uninitiated knew nothing.  The square, the line, the trowel, were not wanting, and the hammer was lying in front of the chair.  Labour, however, was over, and the time for refreshment having arrived, each of the stony brotherhood had a flagon before him; and when we mention that the Saints were Irish, and that St. Patrick in person was in the chair, it is not to be wondered at that the mitres, in some instances, hung rather loosely on the side of the heads of some of the canonized compotators.  Among the company were found St. Senanus of Limerick, St. Declan of Ardmore, St. Canice of Kilkenny, St. Finbar of Cork, St. Michan of Dublin, St. Brandon of Kerry, St. Fachnan of Ross, and others of that holy brotherhood; a vacant place, which completed the four-and-twentieth, was left for St. Colman, who, as every body knows, is of Cloyne; and he, having taken his seat, addressed the president, to inform him that he had brought the man.  The man (viz.  Larry himself) was awestruck with the company in which he so unexpectedly found himself; and trembled all over when, on the notice of his guide, the eight-and-forty eyes of stone were turned directly upon himself.  “You have just nicked the night to a shaving, Larry,” said St. Patrick:  “this is our chapter-night, and myself and brethren are here ’assembled on merry occasion.’—­You know who I am?” “God bless your reverence,” said Larry, “it’s I that do well.  Often did I see your picture hanging over the door of places where it is”—­lowering his voice—­“pleasanter to be than here, buried under an ould church.”  “You may as well say it out, Larry,” said St. Patrick; “and don’t think I’m going to be angry with you about it; for I was once flesh and blood myself.  But you remember, the other night, saying that you would think nothing of pulling your master out of purgatory, if you could get at him there, and appealing to me to stand by your words.

“Y-e-e-s,” said Larry, most mournfully; for he recollected the significant look he had received from the picture.  “And,” continued St. Patrick, “you remember also that I gave you a wink, which you know is as good, any day, as a nod—­at least, to a blind horse.”  “I’m sure, your reverence,” said Larry, with a beating heart, “is too much of a gintleman to hould a poor man hard to every word he may say of an evening, and therefore”—­“I was thinking so,” said the saint, “I guessed you’d prove a poltroon when put to the push.  What do you think, my brethren, I should do to this fellow?” A hollow sound burst from the bosoms of the unanimous assembly.  The verdict was short and decisive:—­“Knock out his brains!” And in order to suit the action to the word, the whole four-and-twenty arose at once, and with their immovable eyes fixed firmly on the face of our hero—­who horror struck with the sight as he was, could not close his—­they began to glide slowly but regularly towards him, bending their line into the form of a crescent, so as to environ him on all sides.  In