It had been for years his custom to pay a visit to Fagan on the eve of any great solemnity, and he was snugly installed in the little bow-window on the evening of the 26th May, with a goodly array of glasses and a very formidable square decanter of whiskey on a table in front of him. Fagan, who never could trust to the indiscreet propensity of Polly to “quizz” his distinguished friend, had sent her to spend the day in the country with some acquaintances; Raper was deep in a difficult passage of Richter, in his own chamber; so that the Grinder was free to communicate with the great official unmolested and undisturbed. Most men carry into private life some little trait or habit of their professional career. The lawyer is apt to be pert, interrogative, and dictatorial; the doctor generally distils the tiresomeness of the patient in his own conversation; the soldier is proverbially pipeclay; and so perhaps we may forgive our friend Cotterell if his voice, in speaking, seemed to emulate the proud notes of his favorite instrument, while his utterance came in short, broken, abrupt bursts,--faint, but faithful, imitations of his brazen performances in public. He was naturally not given to talking, so that it is more than probable the habit of _staccato_ was in itself a great relief to him. I will not pretend to say that Fagan's patience was not sorely tried as well by the matter as the manner of his friend. His pursuit of politics was, indeed, under the greatest of difficulties; but he labored on, and, like some patient gold-seeker, was satisfied to wash the sand for hours, rewarded with even a few grains of the precious metal at the end of his toil. “Help yourself, Sam. That's the poteen,--this, here, is Kinahan,” said the Grinder, who well knew that until the finish of the third tumbler, Mr. Cotterell's oracle gave no sound. “Help yourself, and remember you 'll have a fatiguing day to-morrow!” “A great day,--say rather a great day for Ireland,” tolled out the trumpeter. “That's to be seen,” replied Fagan, caustically. “I have witnessed a good many of those great days for Ireland, but I 'd be sorely puzzled to say what has come of them.” “There are three great days for Ireland every year. There's the opening, one; the King's, two; St. Patrick's, three--” “I know all that,” muttered Tony, discontentedly. “St. Patrick's, three; and a collar day!” repeated Sam, solemnly. “Collars, and curs to wear them,” growled out Tony, under his breath. “Ay, a collar day!” and he raised his eyes with a half devotional expression at these imposing words. “The Duke will open Parliament in person?” asked Fagan, as a kind of suggestive hint, which chanced to turn the talk. “So we mean, sir,--we have always done so. Procession to form in the Upper Castle Yard at twelve; battle-axes in full dress; Ulster in his tabard!” “Yes, yes; I have seen it over and over again,” sighed Fagan, wearily. “Sounds of trumpet in the court--flourish!”