“No! no! no!” screamed Mrs Harvey, on whom the above delectable recital had had the desired effect, and who was worked into a desperate state of terror, “no more wine, gentlemen, if you please. Come, ladies, we must return at once, before evening closes in.” Each lady being perfectly satisfied that the gentleman who had fallen to her lot would keep sober, whatever _others_ might do, demurred to the early retreat; but Mrs Harvey was too much frightened at the prospect of returning with gentlemen and drivers drunk, not to be determined; and, accordingly, with much growling, and the most general dissatisfaction, the party broke up. “I am done with _pic-nics_--I’ll never have any thing to say to one again,” said the disappointed directress. “There never was any affair more perfectly arranged, never was so much care taken to have things regular. I never proposed to myself such enjoyment as I expected this day.” “My dear Mrs Harvey,” said O’Gorman, to whose countenance the last four or five shells of wine had imparted an air of the most profound wisdom, “my dear Mrs Harvey, ‘the whole art of happiness is _contentment_.’ This is the great secret of enjoyment in this life--this is the talisman that clothes poverty in imperial robes, and imparts to the hovel a grandeur unknown to the halls of princes--this is the true philosopher’s stone, for which alchymists so long have sought in vain, that converts all it touches into gold--this is the cosmetic that beautifies the ill-favoured wife, and the magic wand that bestows upon the frugal board the appearance of surpassing plenty--this is the shield of adamantine proof, on which disappointment vainly showers its keenest darts--this is the impregnable fortress, ensconced in which, we may boldly bid defiance to the combined forces of sublunary ills--and whether it be announced from the pulpit or the cliff, by the dignified divine or the college scamp; be it soothingly whispered in the ear of the deposed and exiled monarch, or tendered as comfort to the discomfited authoress of a _pic-nic_, it still retains, in undiminished force, its universality of application”---- Here Mr Sweeny facetiously gave him a slap on the crown of the hat, which drove it down, and stuck it gracefully over his eye, thereby breaking the thread of his discourse. He then addressed the fair Catherine; but all his eloquence and profundity were unavailing to induce her to return with him in the gig. She would listen to nothing but the carriage, and as room could not be made for him inside, he mounted the box, leaving the gig to any one that pleased to have it. Nor was it long untenanted. Frank Costello and Bill Nowlan mounted together, and were found in it next morning fast asleep, in the stable-lane behind Mr Sharpe’s house, the horse having found his way home when left to his own guidance.