Irish retorts are proverbial. For "reppartay" the race is famous, and we have had numerous illustrations. Wit is spontaneous. It doesn't take an Irishman long to frame an answer, and it is generally to the point. "Blarney" is abundant. Every old woman calls you her "darlin'," and every man calls you "me lud" or "yer honor." The insidious flattery that is used on all occasions does no harm to the giver or the receiver. It makes the world brighter and happier, though it may be flippant and insincere. [Illustration: IRISH MARKET WOMEN] The man who "always said the meanest things in such a charming way" must have been an Irishman, although I do not remember to have heard a mean thing said of anybody over there. The Irish race are not diplomatic in their actions; history demonstrates that, but no race is so much so in conversation, and the tact and taffy shown in the treatment of strangers are admirable. Nor does the Irish peasant wear his heart upon his sleeve. He may be frank and sincere in his expressions, but it is quite as probable that he is otherwise. He has the faculty of concealing the bitterest malice under the gentlest smiles and flattering compliments. It is always difficult to get a serious answer from a native in Ireland. The peasant is always suspicious, and, while he will make himself agreeable and amuse a stranger with his wit and humor, it is difficult to get deeper into his confidence and seldom safe to place any reliance upon what he says. This, I am told, is the result of centuries of persecution, treachery, and danger, so that the Irish race from necessity learned to wear the mask, until it is now a habit. Notwithstanding their ready replies and their apparent frankness, you are never satisfied with the information they give you when you question them upon serious topics. You are convinced that they are not expressing their real opinions. I make it a rule to discuss the land laws and political policies with car drivers and other people I meet of the working class, but have never been able to get an opinion from them. I have never yet heard an Irish peasant express an unkind opinion of anybody. After talking with them about politicians, landlords, and others, I feel like the child in the cemetery who asked where bad people were buried. But what you most admire is the witty and ingenious way in which they turn a mistake. A young Irishman stepped up to a gentleman the other day, and with a musical brogue inquired: "I'm thinkin', sir, that you are Mr. Blake." "You're thinkin' wrong," was the surly reply. "I beg yer honor's pardon; I sez to mysilf, when I seen you, sez I, that must be Mr. John Blake for whom I have a missage; but if it's not, sez I to mysilf, it's a moighty fine upsthanding young gintleman, whoiver he may be." Sometimes there is a tinge of sarcasm, as when an old hag asked: "Won't yer lordship buy an old woman's prayers for a penny; that's chape."