Oh, genial and gladdening is the power of good ale, the true and proper drink of Englishmen.  He is not deserving of the name of Englishman who speaketh against ale, that is good ale, like that which has just made merry the hearts of this poor family; and yet there are beings, calling themselves Englishmen, who say that it is a sin to drink a cup of ale, and who, on coming to this passage will be tempted to fling down the book and exclaim, ’The man is evidently a bad man, for behold, by his own confession, he is not only fond of ale himself, but is in the habit of tempting other people with it.’  Alas! alas! what a number of silly individuals there are in this world; I wonder what they would have had me do in this instance—­given the afflicted family a cup of cold water? go to!  They could have found water in the road, for there was a pellucid spring only a few yards distant from the house, as they were well aware—­but they wanted not water; what should I have given them? meat and bread? go to!  They were not hungry; there was stifled sobbing in their bosoms, and the first mouthful of strong meat would have choked them.  What should I have given them?  Money! what right had I to insult them by offering them money?  Advice! words, words, words; friends, there is a time for everything; there is a time for a cup of cold water; there is a time for strong meat and bread; there is a time for advice, and there is a time for ale; and I have generally found that the time for advice is after a cup of ale.  I do not say many cups; the tongue then speaketh more smoothly, and the ear listeneth more benignantly; but why do I attempt to reason with you? do I not know you for conceited creatures, with one idea—­and that a foolish one;—­a crotchet, for the sake of which ye would sacrifice anything, religion if required—­country?  There, fling down my book, I do not wish ye to walk any farther in my company, unless you cast your nonsense away, which ye will never do, for it is the breath of your nostrils; fling down my book, it was not written to support a crotchet, for know one thing, my good people, I have invariably been an enemy to humbug.

‘Well,’ said the tinker, after we had discoursed some time, ’little thought, when I first saw you, that you were of my own trade.’

Myself.  Nor am I, at least not exactly.  There is not much difference, ’tis true, between a tinker and a smith.

Tinker.  You are a whitesmith then?

Myself.  Not I, I’d scorn to be anything so mean; no, friend, black’s the colour; I am a brother of the horse-shoe.  Success to the hammer and tongs.

Tinker.  Well, I shouldn’t have thought you had been a blacksmith by your hands.

Myself.  I have seen them, however, as black as yours.  The truth is, I have not worked for many a day.

Tinker.  Where did you serve first?

Myself.  In Ireland.