The influence of the bottle now began to be felt, and the conversation absolutely blew a gale, wherein hearty laughter, good strong singing, loud argument, and general good humor blended into one uproarious peal of hilarity, accompanied by some smart flashes of wit and humor which would not disgrace a prouder banquet.  Phaddhy, in particular, melted into a spirit of the most unbounded benevolence—­a spirit that would (if by any possible means he could effect it) embrace the whole human race; that is to say, he would raise them, man, woman, and child, to the same elevated state of happiness which he enjoyed himself.  That, indeed, was happiness in perfection, as pure and unadulterated as the poteen which created it.  How could he be otherwise than happy?—­he had succeeded to a good property, and a stocking of hard guineas, without the hard labor of acquiring them; he had the “clargy” under his roof at last, partaking of a hospitality which he felt himself well able to afford them; he had settled with his Reverence for five years’ arrears of sin, all of which had been wiped out of his conscience by the blessed absolving hand of the priest; he was training up Briney for the Mission, and though last, not least, he was—­far gone in his seventh tumbler!

“Come, jinteels,” said he, “spare nothing here—­there’s lashings of every thing; thrate yourselves dacent, and don’t be saying tomorrow or next day, that ever my father’s son was nagerly.  Death alive, Father Con, what are you doin’?  Why, then, bad manners to me if that’ll sarve, any how.”

“Phaddhy,” replied Father Con, “I assure you I have done my duty.”

“Very well, Father Con, granting all that, it’s no sin to repate a good turn you know.  Not a word I’ll hear, yer Reverence—­one tumbler along with myself, if it was only for ould times.”  He then filled Father Con’s tumbler with his own hand, in a truly liberal spirit.  “Arrah, Father Con, do you remember the day we had the leapin’-match, and the bout at the shoulder-stone?”

“Indeed, I’ll not forget it, Phaddhy.”

“And it’s yourself that may say that; but I bleeve I rubbed the consate off of your Reverence—­only that’s betune ourselves, you persave.”

“You did win the palm, Phaddhy, I’ll not deny it; but you are the only man that ever bet me at either of the athletics.’

“And I’ll say this for yer Reverence, that you are one of the best and most able-bodied gintlemen I ever engaged with.  Ah!  Father Con, I’m past all that now—­but no matter, here’s yer Reverence’s health, and a shake. hands; Father Philomy, yer health, docthor:  yer strange Reverence’s health—­Captain Wilson, not forgetting you, sir:  Mr. Pettier, yours; and I hope to see you soon with the robes upon you, and to be able to prache us a good sarmon.  Parrah More—­wus dha lauv (* give me yer hand), you steeple you; and I haven’t the smallest taste of objection to what Father Philemy hinted at—­yell obsarve.  Kitty, you