"Don't say, Tommy !" said the doctor, in an irascible tone; "call the man Toм, sir;-with all my heart, Toм MOORE!"

The table took the word from Jack Growling, and " Tom Moore," with all the honours of "hip and hurra," rang round the walls of the village inn ;-and where is the village in Ireland, that health has not been hailed with the fiery enthusiasm of the land whose lays he hath "wedded to immortal verse," that land which is proud of his birth, and holds his name in honour.

There is a magic in a great name; and in this instance, that of Tom Moore turned the current from where it was setting, and instead of quizzing the nonsense of the fool who had excited their mirth, every one launched forth in praise of their native bard, and couplets from his favourite songs, ran from lip to lip.

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Come, Ned of the Hill," said Murphy, "sing us one of his songsI know you have them all as pat as your prayers"

"And says them oftener," said the doctor, who still continued scribbling over the letter.

Edward, at the urgent request of many, sang that most exquisite of the Melodies, "And doth not a meeting like this make amends ?" and long rang the plaudits, and rapidly circulated the bottle, at its conclusion.

"We'll be the Alps in the sun-set,' my boys," said Murphy," and here's the wine to enlighten us!-But what are you about there, doctor? is it a prescription you are writing?"

"No. Prescriptions are written in Latin, and this is a bit of Greek I'm doing. Mr. Reddy has inspired me with a classic spirit, and if you will permit me, I'll volunteer a song, [Bravo! Bravo!] and give you another version of the subject he has so beautifully treated; only mine is not so heart-breaking."

The doctor's proposition was received with cheers, and after he had gone through the mockery of clearing his throat, and pitching his voice after the usual manner of your would-be-fine singers, he gave out, to the tune of a well-known rollicking Irish lilt, the following burlesque version of the subject of Reddy's song:

Enliven'd her sinking heart's cockles, I think;

So the MORAL is plain,

That if love gives you pain,

There's nothing can cure it like taking to dhrink!

Uproarious were the "bravos" which followed the doctor's impromptu; the glasses overflowed, and were emptied to his health and song, as laughing faces nodded to him round the table. The doctor sat seriously rocking himself in his chair backwards and forwards, to meet the various duckings of the beaming faces about him; for every face beamed, but one-and that was the unfortunate M'Garry's. He was most deplorably drunk, and began to hold on by the table. At last he contrived to shove back his chair and get on his legs; and making a sloping stagger towards the wall, contrived by its support to scramble his way to the door. There he balanced himself as well as he could by the handle of the lock, which chance, rather than design, enabled him

E

to turn, and the door suddenly opening, poor M'Garry made a rush across the landing-place, and stumbling against an opposite door, would have fallen, had he not supported himself by the lock of that also, which again yielding to his heavy tugs, opened, and the miserable wretch making another plunge forward, his shins came in contact with the rail of a very low bed, and into it he fell head foremost, totally unable to rise, and after some heavy grunts, he sank into a profound sleep.

In this state he was discovered soon after by Murphy, whose inventive faculty for frolic instantly suggested how the apothecary's mishap might be made the foundation of a good practical joke. Murtough went down stairs, and procuring some blacking and red pickled cabbage, by stealth, returned to the chamber where M'Garry now lay in a state of stupor, and dragging off his clothes, he made long dabs across his back with the purple juice of the pickle, and Warren's paste, till poor M'Garry was as regularly striped as a tiger, from his shoulder to his flank. He then returned to the dinner-room, where the drinking bout had assumed a formidable character, and others, as well as the apothecary, began to feel the influence of their potations. Murphy confided to the doctor what he had done, and said, that when the men were drunk enough, he would contrive that M'Garry should be discovered, and then they would take their measures accordingly. It was not very long before his company were ripe enough for his designs, and then ringing the bell, he demanded of the waiter, when he entered, what had become of Mr. M'Garry? The waiter, not having any knowledge on the subject, was desired to inquire, and a search being instituted, M'Garry was discovered by Mrs. Fay in the state Murphy had left him in. On seeing him, she was so terrified that she screamed, and ran into the dinner-room, wringing her hands, and shouting, "Murder!" "Murder!" A great commotion ensued, and a general rush to the bed-room took place, and exclamations of wonder and horror flew round the room, not only from the gentlemen of the dinner-party, but from the servants of the house, who crowded to the chamber on the first alarm, and helped not a little to increase the confusion.

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Oh, who ever see the like of it!" shouted Mrs. Fay. "He's kilt with the batin' he got! Oh, look at him!-black and blue all over!Oh, the murther it is! Oh, I wouldn't be Squire O'Grady for all his fort'n."

"Gad, I believe he's killed, sure enough," said Murphy.

"What a splendid action the widow will have!" said Jack Horan. "You forget, man," said Murphy, "this is not a case for action of damages, but a felony-hanging matter."

"Sure enough,” said Jack.

"Doctor, will you feel his pulse ?" said Murphy.

The doctor did as he was required, and assumed a very serious countenance. ""Tis a bad business, sir :-his wounds are mortifying already."

Upon this announcement, there was a general retreat from the bed round which they had been crowding too close for the carrying on of the joke; and Mrs. Fay ran for a shovel of hot cinders, and poured vinegar over them, to fumigate the room.