"You are not a Frenchman," I remarked.

"No—nor an Englishman, either, thank
God!" was the reply.

"Do you speak French?" I asked.

"Why, I speak it, sir, in that sort of away,
that if you asked me the same question in
French, I'd say I couldn't answer you."

"And yet I observed you speaking to that
old man who has just parted from you?"

"Oh! that is old Bazan, the beadle of the
church behind me. I find it as easy speaking
to him as to you, sir."

"Then he is not a Frenchman."

"Then, if he is not a Frenchman, he must
have dropped from the skies into Lehon; for
he never was ten miles from this bridge, from
the day he was born to the present hour. If
living eighty-four years in one place, and that
place in France, and never being out of it,
does not make a man a Frenchman, I don't
well know what other country you can say
he belongs to. At all events, old Bazan says
he is a Frenchman, and I am disposed to
believe him."

"Well!" I observed, somewhat puzzled by
the self-possessed Irishman, "if you cannot
speak French very well,—and yet you can
talk with facility to Monsieur Bazan,—I
suppose he speaks English?"

"He speak English!" cried the Irishman,
laughing. "Old Bazan speak English! He
hates the very name of the English; he would
as soon think of eating meat on a Friday as
talking one word of English."

"Then how," I asked, "do you keep up a
conversation with each other?"

"How do we keep up a conversation with
each other?" repeated the Irishman. "Pray,
sir, how do you and I keep up a
conversation?"

"By speaking the same language?" I
answered.

"Very well, sir; that is the way Bazan and
I keep up a conversation with each other;
we speak the same language."

"The same language! what do you mean?
I thought you said he did not speak English;
and you do not speak French."

"And if you always think as correctly on
all occasions, sir," coolly remarked the Irishman,
"as you do at present, make your mind
easy for the rest of your life; for you will
never fall into a mistake. Bazan does not
speak English: I do not speak French, and
yet we both speak the same language."

"What language I" I asked.

"What language!" repeated the Irishman.
"Oh! the conceit of these Englishers—it is
almost as bad as the conceit of the Frenchers,
only that a person is more used to
the one than the other. One would think
there never were but two languages in the
world—English and French! Why, then,
sir, Bazan and I were speaking in a language
that was a grand language, and a great
language, and a language in which thousands
of books were written, hundreds of years
before the French began to chatter in their
lingo, or English was ever dreamt of. Maybe!
you never heard that there was once
such a thing spoken by kings, and warriors,
and poets, as the Irish language."

"The Irish language!" I exclaimed, in
amazement. " Do you mean to tell me that
the Breton peasantry can either understand
or speak the Irish language?"

"If you ask me, sir, if poor old Dolphy
Bazan can speak Irish as well as I do, then I
must say he does not. It is a treat to him to
hear me speaking; but it's like listening to
a knife-grinder for me to stand by, and see
how he murders my native tongue. A
Scotchman can talk it, but very badly: a
Welshman, too, makes but a poor hand of it;
still I can construe what they are at pretty
well, and they can understand me beautifully.
As to the Bretons, and the Irish language
they speak, why, if you would wish to know
the distinction between my Irish and Bazan's
Irish, I can give you an idea of it. It is just
the difference that there would be between
the way you yourself now speak English and
the way you would speak English, supposing
you stuffed your nose with snuff, and lost
your three upper front teeth: it would be
the same language, with one-half of the vowels
smothered, and one-third of the consonants
rubbed as clean out as a wet sponge wipes
into nothing a sum in arithmetic, on a new
slate."

The spokesman was plainly an original,
and I determined, if possible, to establish an
acquaintanceship with him. I fancied that, in
the occupation of his leisure hours I had
discovered one of the weaknesses to which
genius is sometimes liable. I therefore
remarked:

"That is, I suppose, French tobacco?"

"Indeed it is, sir, and French tobacco is
the worst apology for smoking that ever a
poor creature tried to console himself with,
when a thousand miles away from Dundalk,
or Limerick, where the best pig-tail in the
world is made."

"What do you say to James's River
tobacco?" I asked.

"It's Cavendish you mean. Oh, sir, it is
seldom a poor fellow like me can ever get even
a whiff of another man's smoking Cavendish."

"Here," said I—"if you will do me the
favour to accept it—is a cake of the material
you so much admire. It comes direct to me
from James's River."

"Thank you, sir," said my newly-made
friend, joyfully receiving the proffered gift,
and putting it close to his nose. As he did
so, his eyes glistened with delight, and he
exclaimed:

"Were you ever in the Phoenix Park, sir,
in the month of May, when the hawthorn is
in blossom, and the air for miles around is
full of perfume?"

"Yes, I have been there: it is very
delicious."