Somebody,--I think Shenstone,--after insinuating that he had travelled “earth’s dull round,” declares that “the warmest welcome’s in an inn.” Well, that may be the case; but the wayfarer cunningly passes over that brief but painful moment when the bell is gently touched, and a bill reluctantly requested with all the indifference a man in such circumstances can assume. That unlucky period had arrived. The sergeant inquired “what was to pay?” and the hostess responded, by producing a huge slate, and pointing to a long array of figures scored to the debit of the commander. At the sight of this, the countenance of the worthy man underwent a striking elongation; and he who beneath the withering glance of the conqueror of Lodi had not blanched, became pale as a ghost while he gazed on the hieroglyphics of the lady of the Cock and Punch-bowl. The commander shook his head, and the shake was significant; while the fifer stoutly affirmed that the whole of the nocturnal symposium had been charged against the protectors of the realm. “Arrah, what balderdash!” exclaimed the hostess; “don’t ye see four and eightpence agin the Carneys, wid a cross upon it, because it’s ped? Mr. O’Toole goes free; and there’s fairly against ye all, two and fourpence for ating, and eleven and ninepence for the drink.” But the charge of foot, even from the drum-boy to the commander, persisted in protestations of incredulity; and Mrs. O’Leary, irritated that the accuracy of her reckoning should be doubted, gave indications of a “flare-up” which might have brought about another general engagement. “Bad luck attend yes for a set of thieves! Wasn’t it enough for ye to tatter my consarn, without bilkin me of my bill?” In Ireland, questions are answered by interrogatories; and if you ask the way to a place, the reply will probably be an inquiry as to whether you “met a donkey on the road, or noticed a blind woman with twins upon her back?” “Who tattered y’er consarn?” responded the sergeant. “Who knocked the fire out of my eye wid a clod of turf as hard as a paving stone?” inquired a recruit. “Who druv me thro’ the drum-head?” screamed the boy. “Who split my lip?” demanded the fifer. “Don’t be bothering me about y’er drums and y’er misfortins!” replied the hostess, cold to the losses thus sustained in person and property by her unhappy visitors; “but for once in y’er lives, be honest, and down wid the reckoning.”