Supper over, we wheeled the table to the wall; and drawing forward another, on which the wine and desert were already laid out, prepared to pass a pleasant and happy evening, in all form. “Worse countries than Holland, Mr. O’Leary,” said my companion, as he sipped his Burgundy, and looked with ecstasy at the rich colour of the wine through the candle. “When seen thus,” said I, “I don’t know its equal.” “Why, perhaps this is rather a favourable specimen of a smuggler’s cave,” replied he, laughing. “Better than old Dirk’s, eh? By-the-bye, do you know, Scott?” “No; I am sorry to say that I am not acquainted with him.” “What the devil could have led him into such a blunder as to make Hatteraik, a regular Dutchman, sing a German song? Why, ‘Ich Bin liederlich’ is good Hoch-Deutsch, and Saxon to boot. A Hollander, might just as well have chanted modern Greek, or Coptic. I’ll wager you that Rubens there, over the chimney, against a crown-piece, you’ll not find a Dutchman, from Dort to Nimegen, could repeat the lines, that he has made a regular national song of; and again, in Quentin Durward, he has made all the Liege folk speak German, That, was even, a worse mistake. Some of them speak French; but the nation, the people, are Walloons, and have as much idea of German as a Hottentot has, of the queen of hearts. Never mind, he’s a glorious fellow for all that, and here’s his health. When will Ireland have his equal, to chronicle her feats of field and flood, and make her land as classic, as Scott has done his own!” While we rambled on, chatting of all that came uppermost, the wine passed freely across the narrow table, and the evening wore on. My curiosity to know more of one, who, on whatever he talked, seemed thoroughly informed, grew gradually more and more; and at last I ventured to remind him, that he had half promised me the previous evening, to let me hear something of his own history. “No, no,” said he laughing; “story telling is poor work for the teller and the listener too; and when a man’s tale has not even brought a moral to himself, it’s scarcely likely, to be more generous towards his neighbour.” “Of course,” said I, “I have no claim, as a stranger----” “Oh, as to that,” interrupted he, “somehow I feel as though we were longer acquainted. I’ve seen much of the world, and know by this time that some men begin to know each other from the starting post--others never do, though they travel a life long together;--so that on that score, no modesty. If you care for my story, fill your glass, and let’s open another flask, and here it’s for you, though I warn you beforehand the narrative is somewhat of the longest.” CHAPTER VI. MR. O’KELLY’S TALE