“Show,” said Val; “upon my life it is not.  You are right, Maguire; but the truth is, M’Slime, that while speaking on any subject that affects Lord Cumber’s interests, I am scarcely conscious of doing anything else.  Now, sir,” he proceeded, addressing Maguire, with a brow like midnight; “there is your receipt—­bring it home—­show it to your family—­and tell them it is the last of the kind you will ever receive on the property of Lord Cumber.  I shall let you know, sir, that I am somewhat stronger than you are.”

“That’s all to be proved yet, sir,” said the sturdy farmer:  “you know the proverb, sir—­’man proposes, but God disposes.’”

“What do you mean, sirra?  What language is this to my father?  Be off to h—­l or Connaught, sir, or we’ll make it worse for you—­ha!—­bow-wow.”  He did not utter the last interjection, but his face expressed it.

“That’s not the religious individual I took him to be,” said Solomon; “there is much of the leaven of iniquity in him.”

“Religion be hanged, M’Slime!” said Phil, “what religion could you expect a Papist like him to have?”

“M’Murt, call in old Paddy Corrigan.”

A venerable old man, who, though nearly a hundred years old, stood actually as erect as the Apollo Belvidere himself, now entered.  He was, however, but poorly clad, and had nothing else remarkable about him, with the exception of a rich wig, which would puzzle any one to know how it had got upon his head.  On entering, he took off his hat as usual, and paid his salutation.

“What the devil do you mean, Corrigan?” said Phil, once more in a fluster; “what kind of respect is that in our presence?—­what kind of respect is that, I say?  Take off your wig, sir.”

“With great respect to you, sir,” replied Corrigan, “I have been in as jinteel company as this, and it’s the first time ever I was axed to take my wig off.”

“Phil,” said Val, who really felt somewhat ashamed of this ignorant and tyrannical coxcomb, “Phil, my good boy, I think you are rather foolish—­never mind him, Paddy, he is only jesting.”

“Are not you the man?” asked Solomon, “in whom our rector, Mr. Lucre, takes such a deep and Christian interest?”

“I am, sir,” returned Corrigan.

“And pray, what interest does he take in you?” said Val.

“Troth, sir,” replied Paddy, “he is very kind and very good to me.  Indeed, he’s the generous gentleman, and the good Christian, that doesn’t forget Paddy Corrigan.”

“But, Paddy, what does he do for you?” asked the agent.

“Why, sir,” replied Corrigan, “he gives:  me a cast-off wig once a year, God bless him!—­This is his I have on me.  Throth, ever since I began to wear them I feel a strong-relish for beef and mutton, and such fine feedin’; but somehow, God forgive me, I! haven’t the same leanin’ to devotion that I used to have.”

“Paddy, my old boy,” said Phil, “that alters the case altogether.  I thought the wig was as Popish as yourself; but had I known that it was a staunch and constitutional concern, of sound High Church principle, I should have treated it with respect.  I might have known, indeed, that it could not be a Popish one, Paddy, for I see it has the thorough Protestant curl.”