and the clatter of voices, that fragments only of what was passing around reached me, giving to the conversation of the party a character occasionally somewhat incongruous. Thus such sentences as the following ran foul of each other every instant:-- “No better land in Galway”--“where could you find such facilities”--“for shooting Mr. Jones on his way home”--“the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth”--“kiss”--“Miss Blake, she’s the girl with a foot and ankle”--“Daly has never had wool on his sheep”--“how could he”--“what does he pay for the mountain”--“four and tenpence a yard”--“not a penny less”--“all the cabbage-stalks and potato-skins”--“with some bog stuff through it”--“that’s the thing to”--“make soup, with a red herring in it instead of salt”--“and when he proposed for my niece, ma’am, says he”--“mix a strong tumbler, and I’ll make a shake-down for you on the floor”--“and may the Lord have mercy on your soul”--“and now, down the middle and up again”--“Captain Magan, my dear, he is the man”--“to shave a pig properly”--“it’s not money I’m looking for, says he, the girl of my heart”--“if she had not a wind-gall and two spavins”--“I’d have given her the rights of the church, of coorse,” said Father Roach, bringing up the rear of this ill-assorted jargon. Such were the scattered links of conversation I was condemned to listen to, till a general rise on the part of the ladies left us alone to discuss our wine and enter in good earnest upon the more serious duties of the evening. Scarcely was the door closed when one of the company, seizing the bell-rope, said, “With your leave, Blake, we’ll have the ‘dew’ now.” “Good claret,--no better,” said another; “but it sits mighty cold on the stomach.” “There’s nothing like the groceries, after all,--eh, Sir George?” said an old Galway squire to the English general, who acceded to the fact, which he understood in a very different sense. “Oh, punch, you are my darlin’,” hummed another, as a large, square, half-gallon decanter of whiskey was placed on the table, the various decanters of wine being now ignominiously sent down to the end of the board without any evidence of regret on any face save Sir George Dashwood’s, who mixed his tumbler with a very rebellious conscience.