“That’s Billy Crow’s own whiskey, the ‘small still,’” said Nicholas, placing the decanter upon the table, “make much of it, for there isn’t such dew in the county.”

With this commendation upon the liquor, Nicholas departed, and we proceeded to fill our glasses.

I cannot venture—­perhaps it is so much the better that I cannot—­to give any idea of the conversation which at once broke out, as if the barriers that restrained it had at length given way.  But law talk in all its plenitude, followed; and for two hours I heard of nothing but writs, detainers, declarations, traverses in prox, and alibis, with sundry hints for qui tam processes, interspersed, occasionally, with sly jokes about packing juries and confusing witnesses, among which figured the usual number of good things attributed to the Chief Baron O’Grady and the other sayers of smart sayings at the bar.

“Ah!” said Mr. Daly, drawing a deep sigh at the same instant—­“the bar is sadly fallen off since I was called in the year seventy-six.  There was not a leader in one of the circuits at that time that couldn’t puzzle any jury that ever sat in a box; and as for driving through an act of parliament, it was, as Sancho Panza says, cakes and gingerbread to them.  And then, there is one especial talent lost for ever to the present generation—­just like stained glass and illuminated manuscripts, and slow poisons and the like—­that were all known years ago—­I mean the beautiful art of addressing the judge before the jury, and not letting them know you were quizzing them, if ye liked to do that same.  Poor Peter Purcell for that—­rest his ashes—­he could cheat the devil himself, if he had need—­and maybe he has had before now, Peter is sixteen years dead last November.”

“And what was Peter’s peculiar tact in that respect, Mr. Daly?” said I.

“Oh, then I might try for hours to explain it to you in vain; but I’ll just give you an instance that’ll show you better than all my dissertations on the subject, and I was present myself when it happened, more by token, it was the first time I ever met him on circuit;—­”

“I suppose there is scarcely any one here now, except myself, that remembers the great cause of Mills versus Mulcahy, a widow and others, that was tried in Ennis, in the year ’82.  It’s no matter if there is not.  Perhaps it may be more agreeable for me, for I can tell my story my own version, and not be interrupted.  Well, that was called the old record, for they tried it seventeen times.  I believe, on my conscience, it killed old Jones, who was in the Common Pleas; he used to say, if he put it for trial on the day of judgment, one of the parties would be sure to lodge an appeal.  Be that as it may, the Millses engaged Peter special, and brought him down with a great retainer, in a chaise and four, flags flying, and favors in the postillions’ hats, and a fiddler on the roof playing the ‘hare in the corn.’  The inn was illuminated the