Having made a hasty toilet, I proceeded to the parlour, which, however late events might have impressed upon my memory, I could scarcely recognise. Instead of the long oak table and the wassail bowl, there stood near the fire a small round table, covered with a snow—white cloth, upon which shone in unrivalled brightness a very handsome tea equipage—the hissing kettle on one hob was vis a vis’d by a gridiron with three newly taken trout, frying under the reverential care of Father Malachi himself—a heap of eggs ranged like shot in an ordnance yard, stood in the middle of the table, while a formidable pile of buttered toast browned before the grate—the morning papers were airing upon the hearth—every thing bespoke that attention to comfort and enjoyment one likes to discover in the house where chance may have domesticated him for a day or two. “Good morning, Mr. Lorrequer. I trust you have rested well,” said Father Malachi as I entered. “Never better; but where are our friends?” “I have been visiting and comforting them in their affliction, and I may with truth assert it is not often my fortune to have three as sickly looking guests. That was a most unlucky affair last night, and I must apologise.” “Don’t say a word, I entreat; I saw how it all occurred, and am quite sure if it had not been for poor Curzon’s ill-timed melody—” “You are quite right,” said the father interrupting me. “Your friend’s taste for music—bad luck to it—was the ‘teterrima causa belli.’” “And the subscription,” said I; “how did it succeed?” “Oh, the money went in the commotion; and although I have got some seven pounds odd shillings of it, the war was a most expensive one to me. I caught old Mahony very busy under the table during the fray; but let us say no more about it now—draw over your chair. Tea or coffee? there’s the rum if you like it ‘chasse.’” I immediately obeyed the injunction, and commenced a vigorous assault upon the trout, caught, as he informed me, “within twenty perches of the house.” “Your poor friend’s nose is scarcely regimental,” said he, “this morning; and as for Fin, he was never remarkable for beauty, so, though they might cut and hack, they could scarcely disfigure him, as Juvenal says—isn’t it Juvenal? “‘Vacuus viator cantabit ante Latronem;’ “or in the vernacular: “‘The empty traveller may whistle Before the robber and his pistil’ (pistol).” “There’s the Chili vinegar—another morsel of the trout?” “I thank you; what excellent coffee, Father Malachi!” “A secret I learned at St. Omer’s some thirty years since. Any letters, Bridget?”—to a damsel that entered with a pacquet in her hand. “A gossoon from Kilrush, y’r reverence, with a bit of a note for the gentleman there.”