54 JOURNAL OF PROCEEDINGS. 
Away she sails among the amber isles, 
In her lovely lake of blue ; 
And the glorious golden tinted piles, 
Are slowly heaving through. 
And the foam-bells follow, pure and bright, 
In her eternal track, 
As she sails away among the hills of light, 
While the stars are trembling back. 
She follows on, by a glory led, 
With a heavenly calm impressed ; 
For she bears the souls of the happy dead, 
To the islands of the Blest. 
After the applause had somewhat subsided the president 
called on Father Brady for a story, so the good father, in the 
kindness of his nature, told us the story of an Irishman who 
visited one of the scientific meetings of philosophers in Dublin, 
and he gave it to us in the brogue, as he got it from the Hiber- 
nian, as follows: 
Ladies and gentlemen, I see so many foine lookin’ people 
sittin’ before me, that if you'll excuse me I'll be after takin’ a 
seat meself. You don’t know me, I’m thinkin’, as some of 
yees ‘ud be noddin’ to me ’afore this. I’m a walkin’ pedes- 
trian, a travelin’ philosopher. Terry O’Milligan’s me name. 
I'm from Dublin, where many philosophers before me was 
raised and bred. OO, philosophy is a foine study. Before I 
kim over I attinded an important meetin’ of philosophers in 
Dublin, and the discussin’ and talkin’ you’d hear there about 
the world ’ud warm the very heart of Socrates or Aristotle him- 
self. Well, there was a great many imminent and learned min 
there at the meetin’, and I was there too, and while we was in 
the very thickest of a heated argument, one comes up to me 
and says he: “Do you know what we’re talkin’ about?” “I 
do,” says I, “but I don’t understand yees.” “Could you ex- 
plain the sun’s motion around the earth,” says he. “I could,” 
says I, “ But I’d not know could you understand or not.” 
“Well,” says he, “we'll see,” says he. Sure I didn’t know 
anything how to get out of it thin, so I pulled in, for, says I to 
