“Yes, sir, you are to imiteet _me_. But hould, sir; did you see me lick my lips or pull up my breeches? Be gorra, that’s shockin’ unswintemintal. First make a curchy, a bow I mane, to Miss Grauna. Stop agin, sir; are you goin’ to sthrangle the leedy? Why, one would think that it’s about to teek laive of her for ever you are. Gently, Misther Scanlan; gently, Mickey. There:--well, that’s an improvement. Practice, Misther Scanlan, practice will do all, Mickey; but don’t smack so loud, though. Hilloo, gintlemen! where’s our drawin’-room folk? Go out, one of you, for Misther an’ Mrs Paddy Corcoran.” Corcoran’s face now appears peeping in at the door, lit up with a comic expression of genuine fun, from whatever cause it may have proceeded. “Aisy, Misther Corcoran; an’ where’s Mrs Corcoran, sir?” “Are we both to come in together, masther?” “Certainly. Turn out both your toeses--turn them out, I say.” “Faix, sir, it’s aisier said than done wid some of us.” “I know that, Misther Corcoran; but practice is every thing. The bow legs are strongly against you, I grant. Hut tut, Misther Corcoran--why, if your toes wor where your heels is, you’d be exactly in the first position, Paddy. Well, both of you turn out your toeses; look street forward; clap your caubeen--hem!--your castor undher your ome (arm), an’ walk into the middle of the flure, wid your head up. Stop, take care o’ the post. Now, take your caubeen, castor I mane, in your right hand; give it a flourish. Aisy, Mrs Hanratty--Corcoran I mane--it’s not _you_ that’s to flourish. Well, flourish your castor, Paddy, and thin make a graceful bow to the company. Leedies and gintlemen”-- “Leedies and gintlemen”-- “I’m your most obadient sarvint”-- “I’m your most obadient sarwint.” “Tuts, man alive! that’s not a bow. Look at this: _there’s_ a bow for you. Why, instead of meeking a bow, you appear as if you wor goin’ to sit down wid an embargo (lumbago) in your back. Well, practice is every thing; an’ there’s luck in leisure. “Dick Doorish, will you come up, and thry if you can meek any thing of that threblin’ step. You’re a purty lad, Dick; you’re a purty lad, Misther Doorish, wid a pair o’ left legs an you, to expect to larn to dance; but don’t despeer, man alive. I’m not afeard but I’ll meek a graceful slip o’ you yet. Can you meek a curchy?” “Not right, sir. I doubt.”