"Mr. McFadden, who was sufferin so thurily for Ireland, was of the
Mahony wing. I've no doubt that some ekally patriotic member of the
Roberts wing was sufferin in the same way over to the Mason-Dory
eatin-house.
"They say, feller-citizens, soon you will see a Blow struck for Irish liberty! We hain't seen nothin BUT a Blow, so far—it's bin all blow, and the blowers in New York won't git out of Bellusses as long as our Irish frens in the rooral districks send 'em money.
"Let the Green float above the red, if that'll make it feel any better, but don't you be the Green. Don't never go into anything till you know whereabouts you're goin to.
"This is a very good country here where you are. You Irish hav enjoyed our boons, held your share in our offices, and you certainly have done your share of our votin. Then why this hulla-balloo about freein Ireland? You do your frens in Ireland a great injoory, too; because they b'lieve you're comin sure enuff, and they fly off the handle and git into jail. My Irish frens, ponder these things a little. 'Zamine 'em closely, and above all find out where the pusses go to."
I sot down. There was no applaws, but they listened to me kindly. They know'd I was honest, however wrong I might be; and they know'd too, that there was no peple on arth whose generosity and gallantry I had a higher respect for than the Irish, excep when they fly off the handle. So, my feller citizens, let me toot my horn.
But Squire Thaxter put his hand onto my hed and said, in a mournful tone of vois, "Mr. Ward, your mind is failin. Your intellect totters! You are only about sixty years of age, yet you will soon be a drivelin dotard, and hav no control over yourself."
"I have no control over my arms now," I replied, drivin my elbows suddenly into the Squire's stomack, which caused that corpulent magistrate to fall vilently off the stage into the fiddlers' box, where he stuck his vener'ble hed into a base drum, and stated "Murder" twice, in a very loud vois.
It was late when I got home. The children and my wife was all abed. But a candle—a candle made from taller of our own raisin—gleamed in Betsy's room; it gleamed for I! All was still. The sweet silver moon was a shinin bright, and the beautiful stars was up to their usual doins! I felt a sentymental mood so gently ore me stealin, and I pawsed before Betsy's window, and sung, in a kind of op'ratic vois, as follers, impromtoo, to wit:
Wake, Bessy, wake,
My sweet galoot!
Rise up, fair lady,
While I touch my lute!
The winder—I regret to say that the winder went up with a vi'lent crash, and a form robed in spotless white exclaimed, "Cum into the house, you old fool. To-morrer you'll be goin round complainin about your liver!"