ces, had
established a right of loquacity. He was one of those few trusty and
privileged domestics, who, if his master unheedingly uttered a rash
thing in a fit of passion, would venture to set him right. If the squire
said, "I'll turn that rascal off," my friend Pat would say, "Troth you
won't, sir"; and Pat was always right, for if any altercation arose upon
the "subject-matter in hand," he was sure to throw in some good reason,
either from former services,--general good conduct,--or the delinquent's
"wife and children," that always turned the scale.

But I am digressing: on such merry meetings as I have alluded to, the
master, after making certain "approaches," as a military man would say,
as the preparatory steps in laying siege to some _extravaganza_ of his
servant, might, perchance, assail Pat thus: "By the by, Sir John
(addressing a distinguished guest), Pat has a very curious story, which
something you told me to-day reminds me of. You remember, Pat (turning
to the man, evidently pleased at the notice thus paid to himself),--you
remember that queer adventure you had in France?"

"Troth I do, sir," grins forth Pat.

"What!" exclaims Sir John, in feigned surprise, "was Pat ever in
France?"

"Indeed he was," cries mine host; and Pat adds, "Ay, and farther, plaze
your honor."

"I assure you, Sir John," continues my host, "Pat told me a story once
that surprised me very much, respecting the ignorance of the French."

"Indeed!" rejoined the baronet; "really, I always supposed the French to
be a most accomplished people."

"Troth, then, they're not, sir," interrupts Pat.

"O, by no means," adds mine host, shaking his head emphatically.

"I believe, Pat, 'twas when you were crossing the Atlantic?" says the
master, turning to Pat with a seductive air, and leading into the "full
and true account"--(for Pat had thought fit to visit _North Amerikay_,
for "a raison he had," in the autumn of the year ninety-eight).

"Yes, sir," says Pat, "the broad Atlantic,"--a favorite phrase of his,
which he gave with a brogue as broad, almost, as the Atlantic itself.

"It was the time I was lost in crassin' the broad Atlantic, a comin'
home," began Pat, decoyed into the recital; "whin the winds began to
blow, and the sae to rowl, that you'd think the _Colleen Dhas_ (that was
her name), would not have a mast left but what would rowl out of her.

"Well, sure enough, the masts went by the board, at last, and the pumps
were chok