ith the soldiers; but what they
said who knows, it being in a rough guttural language, strange and wild.
The soldiers stared at each other, and were silent.

"A strange language that!" said a young officer to my father, "I don't
understand a word of it; what can it be?"

"Irish," said my father, with a loud voice, "and a bad language it is; I
have known it of old, that is, I have often heard it spoken when I was a
guardsman in London. There's one part of London where all the Irish
live--at least all the worst of them--and there they hatch their
villanies and speak this tongue; it is that which keeps them together and
makes them dangerous. I was once sent there to seize a couple of
deserters--Irish--who had taken refuge among their companions; we found
them in what was in my time called a _ken_, that is, a house where only
thieves and desperadoes are to be found. Knowing on what kind of
business I was bound, I had taken with me a sergeant's party; it was well
I did so. We found the deserters in a large room, with at least thirty
ruffians, horrid-looking fellows, seated about a long table, drinking,
swearing, and talking Irish. Ah! we had a tough battle, I remember; the
two fellows did nothing, but sat still, thinking it best to be quiet; but
the rest, with an ubbubboo, like the blowing up of a powder-magazine,
sprang up, brandishing their sticks; for these fellows always carry
sticks with them, even to bed, and not unfrequently spring up in their
sleep, striking left and right."

"And did you take the deserters?" said the officer.

"Yes," said my father; "for we formed at the end of the room, and charged
with fixed bayonets, which compelled the others to yield notwithstanding
their numbers; but the worst was when we got out into the street; the
whole district had become alarmed, and hundreds came pouring down upon
us--men, women, and children. Women, did I say!--they looked fiends,
half naked, with their hair hanging down over their bosoms; they tore up
the very pavement to hurl at us, sticks rang about our ears, stones, and
Irish--I liked the Irish worst of all, it sounded so horrid, especially
as I did not understand it. It's a bad language."

"A queer tongue," said I, "I wonder if I could learn it?"

"Learn it!" said my father; "what should you learn it for?--however, I am
not afraid of that. It is not like Scotch; no person can learn it, save
those who are born to it, and even in Ireland the respectable