while I speak of these
things. How poor, how vapid, and how meagre is the effort to recall the
wit that set the table in a roar! Not only is memory wanting, but how
can one convey the incessant roll of fun, the hailstorm of pleasantry,
that rattled about our ears; each good thing that was uttered ever
suggesting something still better; the brightest fancy and the most
glowing imagination stimulated to their utmost exercise; while powers
of voice, of look, and of mimicry unequalled, lent all their aid to the
scene.

While I sat entranced and delighted with all I saw and all I heard, I
had not remarked that O'Grady had been addressing the chair for some
time previous.

'Reverend brother,' replied the prior, 'the prayer of thy petition is
inadmissible. The fourth rule of our faith says, _de confessione:_ No
subject, mirthful, witty, or jocose, known to, or by, any member of the
order, shall be withheld from the brotherhood under a penalty of the
heaviest kind. And it goes on to say, that whether the jest involve your
father or your mother, your wife, your sister, or the aunt from whom
you expect a legacy, no exception can be made. What you then look for is
clearly impossible; make a clean breast of it, and begin.'

This being a question of order, a silence was soon established, when,
what was my horror to find that Phil O'Grady began the whole narrative
of my mother's letter on the subject of the Rooneys! Not limiting
himself, however, to the meagre document in question, but colouring
the story with all the force of his imagination, he displayed to the
brethren the ludicrous extremes of character personated by the London
fine lady and the Dublin attorney's wife. Shocked as I was at first, he
had not proceeded far, when I was forced to join the laughter. The whole
table pounced upon the story. The Rooneys were well known to them
all; and the idea of poor Paul, who dispensed his hospitalities with
a princely hand, having his mansion degraded to the character of a
chop-house, almost convulsed them with laughter.

'I am going over to London next week,' said Parsons, 'with old Lambert;
and if I thought I should meet this Lady Charlotte Hinton, I'd certainly
contrive to have him presented to her as Mr. Paul Rooney.'

This observation created a diversion in favour of my lady-mother, to
which I had the satisfaction of listening without the power to check.

'She has,' said Dawson, 'most admirable and original views about
Ir