good humor, and escape the shame of the thing, together with the poverty it implies, by turning it into ridicule and jest. This indeed, is pretty evident, from the nature of the spoileen keeper's observations on being paid, which is usually—"Thank you, Barney; you may now considher yourself a gintleman;" or if a female—"Long life to you, Bridget; you may now go into high life any time."

It is unnecessary to say, that on the day in question, the spoileen tents were crowded to suffocation. In general these are pretty large, sometimes one, occasionally two fires being kept in each; over these, placed upon three large stones, or suspended from three poles, united at top, is the pot or pots in which the spoileen is boiled; whilst patiently in a corner of the tent, stand the poor invalid sheep, that are doomed, as necessity may require, to furnish forth this humorous entertainment.

Truth to tell, there are many reasons why this feast is a comic one. In the first place, the description of mutton which they get is badly calculated to prejudice honest Paddy in favor of that food in general, it being' well known that in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred, the sacrifice falls upon disease, poverty, and extreme old age; or, if there be any manifestation of humanity in the selection, it is—that while the tenderer sex is spared, the male one is in general certain to be made the victim, but never unless when he has been known to reach a most patriarchal length of years. Then the suddenness of the act which converts a portion of the venerable patriarch into a component part of honest Paddy, is equally remarkable; for it generally happens that the animal now standing in a corner of the tent, will in about half an hour be undergoing the process of assimilation in his (Paddy's) gastric region. The elastic quality of the meat is indeed extraordinary, and such as, with the knowledge of that fact, does sometimes render Paddy's treat of spoileen to his sweetheart an act of very questionable gallantry. Be this as it may, there is scarcely anything in life richer than to witness a tent of spoileen eaters in full operation. Tugging, pulling, dragging, tearing, swinging of the head from side to side, want of success, loss of temper, fatigue of jaw, recovery of good humor, and the wolfish rally, mingled with mock curses, loud laughter, shouting and singing, all going on together, are the ordinary characteristics of this most original banquet.

About the centre of the town stood one of those houses of entertainment which holds rank in such towns as a second rate inn. On the day in question it was painfully overcrowded, and such was the hubbub of loud talk, laughter, singing, roaring, clattering of pewter pots, and thumping of tables, that it was almost impossible to hear or understand anything in the shape of conversation. To this, however, there was one exception. A small closet simply large enough to hold a table, and two short forms, opened from a room above stairs looking into the stable yard. In this there was a good fire, at which sat two men, being, with a bed and small table, nearly as many as it was capable of holding with ease.

One of these was a stout, broad-shouldered person, a good deal knock-kneed, remarkably sallow in the complexion, with brows black and beetling. He squinted, too, with one eye, and what between this circumstance, a remarkably sharp but hooked nose, and the lowering brows aforesaid, there was altogether about him a singular expression of acuteness and malignity. In every sense he was a person against whom you would feel disposed to guard yourself, whether in the ordinary intercourse of life and its transactions, or still more in the secret workings of the darker and more vindictive passions. He was what they call a down-looking man; that is, one who in conversation could never look you straight in the face, which fact, together with a habit of quivering observable in his upper lip, when any way agitated, gave unquestionable proof that his cowardice was equal to his malignity, as his treachery was to both. His age might be about fifty, or, perhaps beyond it.

The other was a tall man, well featured, of a clear fresh complexion, a fine blue eye, and altogether, a kind, benevolent expression of countenance. He had been rather stout, but not robust, and might, perhaps, at the time we write of, be about the same age as his companion. He was evidently a man of respectability, well dressed, not badly educated, and on the present occasion wore good broadcloth and top boots. The contrast between him and the other, was in nothing more striking than the honest, joyous spirit of his laughter, which rang clearly and mellowly on your ear, leaving behind it an expression of candor, light-heartedness, and good nature, that could not be mistaken. "It's idle talk to speak about going such a day as this," observed the beetle-browed man, who stirred up the fire with something that passed for a poker, in reply; "and to tell you the truth, upon my credit, Mr. M'Loughlin, I'm not sorry that we happened to meet. You're a man I've a sincere regard for, and always had—and on that account—well have something more to drink." So saying, he stamped upon the floor, which, was exactly over the bar, in order that some one might attend them with the liquor.

"I'm obliged to you, Val," replied his companion dryly, "for your good opinion of me; but at the same time, God forbid that I should ever deserve it—eh? ha, ha, ha. Well, well, let us have some drink, as you say, at all events; only it must be at my expense as well as the rest. Well, sure enough, you were the devil's whip-thong in your day, and if you haven't repented yet, all I can say is, there is little time to lose, if you wish to have a bright look up at the last day"—

"Ha, ha, go on, Mr. M'Loughlin, we all know you, the same pleasant fellow you ever were, and upon my credit, as good a companion as any one could sit with. All I wish is that we had here more of the family on both sides, that the boys and girls might have something to whisper to one another."

"I didn't care we had, Val, my boy; but how on earth will we get home? Indeed such a terrible day I've seldom seen, for many years."

"Faith, it's good to have a dry roof over our heads, and a warm fire before us, at any rate. There's many a poor half-drowned devil in the fair, would give a trifle to change places with us; there is, upon my credit."

In a few minutes the refreshments came in, much to the satisfaction of the parties, who felt a strong sense of comfort, on contrasting the warmth of their snug little room with the uproar of the storm that raged without, and spent its fury upon the cold, bleak, and almost deserted streets.

"I am glad, indeed, Mr. M'Loughlin," continued his companion, "that I happened to meet with you to-day—you and I are now neighbors, and surely we ought to live like neighbors."

"Well," replied M'Loughlin dryly, "and don't we do so? You haven't found me troublesome as a neighbor, have you? Eh, Val, my man?"

"No," said the other, "certainly I have—upon my credit I haven't, an' that's what I complain of; neither you nor your family associate with me or mine."

"Tut, Val, man," replied M'Loughlin, still in the same dry, ironical tone as before, "surely it's not long since you came to march us. It's only two years and a half since you wormed out the O'Hagans, then the farm lay near two years idle—ay—why, man, you're not four months our neighbor yet."

"No—not all out; still, Mr. M'Loughlin, somehow you don't treat me or my family as neighbors. If you have to borrow anything, no matter what it is, you never come to me for it. It was only the other day that you wanted a rope to pull that breeding mare of yours out of the drain—and yet you sent past me near half a mile, up to Widow Lenehan's to borrow it."

"Heavens pity you, Val, for it's a hard case; but every one has their troubles, and it seems you are not without your own, poor man—eh—ha! ha! ha!—Well, never mind, my friend; you're better off