“No—­but I wish you would allow your wife to relate your business here.”

“Well, sir, the people say I’m very longheaded, and can see far into a thing—­”

“But, my good man, I care not what the people say—­tell your story briefly.”

“—­An’ can see far into a thing, your reverence, becaise I’m long-headed.  All longheaded people, sir, is cute, an’ do you know why they’re cute, sir?  No, you don’t, but I’ll tell you—­bekaise they’re long-headed.  Now, sir, what ’ud you think to turn Roman Catholic awhile till I’d malivogue you in arguin’ Scripture?—­I want to prove to you, sir, that I’m the boy that understands things.”

“What’s your business with me?”

“Will you thry it, sir, and you’ll see how I’ll sober you to your heart’s delight.”

“What brought your husband to me, my good woman?”

“Bhe dha husth; fag a rogarah lumsa.”

“He’s comin’ to it, plaise your reverence,” said the wife.

“Well, sir, so you see, bein’ given to deep ways of thinkin’ o’ my own, I had many bouts at arguin’ Scripthur—­as every longheaded man has, of coorse—­an’ yestherday meetin’ wid Brian Broghan, the mealman—­him that keeps it up on the poor, sir—­he challenged me, but, in three skips of a Scotch Gray, I sacked him cleaner than one of his own meal bags, and dusted him afterwards:—­’so,’ says he, misther Grattan, see what it is to be long-headed.”

“It’s worse,” observed Lucre, “to be long-winded.  Come to an end, sir.”

“‘Long-headed,’ says he, ‘an’, of coorse you’ll be takin’ the money,’ says Brougham; ‘what money?’ says I.  ‘Why, the five guineas,’ says he, ‘that the Biblemen is givin’ to every one that will turn wid them, he happens to be long-headed—­but otherwise, not a penny.’  So, sir, myself, you see, havin’ the intention to come over long afore for fraid yez might think it was for the money I am doin’ it.  But is there such a thing, sir?”

“Not a penny, and so you may tell your friends.”

“Well, but, sir, grantin’ that, still you’ll acknowledge that I’m long-headed.”

“No, only long-winded.”

“Not long-headed, then?”

“No, certainly not.”

“Damnu orth a veehone bradagh! come Rosha.  Not long-headed! troth it’s a poor religion to depind on—­an’ I’ll make a show of it yet, if I’m spared.  Come, woman alive.”

Honest Barney was the last but one who was honored by a hearing, though not the last by a score of those who expected it, and, sooth to say, the appearance of that one threw the whole proceedings into such exquisite ridicule, that we cannot resist the temptation of giving his claims and arguments a place among the rest.  The convert in question was no other than our old friend Raymond-na-hattha, or Raymond of the hats; who, moved by the example of others, and only possessed of a dim notion of the cause that brought them together, came among them from that vague motive