“'Mick,' says he, 'oysthers don't marry.' “'Ye live mighty like a hermit, in your cell there,' says I. “'Mighty like,' says he. “'I suppose, you have your beads too, and you count them,' says I. “'I suppose I don't,' says he; 'for I've but one.' “'Troth, and that's a thumper thin,' says I, peeping into his little parlour: and there, sure enough, was a pearl big enough to be the making of me, and all the seed and breed of me, past, present, and to come, hanging by a bit of sea-weed round his neck. “'Do you know what, Mick?' says he; I'm sick o' the world, Mick; and I'm half inclined to give you lave to ate me.' “'Sir,' says I, taking off my hat, 'I'm much obliged to you for nothing at all. It's meeself manes to ate your honour, with or without lave,--so I do.' “'Is it yourself, Mick?' “'Faith! and it is thin,--though I say it; for I'm hungry:--and, after that, I mane to take the big pearl, I see there about your neck.' “'Mick, you're a reprobate!--Sure, you would'nt be so un-genteel, as to ate a gentleman against his own inclination, would you?' “'Meeself would thin, and think it no sin, in case the gentleman was a plump little oysther, like your honour.' “'Then, Mick, I wish you good evening!' “'Oh, joy!' says I, seeing how he was going to shut himself in; 'it's of no use, sir, to do so:--I've a knife in my pocket, and it's not burglary in this country to break into the house of an oysther.' “'Mick,' says he; 'an oysther's house is his castle.' “'Castle I' says I; 'is it a castle?--two shells, with a little face in the middle o' them, a castle?--Thin what's my cabin below but a palace?' “'A pig's palace, it is, Mick,' says he. “'Musha! bad luck thin,' says 1, 'to every bit of you--' “'Ah! Mick,' says he, interrupting me, 'if I was half your size, I'd bate you blue, so I would.--You're a dirty cur, and so was your father before you.' “'Say that again,' says I; 'say my father was a cur, sir, again, and I'd be obliged to you:--just say it now, and see how soon I'll break every bone in your skin.' “'Bone!' says he; 'sorrow the bit of bone is in me at all!' says he.--'Do you know anything of anatomy, Mick?' “'An atomy!--that's a thing smaller than a mite, isn't it?' “'Arrah! no, man: don't you know what nerves and muscles manes?' “'Nerves meeself knows little about; but is it muscles? Och! thin, didn't I get a bag-full below on the beach, this day se'nnight? Tell me, sir, if you plaze,--is a muscle any relation to your honour?' “'Ah! Mick,' says he; 'would you insult me?--sure we trace our pedigree up to the days of King Fergus; and the muscles wasn't known for whole ages after: they're fishes of yesterday,--mushrooms o' the ocean:--d--n the one o'thim knows whether or no he ever had a great-grandmother!--Mick, this is a bad upstart world we live in.'