The Spaniard, who described the rain as so heavy, that "it wetted him to the marrow," was not so poetical or forcible in his hyperbole as some of our jarveys have been. I recollect reading in a little work, published many years ago, and entitled "Sketches of Ireland," that when a gentleman complained of the choking dust of the Rock road, and declared that he did not think it possible for a road to be so dusty, his driver remarked, "It's thrue for yer honor! but this road bates all others for dust, for, _by all accounts, there was dust on this road the day after Noah's flood_." A lady who resided at Chapelizod was wont to give a carman whom she frequently employed a glass of grog, along with his fare, at the conclusion of each engagement. However, she became too sparing of the spirits, or too generous of the water, but the grog eventually became so weak, that its recipient criticised it, of course with an oath, by asserting, that "if you threw half-a-pint of whisky over Essex Bridge, you might take up as strong grog as that at the Lighthouse." MISCELLANEOUS SUMMONSES. According to my recollections of the summons cases of a police-court, apart from carriage complaints, I feel justified in remarking on the mild and forgiving tendencies of the men, and the vindictive rancour of the women of Dublin. From recent conversations with police functionaries, I am disposed to believe that the present time differs in no material respect from the past. The man claims the protection of the law; "he has no desire to injure the parties he complains of, but he wants them bound to the peace, just to keep them quiet." The woman wants "the coorse of the law, and to have her adversary chastised and kept from killing the whole world, like a murdhering vagabone as she is; it's no use in talkin', but the street will never be quiet until she gets _some little confinement_ just to _larn_ her manners." Summonses for abusive language, or as the fair complainants term it, "street scandal," are, perhaps, the most numerous cases as a class; and on the hearing of them, there is frequently elicited an amount of vituperation beyond anything that Billingsgate could attempt to supply. In almost every case a total absence of chastity is imputed as a matter of course; and if a foreigner would only believe both sides of a police summons-book, he would be forced to the conclusion that chastity was a virtue rarely found amongst the lower order of Dublin females. Yet the very contrary is the fact: furious in their resentments, uncontrollable in their invectives, and inveterately addicted to assassination of character, they are, in general, extremely chaste; and attest the value they attach to female virtue by invariably imputing its absence to their opponents. Sometimes, indeed, a novel term of reproach arouses volcanic fury, and an eruption of indignation is excited by the most extraordinary and unmeaning epithet. I cannot forget a fish-vendor from Patrick Street