Mr. Carv. Hem!—hem!—also being a residentiary gentleman at Bob’s Fort—hem!—hem!—hem!—(Coughs, and blows his nose.)
Catty. (aside to her son) Choking the cratur is with the words he can’t get out. (Aloud) Will I spake now, plase your honour?
Clerk. Silence! silence!
Mr. Carv. And when I consider all the ineffectual attempts I have made by eloquence and otherwise, to moralize and civilize you gentlemen, and to eradicate all your heterogeneous or rebellious passions—
Catty. Not a rebel, good or bad, among us, plase your honour.
Clerk. Silence!
Mr. Carv. I say, my good people of Ballynavogue and Ballynascraw, I stand here really in unspeakable concern and astonishment, to notice at this fair-time in my barony, these symptoms of a riot, gentlemen, and features of a tumult.
Catty. True, your honour, see—scarce a symptom of a fature lift in the face here of little Charley of Killaspugbrone, with the b’ating he got from them McBrides, who bred the riot, entirely under Flourishing Phil, plase your honour.
Mr. Carv. (turning to PHIL McBRIDE.) Mr. Philip McBride, son of old Matthew, quite a substantial man,—I am really concerned, Philip, to see you, whom I looked upon as a sort of, I had almost said, gentleman—
Catty. Gentleman! what sort? Is it because of the new topped boots, or by virtue of the silver-topped whip, and the bit of a red rag tied about the throat?—Then a gentleman’s asy made, now-a-days.