There are no tints in mountains swathed in mist, no colour in trees swamped with moisture; everything seems so imbued with damp, one fancies it would take two years in the tropics to dry Ireland.' 'I asked that fellow who showed us the way here, why he didn't pitch off those wet rags he wore, and walk away in all the dignity of nakedness.' A large dish of rashers and eggs, and a mess of Irish stew, which the landlord now placed on the table, with a foaming jug of malt, seemed to rally them out of their ill-temper; and for some time they talked away in a more cheerful tone.
'Better than I hoped for,' said Walpole.
'Fair!' 'And that ale, too--I suppose it is called ale--is very tolerable.' 'It's downright good.

Let us have some more of it.' And he shouted, 'Master!' at the top of his voice.

'More of this,' said Lockwood, touching the measure.

'Beer or ale, which is it ?' 'Castle Bellingham, sir,' replied the landlord; 'beats all the Bass and Allsopp that ever was brewed.' 'You think so, eh ?' 'I'm sure of it, sir.

The club that sits here had a debate on it one night, and put it to the vote, and there wasn't one man for the English liquor.