Lord Colambre walked to the church, but the church gate was locked and broken--a calf, two pigs, and an ass, in the church-yard; and several boys (with more of skin apparent than clothes) were playing at pitch and toss upon a tombstone, which, upon nearer observation, he saw was the monument of his own family. One of the boys came to the gate, and told Lord Colambre, “There was no use in going into the church, because there was no church there; nor had not been this twelvemonth; beca-ase there was no curate: and the parson was away always, since the lord was at home--that is, was not at home--he nor the family.” Lord Colambre returned to the inn, where, after waiting a considerable time, he gave up the point--he could not get any dinner--and in the evening he walked out again into the town. He found several public-houses, however, open, which were full of people; all of them as busy and as noisy as possible. He observed that the interest was created by an advertisement of several farms on the Clonbrony estate, to be set by Nicholas Garraghty, Esq. He could not help smiling at his being witness _incognito_ to various schemes for outwitting the agents, and defrauding the landlord; but, on a sudden, the scene was changed; a boy ran in, crying out, that “St. Dennis was riding down the hill into the town; and, if you would not have the licence,” said the boy, “take care of yourself, Brannagan.” “_If you wouldn’t have the licence_,” Lord Colambre perceived, by what followed, meant, “_If you have not a licence_.” Brannagan immediately snatched an untasted glass of whiskey from a customer’s lips (who cried, murder!), gave it and the bottle he held in his hand to his wife, who swallowed the spirits, and ran away with the bottle and glass into some back hole; whilst the bystanders laughed, saying, “Well thought of, Peggy!” “Clear out all of you at the back door, for the love of Heaven, if you wouldn’t be the ruin of me,” said the man of the house, setting a ladder to a corner of the shop. “Phil, hoist me up the keg to the loft,” added he, running up the ladder; “and one of _yees_ step up street, and give Rose McGivney notice, for she’s selling, too.” The keg was hoisted up; the ladder removed; the shop cleared of all the customers; the shutters shut; the door barred; the counter cleaned. “Lift your stones, sir, if you plase,” said the wife, as she rubbed the counter, “and say nothing of what you _seen_ at all; but that you’re a stranger and a traveller seeking a lodging, if you’re questioned, or waiting to see Mr. Dennis. There’s no smell of whiskey in it now, is there, sir?” Lord Colambre could not flatter her so far as to say this--he could only hope no one would perceive it. “Oh, and if he would, the smell of whiskey was nothing,” as the wife affirmed, “for it was every where in nature, and no proof again’ any one, good or bad.”