tomorrow night, pike in hand, lurking round some
Protestant farmer's burning homestead, stabbing
at a slashing English dragoon in a rebel
fight, or waiting with clenched teeth behind a
stone wall, where the ferns grow, for the hard
landlord quietly ambling home from the sessions
meeting.

I got so tired of the noise and delay, at which
I saw it was no use grumbling, that I suppose I
fell asleep over the red peat fire, for when I
awoke after many nods and uneasy twitches,
I found Mr. Saul, Jack MacGan, and three
other passengers, joining hands round the whisky
bottle, and singing a croppy song from the
Nation newspaper, evidently not unpleasing to
them. The only bit of it I remember is:

Croppies, arise! Croppies, arise!
Let the old angry light burn in your eyes;
Rig the old scarlet drum; banner of green,
Now shall thy dusty folds once more be seen.

Croppies, arise! Croppies, arise!
Once more the green flag of Liberty flies;
Now by the stone walls, and long level dikes
Shall glitter bright ranks of the bayonet and pikes.

Dragoons may rush down, with their sabres abroad,
Tory statesmen may come with their prating and fraud,
But we'll scourge them, away, and their tricks and their lies,
When the brave croppies shall once more arise.

"Now thin, jintlemen all," says Jack, with
an air of a punctilious man of business, "I
think it is time to be moving."

"Glasses round!" roars Saul, "d'ye hear, widdy?
not forgitting the Saxon jintleman who has this
day honoured us with his company amongst us.
Glasses round, and we'll be off."

And off after that we went, Saul driving
like a madman to make up for lost time, but
no accident happening. Indeed, a jaunting-car is
a very safe vehicle, for if it upsets it only
disperses its passengers into roadside bogs, dikes,
or rush bushes, with now and then a concussion
against a stone wall or the roadside post,
that foolishly and unluckily does not get out of
the way.

Saul, elated with the whisky, grew laudatory of
himself, and said: " If it hadn't been for the cock-
shooting I should have stood as high, I think, in
docthoring as the best man in Dublin; but some
time ago I had a fever from checked perspiration
and the bile—biling over!—and ever since that
I've lost my retention of memory. Before that
I used to be a grate dab at Pope:

Order is Heaven's last law, and this redressed,
Some are, and must be, smaller than the rest.

Do you remember that? You see I'm down
upon ye." (A whisper.)—" I've got a bill for
jaundice, bedad, in my resate-books that will cure it
in any stage"—(pauses solemnly)—" except the
stage of daycomposition." (Abrupt breaking off.)
"The man who isn't sociable is a fool, and if he
likes I'll box him."

"Give us a song, Mr. Saul," cried Jack, looking
round. " The Cup of O'Hara, or the Black-
haired Rose."

"Why not Leading the Calves, Jack? or
The Twisting of the Rope? But now come,
I'll give you a snap of my own, written under
whisky on a frosty morning to the old tune of
Cormac Oge. You've seen Nelly:

O little Nelly Connellin,
Gra machree, my soul, my beauty!
Loving ye is just a duty.
Don't say kissing is a sin
Little Nelly Connellin,
Begin.

Little Nelly Connellin,
Gra machree, colleen asthore!
But one kiss? Ye've plenty more.
Kissing never was a sin,
Little Nelly Connellin,
Begin.

Widdy, give us another dandy, and put it down to
me-- that makes three. Och! there's no widdy!
we're driving, I see. Hurrah! we're driving,
Larrup 'em, Jack!"

"Is there much snipe about here?"

"Is it snipe?" said Mr. Saul, angrily. " I
believe you, and salmon too. If you'll come
and stay with us next year, we'll show you as
pretty shooting and fishing——It's that takes me
away from medicine, or I should soon be a match
with those fellows in Dublin; but, och! I'm
always on the blue gravel, or up to my armpits
wading after the heavy twenty pounders for
hours without coming to land. Then there's
the races——Stay awhile, Jack, how often can
you load in a minute?" (Abruptly, as usual.)

"Three times," said Jack; " but the buglers
don't have gun exercise."

"Why, heart of faith!" said Mr. Saul,
fervidly, "what use is bugling when a man should
be——I've a good mind to go on with you and
have a wake's diversion in Dublin. What I do
is drink, and eat, and sing—that's what I
call real happiness. The man who is not
sociable is a fool, I say. Put me on a horse,
and I'll go anywhere and over anything. This
isn't my best hat, this is a disabil beaver"
(rubbing it round with his sleeve). "I'm a nice
young fellow, and I've got a little property, and
I want to see the world. Sit forard, Jack."
(Takes the pipe out of the coachman's mouth and
puts it calmly in his own.)

At the next stage Mr. Saul got down.

"Good-by, Mr. Saul; mind you remember me,"
said I.

"Remember ye!" said Mr. Saul; "yes, till
the day of my death; ' While memory,' &c."

What a look his wild whisky-and-water,
religious, poetical, random eye gave me as he
squeezed my hand blue.

Here I parted with the Wicklow bugler, and
Darby Doolan, a quiet, buttoned-up, moody man,
taking the reins, our conversation fell on
dress, upon which subject Darby had very
serious and esoteric opinions.

"Gentlemen," said Darby, gravely, "don't
wear stays now as they used to do. Oh! it was
dreadful! Sure if I was a lord's son I shouldn't
like to wear any more than my own bones about