"You sit up so late reading, grandmamma."

"Ah, who can resist the fascination of the muses? You are fond of literature, I hope, sir?"

"Extwemely," replied Furlong.

"As a statesman," continued the old lady--to whom Furlong made a deep obeisance at the word "statesman"--"as a statesman, of course your reading lies in the more solid department; but if you ever _do_ condescend to read a romance, there is the sweetest thing I ever met I am just now engaged in; it is called 'The Blue Robber of the Pink Mountain.' I have not come to the pink mountain yet, but the blue robber is the most perfect character. The author, however, is guilty of a strange forgetfulness; he begins by speaking of the robber as of the middle age, and soon after describes him as a young man. Now, how could a young man be of the middle age?"

"It seems a stw.a.n.ge inaccuwacy," lisped Furlong. "But poets sometimes pwesume on the pwivelege they have of doing what they please with their hewoes."

"Quite true, sir. And talking of heroes, I hope the Knights of St.

Patrick are well--I do admire them so much!--'t is so interesting to see their banners and helmets hanging up in St. Patrick's Cathedral, that venerable pile!--with the loud peal of the organ--sublime--isn't it?--the banners almost tremble in the vibration of the air to the loud swell of the 'A-a-a-men!'--the very banners seem to wave 'Amen!' Oh, that swell is so fine!--I think they are fond of swells in the choir; they have a good effect, and some of the young men are so good looking!--and the little boys, too--I suppose they are choristers'

children?"

The old lady made a halt, and Furlong filled up the pause by declaring, "He weally couldn't say."

"I hope you admire the service at St. Patrick's?" continued the old lady.

"Ye-s, I think St. Paytwick's a vewy amusing place of wo'ship."

"Amusing," said the old lady, half offended. "Inspiring, you mean; not that I think the sermon interesting, but the anthem!--oh, the anthem, it is so fine!--and the old banners, those are my delight--the dear banners covered with dust!"

"Oh, as far as that goes," said Furlong, "they have impwoved the cathedwal vewy much, fo' they white-washed it inside, and put up _noo_ banners."

"Whitewash and new banners!" exclaimed the indignant dowager; "the Goths! to remove an atom of the romantic dust! I would not have let a house-maid into the place for the world! But they have left the anthem, I hope?"

"Oh, yes; the anthem is continued, but with a small diffewence:--they used to sing the anthem befo' the se'mon, but the people used to go away afte' the anthem and neve' waited fo' the se'mon, and the bishop, who is pwoud of his pweaching, orde'ed the anthem to be postponed till afte' the se'mon."

"Oh, yes," said the old lady, "I remember, now, hearing of that, and some of the wags in Dublin saying the bishop was jealous of old Spray;[16] and didn't somebody write something called 'Pulpit versus Organloft'?"

[16] One of the finest tenors of the last century.

"I cawn't say."

"Well, I am glad you like the cathedral, sir; but I wish they had not dusted the banners; I used to look at them all the time the service went on--they were so romantic! I suppose you go there every Sunday?"

"I go in the summe'," said Furlong; "the place is _so_ cold in the winte'."

"That's true indeed," responded the Dowager, "and it's quite funny, when your teeth are chattering with cold, to hear Spray singing, 'Comfort ye, my people;' but, to be sure, _that_ is almost enough to warm you. You are fond of music, I perceive?"

"Vewy!"

"_I_ play the guitar--(citra--cithra--or lute, as it is called by poets). I sometimes sing, too. Do you know 'The la.s.s with the delicate air'? a sweet ballad of the old school--my instrument once belonged to Dolly Bland, the celebrated Mrs. Jordan now--ah, there, sir, is a brilliant specimen of Irish mirthfulness--what a creature she is! Hand me my lute, child," she said to her granddaughter; and having adjusted the blue ribbon over her shoulder, and twisted the tuning-pegs, and thrummed upon the wires for some time, she made a prelude and cleared her throat to sing "The la.s.s with the delicate air," when the loud whirring of the clock-wheels interrupted her, and she looked up with great delight at a little door in the top of the clock, which suddenly sprang open, and out popped a wooden bird.

"Listen to my bird, sir," said the old lady.

The sound of "cuckoo" was repeated twelve times, the bird popped in again, the little door closed, and the monotonous tick of the clock continued.

"That's my little bird, sir, that tells me secrets; and now, sir, you must leave me; I never receive visits after twelve. I can't sing you 'The la.s.s with the delicate air' to-day, for who would compete with the feathered songsters of the grove? and after my sweet little warbler up there, I dare not venture: but I will sing it for you to-morrow. Good morning, sir. I am happy to have had the honour of making your acquaintance." She bowed Furlong out very politely, and as her granddaughter was following, she said, "My love, you must not forget some seeds for my little bird." Furlong looked _rather_ surprised, for he saw no bird but the one in the clock; the young lady marked his expression, and as she closed the door she said, "You must not mind grandmamma; you know she is sometimes a little queer."

Furlong was now handed over to the boys, to show him over the domain; and they, young imps as they were, knowing he was in no favour with their father, felt they might treat him as ill as they pleased, and quiz him with impunity. The first portion of Furlong's penance consisted in being dragged through dirty stable-yards and out-houses, and shown the various pets of all the parties; dogs, pigeons, rabbits, weasels, et caetera, were paraded, and their qualities expatiated upon, till poor Furlong was quite weary of them, and expressed a desire to see the domain. Horatio, the second boy, whose name was abbreviated to Ratty, told him they must wait for Gusty, who was mending his spear.

"We're going to spear for eels," said the boy; "did you ever spear for eels?"

"I should think not," said Furlong, with a knowing smile, who suspected this was intended to be a second edition of quizzing _a la mode de saumon_.

"You think I'm joking," said the boy, "but it's famous sport, I can tell you; but if you're tired of waiting here, come along with me to the milliner's, and we can wait for Gusty there."

While following the boy, who jumped along to the tune of a jig he was whistling, now and then changing the whistle into a song to the same tune, with very odd words indeed, and a burden of gibberish ending with "riddle-diddle-dow," Furlong wondered what a milliner could have to do in such an establishment, and his wonder was not lessened when his guide added, "The milliner is a queer chap, and maybe he'll tell us something funny."

"Then the milline' is a man?" said Furlong.

"Yes," said the boy, laughing; "and he does not work with needle and thread either."

They approached a small out-house as he spoke, and the sharp clinking of a hammer fell on the ear. Shoving open a rickety door, the boy cried, "Well, Fogy, I've brought a gentleman to see you. This is Fogy, the milliner, sir," said he to Furlong, whose surprise was further increased, when, in the person of the man called the milliner, he beheld a tinker.

"What a strange pack of people I have got amongst," thought Furlong.

The old tinker saw his surprise, and grinned at him. "I suppose it was a nate young woman you thought you'd see when he towld you he'd bring you to the milliner--ha! ha! ha! Oh, they're nate lads, the Master O'Gradys; divil a thing they call by the proper name, at all."

"Yes, we do," said the boy, sharply; "we call ourselves by our proper name. Ha! Fogy, I have you there."

"Divil a taste, as smart as you think yourself, Masther Ratty; you call yourselves gentlemen, and that's not your proper name."

Ratty, who was sc.r.a.ping triangles on the door with a piece of broken brick, at once converted his pencil into a missile, and let fly at the head of the tinker, who seemed quite prepared for such a result, for, raising the kettle he was mending, he caught the shot adroitly, and the brick rattled harmlessly on the tin.

"Ha!" said the tinker, mockingly, "you missed me, like your mammy's blessin';" and he pursued his work.

"What a very odd name he calls you," said Furlong, addressing young O'Grady.

"Ratty," said the boy. "Oh, yes, they call me Ratty, short for Horatio.

I was called Horatio after Lord Nelson, because Lord Nelson's father was a clergyman, and papa intends me for the Church."

"And a nate clargy you'll make," said the tinker.

"And why do they call you milline'?" inquired Furlong. The old man looked up and grinned, but said nothing.

"You'll know before long, I'll engage," said Ratty; "won't he, Fogy?

You were with old Gran' to-day, weren't you?"

"Yes."

"Did she sing to you 'The la.s.s with the delicate air'?" said the boy, putting himself in the att.i.tude of a person playing the guitar, throwing up his eyes, and mimicking the voice of an old woman--

"So they call'd her, they call'd her, The la.s.s--the la.s.s With a delicate air, De--lick-it--lick-it--lick-it The la.s.s with a de--lick-it air."

The young rascal made frightful mouths, and put out his tongue every time he said "lick-it," and when he had finished, asked Furlong, "Wasn't that the thing?" Furlong told him his grandmamma had been going to sing it, but this pleasure had been deferred till to-morrow.

"Then you did not hear it?" said Ratty.