Jack Costigan was one of those gifted individuals who sleep at pleasure. He had a light conscience and a heavy head; and it there was one mortal annoyance that he abominated above the rest, it was to have any portion of “nature’s sweet restorative” abridged. Twice had his slumbers been invaded. He had let in one master dead drunk, and admitted the other, who had been belated. These were grievous visitations; but, like other misfortunes, they were over; and determined to make up, if possible, for broken sleep, Mr. Costigan once more sought his pillow, and for a season had been buried in “dreamless slumberings.” Alas! this Elysian state of sweet forgetfulness was presently dispelled. In successive vollies, sand struck the casement sharply; and “every pause between,” _a sotto voice_ appeal fell sluggishly upon the sleeper’s ear, requiring admission to the garrison. Now this was more than flesh and blood could stand. To two masters, as we said before, the butler had given admission, and both were disposed of as Christian men should be; and, as the fact is clearly understood in Ireland, and upon parliamentary authority too, that nothing can be in two places at once--barring a bird--it was quite clear that neither of the Prymes could be at one and the same time in bed and in the street. Of course, the intruder must be a stranger: he was on the right side to run away, namely, the wrong side of the hall-door--and there let him remain. Having come to this discreet resolution, and consigned the unknown to the especial care of that personage more genteelly known as “the gentleman in black,” Mr. Costigan once more turned on his pillow, determined to all further appeals to play deaf adder, and sleep like a watchman during the little time now left him. But the stranger would not be denied. A sharper volley rattled against the windows, and a voice came down the area, and softly but distinctly pronounced, “John Costigan, I pray thee to arise, and let me in--I am thy friend.” “Arrah, then, feaks,” observed the butler with a desperate yawn, “that’s my own name, sure enough; but to the divil I pitch such friendship, whoever ye are. I see that I’ll never stand the place; for of all the dens I ever was in, for a racketty hole this quaker’s bates them hollow. Wasn’t I for three months second waiter at the ‘Free and asy’ in Roscrea; and when the Blazers would tatter the house once a fortnight, why a man could get a little sleep, while the damage was repairin’; but here, there’s nothing but batteration. In tumbles the young chap blind drunk, and nearly breaks my back carryin’ him up stairs. Then in rowls the ould sinner, just off the ran-tan, wid a cock-and-bull story in his mouth about a broken coach, to blind that stiff-backed gentlewoman that owns him. Death and ‘nages! what a chate he is!--if one didn’t know his trick, he might think butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth--he’s so fair spoken: the ould decaver!”