“‘Then we must be stirring,’ said he. ‘Waiter, chaise and pair in five minutes,--d’ye hear? Power, my boy, I don’t want you; stay here and study your brief. It’s little trouble Counsellor Kinshella will give you in the morning.’ “All he would tell me of his plans was that he didn’t mean any serious bodily harm to the counsellor, but that certainly he was not likely to be heard of for twenty-four hours. “‘Meanwhile, Power, go in and win, my boy,’ said he; ‘such another walk over may never occur.’ “I must not make my story longer. The next morning the great record of Monaghan _v_. M’Shean was called on; and as the senior counsel were not present, the attorney wished a postponement. I, however, was firm; told the court I was quite prepared, and with such an air of assurance that I actually puzzled the attorney. The case was accordingly opened by me in a very brilliant speech, and the witnesses called; but such was my unlucky ignorance of the whole matter that I actually broke down the testimony of our own, and fought like a Trojan, for the credit and character of the perjurers against us! The judge rubbed his eyes; the jury looked amazed; and the whole bar laughed outright. However, on I went, blundering, floundering, and foundering at every step; and at half-past four, amidst the greatest and most uproarious mirth of the whole court, heard the jury deliver a verdict against us, just as old Kinshella rushed into the court covered with mud and spattered with clay. He had been sent for twenty miles to make a will for Mr. Daly, of Daly’s Mount, who was supposed to be at the point of death, but who, on his arrival, threatened to shoot him for causing an alarm to his family by such an imputation. “The rest is soon told. They moved for a new trial, and I moved out of the profession. I cut the bar, for it cut me. I joined the gallant 14th as a volunteer; and here I am without a single regret, I must confess, that I didn’t succeed in the great record of Monaghan _v_. M’Shean.” Once more the claret went briskly round, and while we canvassed Power’s story, many an anecdote of military life was told, as every instant increased the charm of that career I longed for. “Another cooper, Major,” said Power. “With all my heart,” said the rosy little officer, as he touched the bell behind him; “and now let’s have a song.” “Yes, Power,” said three or four together; “let us have ‘The Irish Dragoon,’ if it’s only to convert your friend O’Malley there.” “Here goes, then,” said Dick, taking off a bumper as he began the following chant to the air of “Love is the Soul of a gay Irishman”:-- THE IRISH DRAGOON.