having winked at me in passing. 0 Butcher, spare that
Lamb ! May the garden never thrive that grows the
mint that flavours the sauce to be served with that
tender Lambkin!

Are the four strong, silent men overcome with grief,
and struggling with emotion ? Must they sell that Lamb
to pay the rint? And oh, doesn't Pint rhyme with
Mint.' And is that little Lamb a mint in himself to
those four big men, that band of brothers, tenants of one
common cabin, marching in to Rathdrum Market with
that pretty baby sheep decked for the sacrifice?
Heavens ! I thought that in Ireland it was the Pig that
paid the rint ? Where is the Pig, Gentlemen ? Send for
the Pig, if you please. Perish a dozen Pigs sooner than
this angelic-faced, simple-minded Lambkin !

Stay! If /buy it, here, on the spot,—what shall I do
with it ? Suppose I offer to pay the rint myself. Pay
the rint and spare the Lamb. What guarantee shall I
have that the Lamb will be spared ? They may sell him
when I am gone. Or if I purchase him and take him up
with me in the car, shall I not be compelled to leave him
at the next Hotel ? And will the Proprietor, or the
Cook, be able to withstand the terrible temptation?
Supposing I make them swear they won't hurt a hair of
his head—I mean a lock of its wool—what can I say if, a
fortnight hence, I receive this note:—

" Honoured Sir,

"We regret to inform you that the dear little
Lamb you left with us is, alas, dead. He was_ of a weakly
constitution, and all that could be done for him was done,
but to no purpose. He departed this life at seven o'clock
yesterday morning, and my Cook, who had taken a great
fancy to the poor dear little thing, ivas with it to the last.
—I have, Sir, the honour, 8>c., to remain, fyc."

Happy Thought.—-Perhaps the Lamb is not going to be