Phil. How in the name of wonder will I hinder her to give me provocation? and when the spirit of the McBrides is up—
Honor. But don’t lift a hand.
Phil. Against a woman?—no fear—not a finger against a woman.
Honor. But I say not against any Rooney, man or woman. Oh, Phil! dear, don’t let there be any fighting betwixt the McBride and Rooney factions.
Phil. And how could I hinder if I would? The boys will be having a row, especially when they get the spirits—and all the better.
Honor. To be drinking! Oh! Phil, the mischief that drinking does!
Phil. Mischief! Quite and clane the contrary—when the shillelah’s up, the pike’s down. ‘Tis when there’d be no fights at fairs, and all sober, then there’s rason to dread mischief. No man, Honor, dare be letting the whiskey into his head, was there any mischief in his heart.
Honor. Well, Phil, you’ve made it out now cliverly. So there’s most danger of mischief when men’s sober—is that it?
Phil. Irishmen?—ay; for sobriety is not the nat’ral state of the craturs; and what’s not nat’ral is hypocritical, and a hypocrite is, and was, and ever will be my contempt.
Honor. And mine too. But—