At one of the lochs, we saw an Irishman, with the popular and traditional face, shape, and garb; that is, of the kind we read about in novels and see on the stage. He had on brogans, short breeches split in the end at the knees, woollen stockings, a small and short-tailed coat, a stumpy shillaly, a narrow-brimmed high hat, with pipe stuck in the front band and a shamrock set in another place. Besides bog-trotters’ capers and the dancing of an Irish jig, he sang songs which recalled boyhood’s memories in Philadelphia. After the potato famine in Ireland, the Emerald Isle was semi-depopulated, and the emigrant ships, despite the Know-Nothings, set their prows in fleets to the Land of Hope. I often saw seven ships a day bringing over the raw material of citizenship. Some of the girls, as we learned from our household experience in employing domestics, had never gone up--though on ship and with us, at first, they came backwards down--a pair of stairs. Such green but promising maids had never dwelt in a house built with more than one story, or touched a faucet, or lighted a gas jet. The Irishman’s song, in which his mention of Philadelphia was mnemonic, was delightful to hear. Another song, which as a child I heard my father’s coal-drivers and coal-heavers sing, told of travels nearer home, and of this I caught the words. They ran thus:-- “I cut my stick and greased my brogues-- ’T was in the month of May, sir: And off to England I did go To mow the corn and hay, sir.” With this son of Erin was a dirty and very skinny Highland lad, in kilts and other checkered woollen garments much the worse for wear. He also danced what was probably a Highland fling, though an almost vicious desire possessed some of us to fling him into the bathtub.