Around the table sat some seven or eight others, whose phlegmatic look and sententious aspect, convinced me, they were Flemings. At the far end, however, was one, whose dark eyes, flashing beneath heavy shaggy eyebrows, huge whiskers, and bronzed complexion, distinguished him sufficiently from the rest. He appeared, too, to have something of respect paid him, inasmuch as the others invariably nodded to him, whenever they lifted their cans to their mouths. He wore a low fur cap on his head, and his dark blue frock was trimmed also with fur, and slashed with a species of braiding, like an undress uniform. Unlike the rest, he spoke a great deal, not only to his own party, but maintaining a conversation with various others through the room-- sometimes speaking French, then Dutch, and occasionally changing to German, or Italian, with all which tongues he appeared so familiar, that I was fairly puzzled to what country to attribute him. I could mark at times that he stole a sly glance over, towards where I was sitting, and, more than once, I thought I observed him watching what effect his voluble powers as a linguist, was producing upon me. At last our eyes met, he smiled politely, and taking up the can before him, he bowed, saying, “A votre santé, monsieur.” I acknowledged the compliment at once, and seizing the opportunity, begged to know, of what land so accomplished a linguist was a native. His face brightened up at once, a certain smile of self-satisfied triumph passed over his features, he smacked his lips, and then poured out a torrent of strange sounds, which, from their accent, I guessed to be Russian. “Do you speak Sclavonic?” said he in French; and as I nodded a negative, he added--“Spanish,--Portuguese?” “Neither,” said I. “Where do you come from then?” asked he, retorting my question. “Ireland, if you may have heard of such a place.” “Hurroo!” cried he, with a yell that made the room start with amazement. “By the powers! I thought so; come up my hearty, and give me a shake of your hand.” If I were astonished before, need I say how I felt now. “And are you really a countryman of mine?” said I, as I took my seat beside him. “Faith, I believe so. Con O’Kelly, does not sound very like Italian, and that’s my name, any how; but wait a bit, they’re calling on me for a Dutch song, and when I’ve done, we’ll have a chat together.” A very uproarious clattering of brass and pewter cans on the tables, announced that the company was becoming impatient for Mynheer O’Kelly’s performance, which he immediately began; but of either the words or air, I can render no possible account, I only know, there was a kind of _refrain_ or chorus, in which, all, round each table, took hands, and danced a “grand round,” making the most diabolical clatter with wooden shoes, I ever listened to.