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headborough who shed a pint of tears as often as he saw
him. What, says Mr Leopold with his hands across, that was
earnest to know the drift of it, will they slaughter all? I pro-
test I saw them but this day morning going to the Liverpool
boats, says he. I can scarce believe ‘tis so bad, says he. And
he had experience of the like brood beasts and of springers,
greasy hoggets and wether wool, having been some years
before actuary for Mr Joseph Cuffe, a worthy salesmaster
that drove his trade for live stock and meadow auctions
hard by Mr Gavin Low’s yard in Prussia street. I question
with you there, says he. More like ‘tis the hoose or the tim-
ber tongue. Mr Stephen, a little moved but very handsomely
told him no such matter and that he had dispatches from
the emperor’s chief tailtickler thanking him for the hospi-
tality, that was sending over Doctor Rinderpest, the
bestquoted cowcatcher in all Muscovy, with a bolus or two
of physic to take the bull by the horns. Come, come, says Mr
Vincent, plain dealing. He’ll find himself on the horns of a
dilemma if he meddles with a bull that’s Irish, says he. Irish
by name and irish by nature, says Mr Stephen, and he sent
the ale purling about, an Irish bull in an English chinashop.
I conceive you, says Mr Dixon. It is that same bull that was
sent to our island by farmer Nicholas, the bravest cattle-
breeder of them all, with an emerald ring in his nose. True
for you, says Mr Vincent cross the table, and a bullseye into
the bargain, says he, and a plumper and a portlier bull, says
he, never shit on shamrock. He had horns galore, a coat of
cloth of gold and a sweet smoky breath coming out of his
nostrils so that the women of our island, leaving doughballs