he was--far gone in his seventh tumbler!

"Come, jinteels," said he, "spare nothing here--there's lashings of
every thing; thrate yourselves dacent, and don't be saying tomorrow or
next day, that ever my father's son was nagerly. Death alive, Father
Con, what are you doin'? Why, then, bad manners to me if that'll sarve,
any how."

"Phaddhy," replied Father Con, "I assure you I have done my duty."

"Very well, Father Con, granting all that, it's no sin to repate a good
turn you know. Not a word I'll hear, yer Reverence--one tumbler along
with myself, if it was only for ould times." He then filled Father Con's
tumbler with his own hand, in a truly liberal spirit. "Arrah, Father
Con, do you remember the day we had the leapin'-match, and the bout at
the shoulder-stone?"

"Indeed, I'll not forget it, Phaddhy."

"And it's yourself that may say that; but I bleeve I rubbed the consate
off of your Reverence--only that's betune ourselves, you persave."

"You did win the palm, Phaddhy, I'll not deny it; but you are the only
man that ever bet me at either of the athletics.'

"And I'll say this for yer Reverence, that you are one of the best and
most able-bodied gintlemen I ever engaged with. Ah! Father Con, I'm past
all that now--but no matter, here's yer Reverence's health, and a shake.
hands; Father Philomy, yer health, docthor: yer strange Reverence's
health--Captain Wilson, not forgetting you, sir: Mr. Pettier, yours; and
I hope to see you soon with the robes upon you, and to be able to prache
us a good sarmon. Parrah More--_wus dha lauv_ (* give me yer hand),
you steeple you; and I haven't the smallest taste of objection to what
Father Philemy hinted at--yell obsarve. Kitty, you thief of the world,
where are you? Your health, avourneen; come here, and give us your fist,
Katty: bad manners to me if I could forget you afther all;--the best
crathur, your Reverence, under the sun, except when yer Reverence puts
yer _comedher_ on her at confession, and then she's a little, sharp or
so, not a doubt of it: but no matther, Katty ahagur, you do it all for
the best. And Father Philemy, maybe it's myself didn't put the thrick
upon you in the Maragy More, about Katty's death--ha, ha, ha! Jack
M'Craner, yer health--all yer healths, and yer welcome here, if you
war seven times as many. Briney, where are you, ma bouchal? Come up and
shake hands wid yer father, as well as another--come up, acushla, and
kiss me. Ah, Briney, my poor fel