uld have been named Talavera (_i.e._
Tallow-vera), and as that it is known to this day.

Mr. Maguire, who was Member for Cork, and Lord Mayor of the City into
the bargain, was very influential in the promotion of a gas company.
With the money he made out of it, he reared a rather lofty mansion,
which was promptly christened the Lighthouse.

All butter in Cork is sold at the wharves, and the casks are branded
with the quality of the butter they contain. One man made a fortune out
of the first class butter on its merits, and out of the sixth class
butter, which he put in the first class casks and sold on the testimony
of the brand on the wood. This became in time notorious to most people
except the more unsophisticated of his clients, and when he embarked on
bricks and mortar his house was generally known as Brandenburg.

One more and I have done with these baptismal sobriquets.

A lady on a Queenstown steamer had put her foot down the bunker's hole,
and broke her ankle through the accident. She brought an action against
the company, duly proved negligence on the part of the employes, and
obtained substantial damages. These considerably assisted her in
erecting a rather attractive mansion, which she decidedly resented being
called Bunker's Hill.

Some people have their own ideas about the definition of a gentleman, as
a certain rather diminutive racing man found to his cost.

It was at a meeting close to Cork, and he was standing next a burly
farmer close to the rails when the horses were nearly ready to start.

Pointing to one disreputable-looking ruffian about to mount, he
observed:--

'That fellow has no pretensions to be a gentleman-rider.'

The farmer caught him by the collar of his coat and the seat of his
breeches, and shook him as a mastiff would a rat.

'Mind yourself, small man,' said he, 'that's a recognised gentleman in
these parts.'

There was a mighty shindy, and when the farmer was told his victim was a
prominent English peer, he retorted:--

'Well, that won't make him a judge of an Irish gentleman.'

In the last chapter I mentioned that the preacher I most admired was
Archbishop Magee. I had the privilege of frequently hearing him in Cork,
where he drew crowded congregations to a temporary church--the cathedral
being under repair.

I never heard any one who so magnetised me from the pulpit, and I am by
no means prone to admire sermons. There was a sort of mesmerism in the
very eloquence of