A Mixed Antiquarian
They have high old times of it occasionally at the Royal Dublin Society rooms. For example, at a recent festive gathering Mr. William Smith, C. E., read an exciting essay on “The Manufacture of paper from molina cœrulea.” Then there was some light literature from Mr. W. E. Burton, F. R. A. S., who gave a paper on “A new form of micrometer for astronomical instruments.” After these two courses came dessert in the shape of a sweet thing from Dr. Leith Adams, F. R. S., about “Explorations in the bone cave of Ballynamintra.” I wanted to read a dozen pages of “Falconer’s Railway Guide,” but in the feverish state of excitement in which the audience were boiling over it was felt that the experiment might be dangerous. It might have led to revolution, and it wouldn’t be logical—or geological—to use the Ballynamintra bones for ammunition.
I always had a sneaking regard for these delicious scientific symposiums. I love to hear of the domestic arrangements of the gay ichthyosaurus, and to see dragged forth from the dark recesses of antiquity the private character (very shaky it was) of the lordly mastodon.
I once lectured myself on “Relics of the Pre-Glacial Period discovered during Excavations at Ballymacslughaun.” I got on very well for an hour or so. The bald-headed antiquarian who had excavated the relics had been kind enough to label them—“Tooth of an Irish Elk,” “Skull of a Land Agent of the Pliocene Era (dinged by rocks),” “Feeding-bottle of the Bone Age,” etc.
I was all right till I came to a confounded triangular iron arrangement in a wooden handle covered with mud. I couldn’t for the life of me tell what it was. There was no label on it. I was going to dub it the “toe-nail of an Irish giant,” but the wooden handle forbade. Finally, with a desperate plunge I went on: “The heroism of our sires has been told in song and story for centuries. The predatory Norse pirates turned not their prows to the inhospitable shores of Erin, guarded by fiery gallowglass and furious kerne. The Danish invaders felt at Clontarf the whirlwind passion of the Irish charge. What feelings of awe must be inspired by the sight of this—this—this ancient weapon—it is evidently a spear-head—which in the nervous hands of some brave Celtic warrior of old has probably pierced many a proud invader’s breast. This spear-head, ladies and gentlemen—”
I was here interrupted by the appearance on the platform of a dirty bricklayer who had been engaged in the early part of the day in some repairs about the building. “Howld on,” he exclaimed, seizing the pre-glacial relic; “I beg your honor’s pardon, but I want my throwel to finish a job outside!”