After the ladies had left, the uproar
became deafening. In 1866 the old drinking habits had not yet died
out, and though my father very seldom touched wine himself, he of
course saw that his guests had sufficient; indeed, sufficient
seems rather an elastic term, judging by what I saw and what I was
told. It must have been rather like one of the scenes described by
Charles Lever in his books. In 1866 political, religious, and
racial animosities had not yet assumed the intensely bitter
character they have since reached in Ireland, and the traditional
Irish wit, at present apparently dormant, still flashed, sparkled
and scintillated. From my hiding-place in the gallery I could only
hear the roars of laughter the good stories provoked, I could not
hear the stories themselves, possibly to my own advantage.
Judge Keogh had a great reputation as a wit. The then Chief
Justice was a remarkable-looking man on account of his great snow-
white whiskers and his jet-black head of hair. My mother,
commenting on this, said to Judge Keogh, "Surely Chief Justice
Monaghan must dye his hair.
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