At the door of “The Manx Fairy” the four riders were waiting with smoking horses. The first to arrive had been rewarded already with a bottle of rum. He had one other ancient privilege. As the coach drove up to the door, he stepped up to the bride with the wedding-cake and broke it over her head. Then there was a scramble for the pieces among the girls who gathered round her, that they might take them to bed and dream of a day to come when they should themselves be as proud and happy. The wedding-breakfast (a wedding-dinner) was laid in the loft of the mill, the chapel of The Christians. Cæsar sat at the head of the table, with Grannie on one side and Kate on the other. Pete sat next to Kate, and Philip next to Grannie. The parson sat at the foot with Nancy Joe, a lady of consequence, receiving much consideration, at his reverent right hand. Jonaique Jelly sat midway down the table, with a fine scorn on his features, for John the Clerk sat opposite with a fiddle gripped between his knees. The neighbours brought in the joints of beef and mutton, the chickens and the ducks. Cæsar and the parson carved. Black Tom, who had been invited by way of truce, served out the liquor from an eighteen-gallon cask, and sucked it up himself like the sole of an old shoe. Then Cæsar said grace, and the company fell to. Such noise, such sport, such chaff, such laughter! Everything was a jest--every word had wit in it. “How are you doing, John?”--“Haven't done as well for a month, sir; but what's it saying, two hungry meals make the third a glutton.”--“How are _you_ doing, Tom?”--“No time to get a right mouthful for myself Cæsar; kept so busy with the drink.”--“Aw, there'll be some with their top works hampered soon.”--“Got plenty, Jonaique?”--“Plenty, sir, plenty. Enough down here to victual a menagerie. It'll be Sunday every day of the week with the man that's getting the lavings.”--“Take a taste of this beef before it goes, Mr. Thomas Quilliam, or do you prefer the mutton?”--“I'm not partic'lar, Mr. Cregeen. Ateing's nothing to me but filling a sack that's empty.” Grannie praised the wedding service--it was lovely--it was beautiful--she didn't think the ould parzon could have made the like; but Cæsar criticised both church and clergy--couldn't see what for the cross on the pulpit and the petticoat on the parson. “Popery, sir, clane Popery,” he whispered across Grannie to Philip. Away went the shanks of mutton, the breasts of birds, and the slabs of beef, and up came an apple-pudding as round as a well-fed salmon, and as long as a twenty-pound cod. There was a shout of welcome. “None of your dynamite pudding that,--as green as grass and as sour as vinegar.”