When first I had the pleasure to see and hear Tim Callaghan, it was in the middle of winter, dark and dreary, and in a retired country place, where even the “vile screeching of the wry-necked fife” would have been welcome in lieu of better. Conceive our ecstacy, then, when the inspiring drone of the bagpipe startled our ears into attention and expectation! The very servants were clamorous in expressing their delight, and in beseeching that the piper should be brought into the house and entertained. The petition was granted, the minstrel was led in “nothing loth,” and seated in the hall. Well, Tim’s first essay at the _minister’s_ house was of course “the Boyne,” played very spiritedly and accurately on the whole, with the exception of a few rather essential notes that he omitted as unnecessary and troublesome, or (as the servants supposed) in consequence of the cold of his fingers; and finally they took him to the kitchen, and seated him opposite to a blazing fire. “Now he’ll play in airnest!” cried they, as one and all gathered round him in expectation of music. Our piper being now in the lower regions, among the inferior gentry, and willing to please all orders and conditions, begins to consider whether he shall repeat the “Boyne,” or commence the all-enlivening “Patrick’s Day.” “What _religion_ is the sarvints ov?” replied he at length to a little cow-boy gaping with wonder at the grand ornaments of the pipes. “They are ov all soarts, sur,” whispered Tommy in reply, and reddening all over at the great man’s especial notice. “Ov _all_ soarts!” mutters Tim significantly; then deciding instantly, with much solemnity of face and strength of arm he squeezed forth the conciliating “God save the King.” The butler listened awhile with the sapient air of a judge. “You’re a capitial performer, piper!” said he at length patronizingly, and with a hand on each hip; “an’ that’s a fine piece ov _Hannibal’s_ composition! but it is not shutable for all occashins, an’ a livelier air would agree with our timperament betther. Change it to somethin’ new.” And tucking his apron aside, he gallantly took the rosy tips of the housemaid’s fingers and led her out, while the gardener as politely handed forth the cook. The piper looked sullen, and still continued the national anthem as if he knew what he was about, and was determined to play out his tune. The butler’s dignity bristled up. “Railly,” he observed, and smiled superciliously, “we are very loyal people hereabouts, but at this pertickler moment we don’t want to join in a prayer for our _savren’s_ welfare! Stop that melancholic thing, man! an’ give us one of Jackson’s jigs.” “Out ov fashin,” quoth Tim sullenly, “_but I’ll give yez one as good_,” and “Patrick’s Day” set them all in motion for a quarter of an hour.