"Come, come, father," said he, "be original--that last is a touch of M'Slime--of honest Solomon.

Keep back the forgiveness yet awhile, may be they may come round--begad, and upon my honor and reputation, I shouldn't wish to lose the girl--no, father, don't forgive them yet awhile." "Phil, we'll do better for you, boy--don't be a fool, I say, but have sense--I tell you what, Phil," continued his father, and his face assumed a ghastly, deadly look, at once dark and pallid, "listen to me;--I'll forgive him, Phil, until the nettle, the chick-weed, the burdock, the fulsome preshagh, the black fungus, the slimiest weed that grows--aye, till the green mould of ruin itself, grows upon the spot that is now his hearth--till the winter rain beats into, and the whiter wind howls over it." "No marriage, then," said Phil.

"No marriage; but what keeps Darby O'Drive?
the rascal should have been here before--oh no," said he, looking at his watch, "he has better than half an hour yet." "What steps do you intend to take, father ?" "Phil, when I'm prepared, you shall know them.

In the meantime leave me--I must write to M'Slime, or send to him.

M'Slime's useful at a hint or suggestion, but, with all his wiliness and hypocrisy, not capable of carrying a difficult matter successfully out; he overdoes everything by too much caution, and consequently gets himself into ridiculous scrapes, besides I cannot and will not place full confidence in him.