The Sun.
London, England, 1841-01-15 00:00:00

KILRUSH PETTY SESSIONS.

" Blunt—Dull on the edge, or point."
Walker's Dictionary.
CLOSE SHAVING.—Paddy O'Brien, the cut of a biped
who in Ireland is generally designated "poor and
hearty," seized " time by the forelock," and popped into
the witness-box with the alacrity of a French Minister
pouncing upon a Palmerston blunder. Paddy looked in
excellent humour with himself, whoever else might have
incurred his displeasure, for it was as a complainant be
came forward, and Mr. and Mrs. Horrigan, after some
circumlocution, were, it was ascertained, the offending
parties. Whether it was that the gentleman happened
to be in a sedentary mood, or, which is more probable,
was conscious of his error, he begged leave to absent
himself on this occasion, and deputed his " rib" to do
the honours.

Where's your husband ?" asked his Worship of Mrs.
H., who had countenanced as woe-begone a look as she
could manage to insert into a face something of the hue
of the inside of a new boot, with a short snub nose—
what a drill-sergeant would call " well up," and a pair of
wall-eyes to match.
" He's lyin' down, my Lord, your Honor," returned
Mrs. Horrigan," wid a grate impression on his heart
intirely. I'm full sure, meself, he's in for great sick-
ness, if tisn't a thing the Lord puts ever id—praise to
his holy name !"
Paddy O'Brien pursed up his mouth, and, winking
his left eye twice in succession, treated himself to a pro-
longed fit of laughter. "I ax pardin, gistlemen ; oh,
be gor I do," he exclaimed ; " but that bates banna-
gcr, so it does. Well, well, but aren't they a deludin'
sex ? What look I had, that wouldn't have a ready-
spoken woman, that way, whin I'd be in a hobble. Erra,
Mrs. Hourigan, you don't forget the bar of a verse—
" Lough Neagh hones, Lough Neagh hones,
Goes in sticks, an' comes out stones."
Eh ! warn't thim the words your husband droned out,
an' he raspin' me countenance ?"
The Bench intimated to Paddy O'Brien that it would
be acceptable his going into a detail of facts.
Paddy—To be sure, Sir, I'll ingage ; why not ? I
wanted to biggin' the new year well, as in jeuty bound,
an' havin' a slight thremor in me hand, be rayson ov—
Iych, no matther—only why wasn't Father Matthew
born 20 years ago ? Well, Sir, to shorten me story, I
wint to Ned Hourigan to shave meself, an' 1 axed him
to sharpen the rhazher first. " Never fear," says he,
here's a hone all the ways from Belfast that a Boger
gem me, 'twill give an edge that id shave a mouse
asleep ;" an' wid that he repeated the rhyme consarnin'
Lough Neagh, an' lathered meself, an' I'll engage scraped
me to that degree that I thought 'twas an oystershell
was thravellin' over me countenance.

" And," interrupted his Worship, " you grew impa-
tient at the way in which he enacted barber, and it led
to an altercation between you?"
Paddy O'Brien, slapping his knees vehemently—
" Well, well," he said, " be all that's good an' gracious,
a body id imagine your wurchip vas to the fore—that
was just the way ov id. See the state I'm in, Paddy ?'
says I to Misther O'Neil, the musician ov the Garry-
owen steamer, "count o' this fellow pretendin' he knew
how to shave rae.' Well, Paddy O'Neil paused a minit,
Never pretind, Ned Hourigan,' says he, to what you
don't comprehind. I remirnber a buxom young -cook-
maid axed meself wanst, at Kilkie, iv I liked lobsther-
sauce. Oh, might well, Norry,' says I. • Well, then,
your hand, says she, handin' me a butthar boat full ov
id. To be sure I never seen the like used afore ; but I
grew ashamed to confess my ignorance, so I only put the
ingradiants to me mouth, an' med one swig ov id, clane
and clear. Allileu! if ever a piper ped for it I d;d.
Wid respect to the company, I thought I'd never be
done havin' back the thrash to the same cook. I'll be
bound I was pale in the face for a fortnight afther id.
Believe me, boys, ignorance is rafter than prizumpshio:
Wasn't that sinsible o' Paddy O'Neil, gintlemen ?"
Magistrate—Don't put yourself under Horrigan's
razor again. The case is dismissed." _ _

See that, though ?" replied poor Paddy, with a look
of half comical dismay. " Well, well, the world is
shavin' me. Mrs. Hourigan, pace be wid you, an' a
speedy relase from that impression on his heart to your
husband ; all the harm I wish him is a frosty mornin',
cowld wather, an' a bad rhazheer, whin he's in a hurry
to go to confission."—(Great laughter.)