"It is, indeed," repeated O'Brien; "we see the ditch in our neighbour's eye, and cannot observe the log of wood in our own;" and O'Brien winked at me, referring to Phillott's habit of bad language. "I once knew a married man," observed the captain, "who had been always accustomed to go to sleep with his hand upon his wife's head, and would not allow her to wear a night-cap in consequence. Well, she caught cold and died, and he never could sleep at night until he took a clothes brush to bed with him, and laid his hand upon that, which answered the purpose--such was the force of habit." "I once saw a dead body galvanised," observed Mr Phillott: "it was the body of a man who had taken a great deal of snuff during his lifetime, and, as soon as the battery was applied to his spine, the body very gently raised its arm, and put its fingers to its nose, as if it were taking a pinch." "You saw that yourself, Mr Phillott?" observed the captain, looking the first lieutenant earnestly in the face. "Yes, sir," replied Mr Phillott, coolly. "Have you told that story often?" "Very often, sir." "Because I know that some people, by constantly telling a story, at last believe it to be true; not that I refer to you, Mr Phillott, but still I should recommend you not to tell that story where you are not well known, or people may doubt your credibility." "I make it a rule to believe everything myself," observed Mr Phillott, "out of politeness; and I expect the same courtesy from others." "Then, upon my soul! when you tell that story, you trespass very much upon our good manners. Talking of courtesy, you might meet a friend of mine, who has been a courtier all his life; he cannot help bowing. I have seen him bow to his horse, and thank him after he had dismounted-- beg pardon of a puppy for treading on his tail; and one day, when he fell over a scraper, he took off his hat, and made it a thousand apologies for his inattention." "Force of habit again," said O'Brien. "Exactly so. Mr Simple, will you take a slice of this pork; and perhaps you'll do me the honour to take a glass of wine? Lord Privilege would not much admire your dinner to-day, would he, Mr Simple?" "As a variety he might, sir, but not for a continuance." "Very truly said. Variety is charming. The negroes here get so tired of salt fish and occra broth, that they eat dirt by way of a relish. Mr O'Brien, how remarkably well you played that sonata of Pleydel's this morning." "I am happy that I did not annoy you, Captain Kearney, at all events," replied O'Brien. "On the contrary, I am very partial to good music. My mother was a great performer. I recollect once, she was performing a piece on the piano, in which she had to imitate a _thunder storm_. So admirably did she hit it off, that when we went to tea, all the cream was _turned sour_, as well as three casks of _beer_ in the cellar."