“But it’s high up above Bloomerism, and all other follies I’ve got, _sure_ enough; only as the lark said, I must come down some time. At last the house became a fair Babel, worse than what I’ve heard of Donnybroke itself, when the boys used to cry out, ‘Oh! the glory’s left ould Ireland—twelve o’clock, and no fight;’ and when the poor fellows would be going about the Fair green, shouting, ‘Who’ll fight me for the sake of St. Patrick.’ The man of the house was sorely to be pitied, he was a mighty quiet man; and impossible as it may seem, very fond of his vixen of a wife (talk as you will, there’s mighty little reason in love,) and his baby; and moreover, he was very little at home at all, which ought to have made her all the pleasanter when he was in it, for it’s very easy to find words going sharp, when a man’s ever and always _molly coddling_ about a house, and bothering about every in and out, no ways becoming to him. Of late, she was always grumbling when he went out, though it was about his business—and yet never peaceable when he came in; I wondered how he took it so easy, but there is no use ever interfering betwixt married people; no matter how bitter they are to-night, they may be all like sugar and honey to-morrow morning, and whatever you say to one, is sure to go to the other—they’re not safe to make or meddle with; if you want to make peace, you must never let one know what the other says when they’re in their ‘tiffs;’ and to keep quit of that you must tell more woppers than is at all pleasant to carry, particularly when the priest is cross, and _puts heavy weights on the penances_.