“A gentleman in disguise,” said a voice from the black hole.  “You’ll find some of your friends here.”

“You are right, my good fellow—­you are perfectly right;” said Ambrose, nodding with drunken gravity, as before; “high blood runs in my veins, and time will soon tell that; I shall stand and be returned for the town of Ballytrain, as soon as there comes a dissolution; I’m bent on that.”

“Bravo! hurra! a very proper member you’ll make for it,” from the black hole.

“And I shall have the Augean stables of these corrupt offices swept of their filth.  Ned, the scoundrel, shall be sent to the right about; Mr. Darby, for his honesty, shall have each wrist embraced by a namesake.”

Here he was shoved by Garvy, the watchman, head foremost into the black hole, after having received an impulse from behind, kindly intended to facilitate his ingress, which, notwithstanding his drunken ambition, the boast of his high blood, and mighty promises, was made with extraordinary want of dignity.

Although we have described this scene nearly in consecutive order, without the breaks and interruptions which took place whilst it proceeded, yet the reader should imagine to himself the outrage, the yelling, the clamor, the by-battles, and scurrilous contests in the lowest description of blackguardism with which it was garnished; thus causing it to occupy at least four times the period we have ascribed to it.  The simple-minded priest, who could never have dreamt of such an exhibition, scarcely knew whether he was asleep or awake, and sometimes asked himself whether it was not some terrible phantasm by which he was startled and oppressed.  The horrible impress of naked and hardened villany—­the light and mirthful delirium of crime—­the wanton manifestations of vice, in all its shapes, and the unblushing front of debauchery and profligacy—­constituted, when brought together in one hideous group, a sight which made his heart groan for human nature on the one hand, and the corruption of human law on the other.

“The contamination of vice here,” said he to himself, “is so concentrated and deadly, that innocence or virtue could not long resist its influence.  Alas! alas!”

Old Dunphy now made his appearance; but he had scarcely time to shake hands with the priest, when he heard himself addressed from between the bars of Gray’s limbo, with the words,

“I say, old Corbet, or Dunphy, or whatever the devil they call you; here’s a relation of yours by the mother’s side only, you old dog—­mark that; here I am, Ambrose Gray, a gentleman in disguise, as you well know; and I want you to bail me out.”

“An’ a respectable way you ax it,” said Dunphy, putting on his spectacles, and looking at him through the bars.

“Respect!  What, to a beggarly old huckster and kidnapper!  Why, you penurious slicer of musty bacon—­you iniquitous dealer in light weights—­what respect are you entitled to from me?  You know who I am—­and you must bail me.  Otherwise never expect, when the time comes, that I shall recognize you as a base relative, or suffer you to show your ferret face in my presence.”