DUBLIN—TOM O’FLAHERTY—A REMINISCENCE OF THE PENINSULA.
Dear, dirty Dublin—“Io te salute”—how many excellent things might be
said of thee, if, unfortunately, it did not happen that the theme is an
old one, and has been much better sung than it can ever now be said.
With thus much of apology for no more lengthened panegyric, let me beg
of my reader, if he be conversant with that most moving melody—the
Groves of Blarney—to hum the following lines, which I heard shortly
after my landing, and which well express my own feelings for the “loved
spot.”
Oh! Dublin, sure, there is no doubtin’,
Beats every city upon the _say_.
’Tis there you’ll see O’Connell spouting,
And Lady Morgan making “_tay_.”
For ’tis the capital of the greatest nation
With finest peasantry on a fruitful sod,
Fighting like devils for conciliation,
And hating each other for the love of God.
Once more, then, I found myself in the “most car-drivingest city,” en
route to join on the expiration of my leave. Since my departure, my
regiment had been ordered to Kilkenny, that sweet city, so famed in
song for its “fire without smoke;” but which, were its character in any
way to be derived from its past or present representative, might
certainly, with more propriety, reverse the epithet, and read “smoke
without fire.” My last communication from head-quarters was full of
nothing but gay doings—balls, dinners, dejeunes, and more than all,
private theatricals, seemed to occupy the entire attention of every man
of the gallant —th. I was earnestly entreated to come, without waiting
for the end of my leave—that several of my old “parts were kept open
for me;” and that, in fact, the “boys of Kilkenny” were on tip-toe in
expectation of my arrival, as though his Majesty’s mail were to convey
a Kean or a Kemble. I shuddered a little as I read this, and
recollected “my last appearance on any stage,” little anticipating, at
the moment, that my next was to be nearly as productive of the
ludicrous, as time and my confessions will show. One circumstance,
however, gave me considerable pleasure. It was this:—I took it for
granted that, in the varied and agreeable occupations which so
pleasurable a career opened, my adventures in love would escape notice,
and that I should avoid the merciless raillery my two failures, in six
months, might reasonably be supposed to call forth. I therefore wrote a
hurried note to Curzon, setting forth the great interest all their
proceedings had for me, and assuring him that my stay in town should be
as short as possible, for that I longed once more to “strut the monarch
of the boards,” and concluded with a sly paragraph, artfully intended
to act as a “paratonnere” to the gibes and jests which I dreaded, by
endeavouring to make light of my matrimonial speculations. The
postscript ran somewhat thus—“Glorious fun have I had since we met; but
were it not that my good angel stood by me, I should write these
hurried lines with a wife at my elbow; but luck, that never yet
deserted, is still faithful to your old friend, H. Lorrequer.”
My reader may suppose—for he is sufficiently behind the scenes with
me—with what feelings I penned these words; yet any thing was better
than the attack I looked forward to: and I should rather have changed
into the Cape Rifle Corps, or any other army of martyrs, than meet my
mess with all the ridicule my late proceedings exposed me to. Having
disburthened my conscience of this dread, I finished my breakfast, and
set out on a stroll through the town.
I believe it is Coleridge who somewhere says, that to transmit the
first bright and early impressions of our youth, fresh and uninjured to
a remote period of life, constitutes one of the loftiest prerogatives
of genius. If this be true, and I am not disposed to dispute it—what a
gifted people must be the worthy inhabitants of Dublin; for I scruple
not to affirm, that of all cities of which we have any record in
history, sacred or profane, there is not one so little likely to
disturb the tranquil current of such reminiscences. “As it was of old,
so is it now,” enjoying a delightful permanency in all its habits and
customs, which no changes elsewhere disturb or affect; and in this
respect I defy O’Connell and all the tail to refuse it the epithet of
“Conservative.”
Had the excellent Rip Van Winkle, instead of seeking his repose upon
the cold and barren acclivities of the Kaatskills—as we are veritably
informed by Irving—but betaken himself to a comfortable bed at
Morrison’s or the Bilton, not only would he have enjoyed a more
agreeable siesta, but, what the event showed of more consequence, the
pleasing satisfaction of not being disconcerted by novelty on his
awakening. It is possible that the waiter who brought him the water to
shave, for Rip’s beard, we are told, had grown uncommonly long—might
exhibit a little of that wear and tear to which humanity is liable from
time; but had he questioned him as to the ruling topics—the proper
amusements of the day—he would have heard, as he might have done twenty
years before, that there was a meeting to convert Jews at the Rotunda;
another to rob parsons at the Corn Exchange; that the Viceroy was
dining with the Corporation, and congratulating them on the prosperity
of Ireland, while the inhabitants were regaled with a procession of the
“broad ribbon weavers,” who had not weaved, heaven knows when! This,
with an occasional letter from Mr. O’Connell, and now and then a duel
in the “Phaynix,” constituted the current pastimes of the city. Such,
at least, were they in my day; and though far from the dear locale, an
odd flitting glance at the newspapers induces me to believe that
matters are not much changed since.
I rambled through the streets for some hours, revolving such thoughts
as pressed upon me involuntarily by all I saw. The same little grey
homunculus that filled my “prince’s mixture” years before, stood behind
the counter at Lundy Foot’s, weighing out rappee and high toast, just
as I last saw him. The fat college porter, that I used to mistake in my
school-boy days for the Provost, God forgive me! was there as fat and
as ruddy as heretofore, and wore his Roman costume of helmet and plush
breeches, with an air as classic. The old state trumpeter at the
castle, another object of my youthful veneration, poor “old God save
the King” as we used to call him, walked the streets as of old; his
cheeks indeed, a little more lanky and tendinous; but then there had
been many viceregal changes, and the “one sole melody his heart
delighted in,” had been more frequently called in requisition, as he
marched in solemn state with the other antique gentlemen in tabards. As
I walked along, each moment some old and early association being
suggested by the objects around, I felt my arm suddenly seized. I
turned hastily round, and beheld a very old companion in many a
hard-fought field and merry bivouack, Tom O’Flaherty of the 8th. Poor
Tom was sadly changed since we last met, which was at a ball in Madrid.
He was then one of the best-looking fellows of his “style” I ever
met,—tall and athletic, with the easy bearing of a man of the world,
and a certain jauntiness that I have never seen but in Irishmen who
have mixed much in society.
There was also a certain peculiar devil-may-care recklessness about the
self-satisfied swagger of his gait, and the free and easy glance of his
sharp black eye, united with a temper that nothing could ruffle, and a
courage nothing could daunt. With such qualities as these, he had been
the prime favourite of his mess, to which he never came without some
droll story to relate, or some choice expedient for future amusement.
Such had Tom once been; now he was much altered, and though the quiet
twinkle of his dark eye showed that the spirit of fun within was not
“dead, but only sleeping,”—to myself, who knew something of his
history, it seemed almost cruel to awaken him to any thing which might
bring him back to the memory of by-gone days. A momentary glance showed
me that he was no longer what he had been, and that the unfortunate
change in his condition, the loss of all his earliest and oldest
associates, and his blighted prospects, had nearly broken a heart that
never deserted a friend, nor quailed before an enemy. Poor O’Flaherty
was no more the delight of the circle he once adorned; the wit that
“set the table in a roar” was all but departed. He had been dismissed
the service!!—The story is a brief one:—
In the retreat from Burgos, the —— Light Dragoons, after a most
fatiguing day’s march, halted at the wretched village of Cabenas. It
had been deserted by the inhabitants the day before, who, on leaving,
had set it on fire; and the blackened walls and fallen roof-trees were
nearly all that now remained to show where the little hamlet had once
stood.
Amid a down-pour of rain, that had fallen for several hours, drenched
to the skin, cold, weary, and nearly starving, the gallant 8th reached
this melancholy spot at nightfall, with little better prospect of
protection from the storm than the barren heath through which their
road led might afford them. Among the many who muttered curses, not
loud but deep, on the wretched termination to their day’s suffering,
there was one who kept up his usual good spirits, and not only seemed
himself nearly regardless of the privations and miseries about him, but
actually succeeded in making the others who rode alongside as perfectly
forgetful of their annoyances and troubles as was possible under such
circumstances. Good stories, joking allusions to the more discontented
ones of the party, ridiculous plans for the night’s encampment,
followed each other so rapidly, that the weariness of the way was
forgotten; and while some were cursing their hard fate, that ever
betrayed them into such misfortunes, the little group round O’Flaherty
were almost convulsed with laughter at the wit and drollery of one,
over whom if the circumstances had any influence, they seemed only to
heighten his passion for amusement. In the early part of the morning he
had captured a turkey, which hung gracefully from his holster on one
side, while a small goat-skin of Valencia wine balanced it on the
other. These good things were destined to form a feast that evening, to
which he had invited four others; that being, according to his most
liberal calculation, the greatest number to whom he could afford a
reasonable supply of wine.
When the halt was made, it took some time to arrange the dispositions
for the night; and it was nearly midnight before all the regiment had
got their billets and were housed, even with such scanty accommodation
as the place afforded. Tom’s guests had not yet arrived, and he himself
was busily engaged in roasting the turkey before a large fire, on which
stood a capacious vessel of spiced wine, when the party appeared. A
very cursory “reconnaissance” through the house, one of the only ones
untouched in the village, showed that from the late rain it would be
impossible to think of sleeping in the lower story, which already
showed signs of being flooded; they therefore proceeded in a body up
stairs, and what was their delight to find a most comfortable room,
neatly furnished with chairs, and a table; but, above all, a large
old-fashioned bed, an object of such luxury as only an old campaigner
can duly appreciate. The curtains were closely tucked in all round,
and, in their fleeting and hurried glance, they felt no inclination to
disturb them, and rather proceeded to draw up the table before the
hearth, to which they speedily removed the fire from below; and, ere
many minutes, with that activity which a bivouack life invariably
teaches, their supper smoked before them, and five happier fellows did
not sit down that night within a large circuit around. Tom was
unusually great; stories of drollery unlocked before, poured from him
unceasingly, and what with his high spirits to excite them, and the
reaction inevitable after a hard day’s severe march, the party soon
lost the little reason that usually sufficed to guide them, and became
as pleasantly tipsy as can well be conceived. However, all good things
must have an end, and so had the wine-skin. Tom had placed it
affectionately under his arm like a bag-pipe and failed, with even a
most energetic squeeze, to extract a drop; there was no nothing for it
but to go to rest, and indeed it seemed the most prudent thing for the
party.
The bed became accordingly a subject of grave deliberation; for as it
could only hold two, and the party were five, there seemed some
difficulty in submitting their chances to lot, which all agreed was the
fairest way. While this was under discussion, one of the party had
approached the contested prize, and, taking up the curtains, proceeded
to jump in—when, what was his astonishment to discover that it was
already occupied. The exclamation of surprise he gave forth soon
brought the others to his side; and to their horror, drunk as they
were, they found that the body before them was that of a dead man,
arrayed in all the ghastly pomp of a corpse. A little nearer inspection
showed that he had been a priest, probably the Padre of the village; on
his head he had a small velvet skull cap, embroidered with a cross, and
his body was swathed in a vestment, such as priests usually wear at the
mass; in his hand he held a large wax taper, which appeared to have
burned only half down, and probably been extinguished by the current of
air on opening the door. After the first brief shock which this sudden
apparition had caused, the party recovered as much of their senses as
the wine had left them, and proceeded to discuss what was to be done
under the circumstances; for not one of them ever contemplated giving
up a bed to a dead priest, while five living men slept on the ground.
After much altercation, O’Flaherty, who had hitherto listened without
speaking, interrupted the contending parties, saying, “stop, lads, I
have it.”
“Come,” said one of them, “let us hear Tom’s proposal.”
“Oh,” said he, with difficulty steadying himself while he spoke, “we’ll
put him to bed with old Ridgeway, the quarter-master!”
The roar of loud laughter that followed Tom’s device was renewed again
and again, till not a man could speak from absolute fatigue. There was
not a dissentient voice. Old Ridgeway was hated in the corps, and a
better way of disposing of the priest and paying off the quarter-master
could not be thought of.
Very little time sufficed for their preparations; and if they had been
brought up under the Duke of Portland himself, they could not have
exhibited a greater taste for a “black job.” The door of the room was
quickly taken from its hinges, and the priest placed upon it at full
length; a moment more sufficed to lift the door upon their shoulders,
and, preceded by Tom, who lit a candle in honour of being, as he said,
“chief mourner,” they took their way through the camp towards
Ridgeway’s quarters. When they reached the hut where their victim lay,
Tom ordered a halt, and proceeded stealthily into the house to
reconnoitre. The old quarter-master he found stretched on his
sheep-skin before a large fire, the remnants of an ample supper strewed
about him, and two empty bottles standing on the hearth—his deep
snoring showed that all was safe, and that no fears of his awaking need
disturb them. His shako and sword lay near him, but his sabertasche was
under his head. Tom carefully withdrew the two former; and hastening to
his friends without, proceeded to decorate the priest with them;
expressing, at the same time, considerable regret that he feared it
might wake Ridgeway, if he were to put the velvet skull-cap on him for
a night-cap.
Noiselessly and steadily they now entered, and proceeded to put down
their burden, which, after a moment’s discussion, they agreed to place
between the quarter-master and the fire, of which, hitherto, he had
reaped ample benefit. This done, they stealthily retreated, and hurried
back to their quarters, unable to speak with laughter at the success of
their plot, and their anticipation of Ridgeway’s rage on awakening in
the morning.
It was in the dim twilight of a hazy morning, that the bugler of the
8th aroused the sleeping soldiers from their miserable couches, which,
wretched as they were, they, nevertheless, rose from reluctantly—so
wearied and fatigued had they been by the preceding day’s march; not
one among the number felt so indisposed to stir as the worthy
quarter-master; his peculiar avocations had demanded a more than usual
exertion on his part, and in the posture he had laid down at night, he
rested till morning, without stirring a limb. Twice the reveille had
rung through the little encampment, and twice the quarter-master had
essayed to open his eyes, but in vain; at last he made a tremendous
effort, and sat bolt upright on the floor, hoping that the sudden
effort might sufficiently arouse him; slowly his eyes opened, and the
first thing they beheld was the figure of the dead priest, with a light
cavalry helmet on his head, seated before him. Ridgeway, who was “bon
Catholique,” trembled in every joint—it might be a ghost, it might be a
warning, he knew not what to think—he imagined the lips moved, and so
overcome with terror was he at last, that he absolutely shouted like a
maniac, and never ceased till the hut was filled with officers and men,
who hearing the uproar ran to his aid—the surprise of the poor
quarter-master at the apparition, was scarcely greater than that of the
beholders—no one was able to afford any explanation of the
circumstance, though all were assured that it must have been done in
jest—the door upon which the priest had been conveyed, afforded the
clue—they had forgotten to restore it to its place—accordingly the
different billets were examined, and at last O’Flaherty was discovered
in a most commodious bed, in a large room without a door, still fast
asleep, and alone; how and when he had parted from his companions, he
never could precisely explain, though he has since confessed it was
part of his scheme to lead them astray in the village, and then retire
to the bed, which he had determined to appropriate to his sole use.
Old Ridgeway’s rage knew no bounds; he absolutely foamed with passion,
and in proportion as he was laughed at his choler rose higher; had this
been the only result, it had been well for poor Tom, but unfortunately
the affair got to be rumoured through the country—the inhabitants of
the village learned the indignity with which the Padre had been
treated; they addressed a memorial to Lord Wellington—inquiry was
immediately instituted—O’Flaherty was tried by court martial, and found
guilty; nothing short of the heaviest punishment that could be
inflicted under the circumstances would satisfy the Spaniards, and at
that precise period it was part of our policy to conciliate their
esteem by every means in our power. The commander-in-chief resolved to
make what he called an “example,” and poor O’Flaherty—the life and soul
of his regiment—the darling of his mess, was broke, and pronounced
incapable of ever serving his Majesty again. Such was the event upon
which my poor friend’s fortune in life seemed to hinge—he returned to
Ireland, if not entirely broken-hearted, so altered that his best
friends scarcely knew him; his “occupation was gone;” the mess had been
his home; his brother officers were to him in place of relatives, and
he had lost all. His after life was spent in rambling from one watering
place to another, more with the air of one who seeks to consume than
enjoy his time; and with such a change in appearance as the alteration
in his fortune had effected, he now stood before me, but altogether so
different a man, that but for the well-known tones of a voice that had
often convulsed me with laughter, I should scarcely have recognised
him.
“Lorrequer, my old friend, I never thought of seeing you here—this is
indeed a piece of good luck.”
“Why, Tom? You surely knew that the —— were in Ireland, didn’t you?”
“To be sure. I dined with them only a few days ago, but they told me
you were off to Paris, to marry something superlatively beautiful, and
most enormously rich, the daughter of a duke, if I remember right; but
certes, they said your fortune was made, and I need not tell you, there
was not a man among them better pleased than I was to hear it.”
“Oh! they said so, did they? Droll dogs—always quizzing—I wonder you
did not perceive the hoax—eh—very good, was it not?” This I poured out
in short broken sentences, blushing like scarlet, and fidgeting like a
school girl with downright nervousness.
“A hoax! devilish well done too,”—said Tom, “for old Carden believed
the whole story, and told me that he had obtained a six months’ leave
for you to make your ‘com.’ and, moreover, said that he had got a
letter from the nobleman, Lord —— confound his name.”
“Lord Grey, is it?” said I, with a sly look at Tom.
“No, my dear friend,” said he drily, “it was not Lord Grey—but to
continue—he had got a letter from him, dated from Paris, stating his
surprise that you had never joined them there, according to promise,
and that they knew your cousin Guy, and a great deal of other matter I
can’t remember—so what does all this mean? Did you hoax the noble Lord
as well as the Horse Guards, Harry?”
This was indeed a piece of news for me; I stammered out some ridiculous
explanation, and promised a fuller detail. Could it be that I had done
the Callonbys injustice, and that they never intended to break off my
attention to Lady Jane—that she was still faithful, and that of all
concerned I alone had been to blame. Oh! how I hoped this might be the
case; heavily as my conscience might accuse, I longed ardently to
forgive and deal mercifully with myself. Tom continued to talk about
indifferent matters, as these thoughts flitted through my mind;
perceiving at last that I did not attend, he stopped suddenly and said—
“Harry, I see clearly that something has gone wrong, and perhaps I can
make a guess at the mode too: but however, you can do nothing about it
now; come and dine with me to-day, and we’ll discuss the affair
together after dinner; or if you prefer a ‘distraction,’ as we used to
say in Dunkerque, why then I’ll arrange something fashionable for your
evening’s amusement. Come, what say you to hearing Father Keogh preach,
or would you like a supper at the Carlingford, or perhaps you prefer a
soiree chez Miladi; for all of these Dublin affords—all three good in
their way, and very intellectual.”
“Well, Tom, I’m yours; but I should prefer your dining with me; I am at
Bilton’s; we’ll have our cutlet quite alone, and—”
“And be heartily sick of each other, you were going to add. No, no,
Harry; you must dine with me; I have some remarkably nice people to
present you to—six is the hour—sharp six—number —— Molesworth-street,
Mrs. Clanfrizzle’s—easily find it—large fanlight over the door—huge
lamp in the hall, and a strong odour of mutton broth for thirty yards
on each side of the premises—and as good luck would have it, I see old
Daly the counsellor, as they call him, he’s the very man to get to meet
you, you always liked a character, eh!”
Saying this, O’Flaherty disengaged himself from my arm, and hurried
across the street towards a portly middle-aged looking gentleman, with
the reddest face I ever beheld. After a brief but very animated
colloquy, Tom returned, and informed that that all was right; he had
secured Daly.
“And who is Daly?” said I, inquiringly, for I was rather interested in
hearing what peculiar qualification as a diner-out the counsellor might
lay claim to, many of Tom’s friends being as remarkable for being the
quizzed as the quizzers.
“Daly,” said he, “is the brother of a most distinguished member of the
Irish bar, of which he himself is also a follower, bearing however, no
other resemblance to the clever man than the name, for as assuredly as
the reputation of the one is inseparably linked with success, so
unerringly is the other coupled with failure, and strange to say, that
the stupid man is fairly convinced that his brother owes all his
success to him, and that to his disinterested kindness the other is
indebted for his present exalted station. Thus it is through life;
there seems ever to accompany dullness a sustaining power of vanity,
that like a life-buoy, keeps a mass afloat whose weight unassisted
would sink into obscurity. Do you know that my friend Denis there
imagines himself the first man that ever enlightened Sir Robert Peel as
to Irish affairs; and, upon my word, his reputation on this head stands
incontestably higher than on most others.”
“You surely cannot mean that Sir Robert Peel ever consulted with, much
less relied upon, the statements of such a person, as you described
your friend Denis to be?”
“He did both—and if he was a little puzzled by the information, the
only disgrace attaches to a government that send men to rule over us
unacquainted with our habits of thinking, and utterly ignorant of the
language—ay, I repeat it—but come, you shall judge for yourself; the
story is a short one, and fortunately so, for I must hasten home to
give timely notice of your coming to dine with me. When the present Sir
Robert Peel, then Mr. Peel, came over here, as secretary to Ireland, a
very distinguished political leader of the day invited a party to meet
him at dinner, consisting of men of different political leanings; among
whom were, as may be supposed, many members of the Irish bar; the elder
Daly was too remarkable a person to be omitted, but as the two brothers
resided together, there was a difficulty about getting him—however, he
must be had, and the only alternative that presented itself was
adopted—both were invited. When the party descended to the dining-room,
by one of those unfortunate accidents, which as the proverb informs us
occasionally take place in the best regulated establishments, the wrong
Mr. Daly got placed beside Mr. Peel, which post of honor had been
destined by the host for the more agreeable and talented brother. There
was now no help for it; and with a heart somewhat nervous for the
consequences of the proximity, the worthy entertainer sat down to do
the honors as best he might; he was consoled during dinner by observing
that the devotion bestowed by honest Denis on the viands before him
effectually absorbed his faculties, and thereby threw the entire of Mr.
Peel’s conversation towards the gentleman on his other flank. This
happiness was like most others, destined to be a brief one. As the
dessert made its appearance, Mr. Peel began to listen with some
attention to the conversation of the persons opposite; with one of whom
he was struck most forcibly—so happy a power of illustration, so vivid
a fancy, such logical precision in argument as he evinced, perfectly
charmed and surprised him. Anxious to learn the name of so gifted an
individual, he turned towards his hitherto silent neighbour and
demanded who he was.
“‘Who is he, is it?’ said Denis, hesitatingly, as if he half doubted
such extent of ignorance as not to know the person alluded to.
“Mr. Peel bowed in acquiescence.
“‘That’s Bushe!’ said Denis, giving at the same time the same sound to
the vowel, u, as it obtains when occurring in the word ‘rush.’
“‘I beg pardon,’ said Mr. Peel, ‘I did not hear.’
“‘Bushe!’ replied Denis, with considerable energy of tone.
“‘Oh, yes! I know,’ said the secretary, ‘Mr. Bushe, a very
distinguished member of your bar, I have heard.’
“‘Faith, you may say that!’ said Denis, tossing off his wine at what he
esteemed a very trite observation.
“‘Pray,’ said Mr. Peel, again returning to the charge, though certainly
feeling not a little surprised at the singular laconicism of his
informant, no less than the mellifluous tones of an accent then
perfectly new to him. ‘Pray, may I ask, what is the peculiar character
of Mr. Bushe’s eloquence? I mean of course, in his professional
capacity.’
“‘Eh!’ said Denis, ‘I don’t comprehend you exactly.’
“‘I mean,’ said Mr. Peel, ‘in one word, what’s his forte?’
“‘His forte!’
“‘I mean what his peculiar gift consists in—’
“‘Oh, I perceave—I have ye now—the juries!’
“‘Ah! addressing a jury.’
“‘Ay, the juries.’
“‘Can you oblige me by giving me any idea of the manner in which he
obtains such signal success in this difficult branch of eloquence.’
“‘I’ll tell ye,’ said Denis, leisurely finishing his glass, and
smacking his lips, with the air of a man girding up his loins for a
mighty effort, ‘I’ll tell ye—well, ye see the way he has is this,’—here
Mr. Peel’s expectation rose to the highest degree of interest,—‘the way
he has is this—he first butthers them up, and then slithers them down!
that’s all, devil a more of a secret there’s in it.’”
How much reason Denis had to boast of imparting early information to
the new secretary I leave my English readers to guess; my Irish ones I
may trust to do him ample justice.
My friend now left me to my own devices to while away the hours till
time to dress for dinner. Heaven help the gentleman so left in Dublin,
say I. It is, perhaps, the only city of its size in the world, where
there is no lounge—no promenade. Very little experience of it will
convince you that it abounds in pretty women, and has its fair share of
agreeable men; but where are they in the morning? I wish Sir Dick
Lauder, instead of speculating where salmon spent the Christmas
holidays, would apply his most inquiring mind to such a question as
this. True it is, however, they are not to be found. The squares are
deserted—the streets are very nearly so—and all that is left to the
luckless wanderer in search of the beautiful, is to ogle the beauties
of Dame-street, who are shopkeepers in Grafton-street, or the beauties
of Grafton-street, who are shopkeepers in Dame-street. But, confound
it, how cranky I am getting—I must be tremendously hungry. True, it’s
past six. So now for my suit of sable, and then to dinner.