at least, a competent master of the English language, which I
trust I can write and speak like a gentleman. I am not given to low
and gross habits of life; I am never found in a state of beastly
intoxication late at night, or early in the day; nor do I suffer my
paper to become the vehicle of gratifying that private slander or
personal resentment which I am not capable of writing myself, and
have not the courage to acknowledge as a man. I am not a poor, kicked,
horse-whipped, and degraded scoundrel, whose malignity is only surpassed
by my cowardice--whose principal delight is to stab in the dark--a
lurking assassin, but not an open murderer--a sneaking, skulking thief,
without the manliness of the highwayman--a pitiful, servile--but, I
believe, I have said enough. Well, gentlemen, I trust I am none of
these; nor am I saying who is. Perhaps it would be impossible to find
them all centred in the same man; but if it were, it would certainly
be quite as extraordinary to find that man seated at an Orange Lodge.
Brother Yellowboy, I have the pleasure of drinking your health.'

"Brother Yellowboy felt that he was no match at all for Cantwell; so in
order to escape the further venom of his tongue, he drank his in return,
and joined in the cheers with which his speech was received; for by this
time the audience cared not a fig what was said by either party."

CHAPTER XX.--Sobriety and Loyalty

--A Checkered Dialogue--The Beauty and Necessity of Human Frailty
--A Burning and Shining Light Going Home in the Dark--The Value of a
Lanthorn.

"The character or forms of decency which had hitherto prevailed, now
began to disappear. M'Clutchy's blood-hounds, or wreckers--for they
were indiscriminately termed both--having drank a great deal of liquor,
became quite violent, and nothing now was heard but party songs, loud
talk, and offensive toasts, mingled with a good deal of personal abuse,
and private jealousies of each other's influence with M'Clutchy.

"'D--n your blood, Grimes, I'm as loyal as ever you were. Wasn't
my grandfather a Tory hunter, who houghed and hanged more bloody
Papishes--'

"'Who's that,' said Bob, 'talking about hanging Papishes? Where--where
are they to be hanged? Under God, I have seen more of the villains
hanged than any other frail sinner in the province. Oh, it is a
consoling--a sustaining sight!'

"'What's the reason, then, that the Protestant gentry of the country
don't stand by their own? Why