_Catty._ True, your honour, see--scarce a symptom of a fature lift in the face here of little Charley of Killaspugbrone, with the b’ating he got from them McBrides, who bred the riot, entirely under Flourishing Phil, plase your honour. _Mr. Carv._ (_turning to PHIL McBRIDE._) Mr. Philip McBride, son of old Matthew, quite a substantial man,--I am really concerned, Philip, to see you, whom I looked upon as a sort of, I had almost said, _gentleman_-- _Catty._ _Gentleman!_ what sort? Is it because of the new topped boots, or by virtue of the silver-topped whip, and the bit of a red rag tied about the throat?--Then a gentleman’s asy made, now-a-days. _Young McB._ It seems ‘tis not so asy any way, now-a-days, to make a _gentlewoman_, Mrs. Rooney. _Catty._ (_springing forward angrily_) And is it me you mane, young man? _Randal._ Oh! mother, dear, don’t be aggravating. _Mr. Carv._ Clerk, why don’t you maintain silence? _Catty._ (_pressing before her son_) Stand back, then, Randal Rooney--don’t you hear _silence_?--don’t be brawling before his honour. Go back wid yourself to your pillar, or post, and fould your arms, and stand like a fool that’s in love, as you are.--I beg your honour’s pardon, but he’s my son, and I can’t help it.--But about our examinations, plase your honour, we’re all come to swear--here’s myself, and little Charley of Killaspugbrone, and big Briny of Cloon, and Ulick of Eliogarty--all ready to swear. _Mr. Carv._ But have these gentlemen no tongues of their own, madam? _Catty._ No, plase your honour, little Charley has no English tongue; he has none but the native Irish. _Mr. Carv._ Clerk, make out their examinations, with a translation; and interpret for Killaspugbrone. _Catty._ Plase your honour, I being the lady, expicted I’d get lave to swear first. _Mr. Carv._ And what would you swear, madam, if you got leave, pray?--be careful, now. _Catty._ I’ll tell you how it was out o’ the face, plase your honour. The whole Rooney faction-- _Mr. Carv._ _Faction!_--No such word in my presence, madam. _Catty._ Oh, but I’m ready to swear to it, plase your honour, in or out of the presence:--the whole Rooney faction--every Rooney, big or little, that was in it, was bet, and banished the town and fair of Ballynavogue, for no rason in life, by them McBrides there, them scum o’ the earth. _Mr. Carv._ Gently, gently, my good lady; no such thing in my presence, as scum o’ the earth. _Catty._ Well, Scotchmen, if your honour prefars. But before a Scotchman, myself would prefar the poorest spalpeen--barring it be Phil, the buckeen--I ax pardon (_curtsying_), if a buckeen’s the more honourable. _Mr. Carv._ Irrelevant in toto, madam; for buckeens and spalpeens are manners or species of men unknown to or not cognizable by the eye of the law; against them, therefore, you cannot swear: but if you have any thing against Philip McBride--