promised to be as silent as the grave, but on the third
afternoon, as the happy pair were ascending the stairs of the Victoria
Hotel, they saw by the giggles and smirks of the chambermaids that their
secret had been discovered.

The bridegroom rang his bell and went for John in a towering passion,
but the fellow held his ground.

'Is it not unfair the way you are taking on? Sure the other servants did
ask me if you were on your honeymoon, but I was even with them, for I
told them "devil a bit, your honour was not going to marry the lady
until next month."'

I do not know how that alliance turned out, but the happy pair left the
hotel early next morning.

I can tell rather more about the matrimonial experiences of an
Archdeacon at Cork, who married firstly a woman who was very fond of
society. She died, and he then married another, who grew very stout. She
also died, and the indefatigable cleric married as his third experiment
a widow cursed with a very violent temper.

He was one day chaffed on the practical demonstration he had given to
the Romish doctrine of the celibacy of the Church, when he said:--

'After all they were a trial, for I married the world, the flesh, and
lastly the devil, and now I tremble whenever I think of recognition in
eternity.'

This Cork story comes naturally, because at that time I was living near
Cork and very happily too.

Now and again we took trips up to Dublin when I had business there.

I am not much of a playgoer, but in Dublin we always went to the theatre
on the chance of hearing some of the proverbial wit of its gallery.

On one occasion, a lady in the play, when her lover had had some doubt
of her fidelity, exclaimed:--

'Would there were a mirror in my side that you could see into my heart.'

Whereupon a voice from the gods shouted:--

'Would not a pain [_i.e._ pane] in your stomach do as well. I have one
myself.'

Lord Chancellor Brady was of a notoriously convivial temperament, which
did not prevent him being an admirable lawyer when he would allow his
wits to get their heads above water, so to speak, though it was little
enough that he used to dilute his spirits.

When Jenny Lind sang in some Italian opera, he occupied a seat in the
vice-regal box, and gazed at her through a portentously enormous
_lorgnette_.

This was too much for a wag in the gallery, who yelled:--

'Brady, me jewel, I'm glad to see you're fond of a big glass yet.'

At the time of the