“Upon my word that’s wit,” observed the young blue-stocking.

“What’s your opinion of Irishwomen?” the lady continued; “are they handsomer than the English ladies, think you?”

“Murdher, my lady,” says Phil, raising his caubeen, and scratching his head in pretended perplexity, with his linger and thumb, “fwhat am I to say to that, ma’am, and all of yez to the fwhore?  But the sarra one av me will give it agin the darlin’s beyant.”

“But which do you think the more handsome?”

“Thrath, I do, my lady; the Irish and English women would flog the world, an’ sure it would be a burnin’ shame to go to sot them agin one another fwhor beauty.”

“Whom do you mean by the ‘darlin’s beyant?’” inquired the blue-stocking, attempting to pronounce the words.

“Faix, miss, who but the crathers ower the wather, that kills us entirely, so they do.”

“I cannot comprehend him,” she added to the lady of the mansion.

“Arrah, maybe I’d make bould to take up the manners from you fwhor a while, my lady, Plase yer haner?” said Phil, addressing the latter.

“I do not properly understand you,” she replied, “speak plainer.”

“Troth, that’s fwhat they do, yer haner; they never go about the bush wit yez—­the gintlemen, ma’am, of our country, fwhin they do be coortin’ yez; an’ I want to ax, ma’am, if you plase, fwhat you think of thim, that is if ever any of them had the luck to come acrass you, my lady?”

“I have not been acquainted with many Irish gentlemen,” she replied, “but I hear they are men of a remarkable character.”

“Faix, ’tis you may say that,” replied Phil; “sowl, my lady, ’tis well for the masther here, plase yer haner, sir, that none o’ them met wit the misthress before you was both marrid, or, wit riverence be it spoken, ‘tis the sweet side o’ the tongue they’d be layin’ upon you, ma’am, an’ the rough side to the masther himself, along wit a few scrapes of a pen on a slip o’ paper, jist to appoint the time and place, in regard of her ladyship’s purty complexion—­an’ who can deny that, any way?  Faix, ma’am, they’ve a way wit them, my counthrymen, that the ladies like well enough to thravel by.  Asy, you deludher, an’ me in conwersaytion wit the quality.”

“I am quite anxious to know how you came by the pig, Paddy,” said the wit.

“Arrah, miss, sure ‘tisn’t pigs you’re thinkin’ on, an’ us discoorsin’ about the gintlemen from Ireland, that you’re all so fond ow here; faix, miss, they’re the boys that fwoight for yees, an’ ’ud rather be bringing an Englishman to the sad fwhor your sakes, nor atin’ bread an’ butther.  Fwhy, now, miss, if you were beyant wit us, sarra ounce o’ gunpqwdher we’d have in no time, for love or money.”

“Upon my word I should like to see Ireland!” exclaimed the blue-stocking; “but why would the gunpowder get scarce, pray?”

“Faix, fightin’ about you, miss, an’ all of yez, sure; for myself sees no differ at all in your hanerable fwhormations of beauty and grandheur, an’ all high-flown admirations.”