When ladies first rode the bicycle in Ireland they excited different emotions, according to the character of the looker-on. "What would the blessed saints in heaven think of you?" the old women used to call out; but one old man had only compassion for the female cyclist. "God help yez," he said; "'tis killin' yourselves yez'll be with them little wheely things, bad luck to them!"
You will find the soft, insinuating ways in a shop when you make a purchase or mean to make one. "It looks lovely on you," a shop-assistant will say, with an air of being dispassionate. "Can you send this home to-night?" you ask, having concluded your purchase. "Sure, why not?" If you are English-born and bred, you will be at a loss to say why not.
A policeman in Dublin will direct you: "You take that turn over there, an' you go along till you meet a turn on your left, but you'll take no notice of that; you'll keep straight on, and there'll be another turn, but you'll take no notice of that. An' after that, you'll come to a third turn, an' you'll take notice of that, for that's the street you're after."
I recognized a countryman of my own in London when I asked a policeman the way and demurred from his instructions, remarking that I had been told to approach by a different way. "Sure you can, if you like," he said, looking at me with his head on one side, "but I wouldn't if I was you; it 'ud be a terrible long way round."
An Irishman will always agree with you if he can--or even if he can't. It is the Irish politeness. If you were to say to him, "Three years ago to-day I had as bad a cold as ever I had in my life," he will say, "To be sure you had; I remember it well. 'Twas a terrible dose of a cowld, all out." This makes the Irish a very agreeable people to live with if you have not offended them.
There are one or two virtues, not of the shining sort, which are hardly virtues at all, but rather vices to the Irish. Thrift is one of these. Another is its cousin, punctuality. No Irishman holds punctuality in honour. Irish time is twenty-five minutes later than English time and takes a deal longer than that to come up with English time. Any time at all will do for an Irishman. "Punctuality is the thief of time" is one of his axioms. Above all things, he despises punctuality about meal-times, and this, I know, will wring an Englishman's withers. An Irish meal is served whenever it is ready; and if it is never ready at all, the Irishman will take a snack when he feels he really wants it. No Irishman is ill-tempered because his meals are late. He prides himself on his indifference to food as one of the things that set him apart from the unspiritual Saxon. You could hardly offend an Irishman more than by accusing him of having a hearty appetite. His meals are all movable feasts. Oddly enough, the Anglo-Irishman is quite as unpunctual as the Celt, if not more so. He assimilates the ways of the Celt, while the Celt remains untouched by his. The Anglo-Irishman is often as good a trencherman as his English brother, but he would never think of disturbing the machinery of Irish life so far as to expect his dinner at a given time. I have been asked to dine in Dublin and have arrived punctually, only to find the tradesmen's carts delivering the dinner; and, having grown accustomed to English ways, I have made a frantic effort to arrive at the appointed hour for a luncheon-party, only to find the hostess lying down with toothache, and the drawing-room fire still unlit.