"Perry was a foine reporther himself, and when the House was thrying Admiral Palliser and Admiral Keppel for their loives, Perry'd send in eight or ten colyums every week of the debates, without any assistance; but, bedad, we wouldn't think much of that now. Woodfall used to say, in a joking way, that 'he had been fined by the House of Commons, confined by the House of Lords, fined and confined by the Coort of King's Binch, and indicted in the Ould Bailey,' for his offinces. Oh, them were foine times, bedad, whin you could go in and get yer nice chop and yer glass of sherry, or a sweet little sthake fresh from the rump, and maybe have the Juke of Wellington and George Canning sitting at the same table wid ye; and they'd be at the chops and sthakes too." [Sidenote: A SONG FROM THE SPEAKER.] "Dawson, me boy, tell us about Mark Supple and the Quaker, and take another jugfull of beer to wet yer whistle," said the artist, who had just withdrawn his nose from the pewter pot which he was now sadly contemplating in its mournful emptiness. "Oh! is it Supple ye mane, Jimmy. I'll tell ye all about him, yer riverence, and I'll take a pint of sthout to strinthin' me nerves afore I begin. Ye see," said Dawson, after he had taken a long pull at the mug, "Mark was fondher of a joke than he was of his breakfast. He was a good reporther, too, and liked a little dhrop now and thin, like more of his counthrymin, God forgive thim. One night Mark was in the gallery reporthing for the _Morning Chronicle_, when Mr. Addington was the Sphaker. Mark was a big, raw-boned native of sweet Tipperary, and was fond of hearing a song at all times. He used to take a glass of wine or two in Bellamy's, and thin go up in the gallery and take out his note-book and whack away with the pot-hooks and colophons. Mark was a foine scholar and a janius. They say he'd dhress up a mimbir's speech, and put retterick and flowers and poethry into a dull six-mile oration, and it used to puzzle the mimbirs so that they would hardly know their own words again. Of course, they all liked Mark, and he sometimes took a good dale of freedom with thim. "He had a mighthy quare style intirely with him, and an English mimbir who was fond of a joke, like Mark's self, said that Mark's style of reporthin' was 'a mixture of the hyperbolical, with a vane of Orientalism and a dash of the bog-throtter.' They are quick enough, God knows, to sneer about the poor bog-throtters. Well, this night was a quiet one in the House. A number of the mimbirs were asleep, some were nodding, some were at their dinners; and when Mark looked down from the gallery the Sphaker, Mr. Addington, had nothing to do, and there was a silence in the House so that you might have heard a pin dhrop. All at once Mark called out in a reckless loud voice: "'A song from Mr. Sphaker.'