“Well, but, my dear Mr. O’Flaherty, you forget how ignorant I am of every thing here—­”

“Ah, true,” said Tom, interrupting; “I forgot you never saw him before.”

“And who is he, sir?”

“Why, that’s the Duke of Wellington.”

“Lord have mercy upon me, is it?” said Mr. Burke, as he upset the table, and all its breakfast equipage, and rushed through the coffee-room like one possessed.  Before I could half recover from the fit of laughing this event threw me into, I heard him as he ran full speed down Dawson-street, waving his hat, and shouting out at the top of his lungs, “God bless your grace—­Long life to your grace—­Hurra for the hero of Waterloo; the great captain of the age,” &c. &c.; which I grieve to say, for the ingratitude of the individual lauded, seemed not to afford him half the pleasure, and none of the amusement it did the mob, who reechoed the shouts and cheering till he was hid within the precincts of the Mansion House.

“And, now,” said Tom to me, “finish your breakfast as fast as possible; for, when Burke comes back he will be boring me to dine with him, or some such thing, as a kind of acknowledgment of his gratitude for showing him the Duke.  Do you know he has seen more wonders through my poor instrumentality, within the last three days in Dublin than a six months’ trip to the continent would show most men.  I have made him believe that Burke Bethel is Lord Brougham, and I am about to bring him to a soiree at Mi-Ladi’s, who he supposes to be the Marchioness of Conyngham.  Apropos to the Bellissima, let me tell you of a “good hit” I was witness to a few nights since; you know, perhaps, old Sir Charles Giesecke, eh?”

“I have seen him once, I think—­the professor of mineralogy.”

“Well, poor old Sir Charles, one of the most modest and retiring men in existence, was standing the other night among the mob, in one of the drawing-rooms, while a waltzing-party were figuring away, at which, with that fondness for “la danse” that characterizes every German of any age, he was looking with much interest, when my lady came tripping up, and the following short dialogue ensued within my ear-shot:—­”

“Ah, mon cher, Sir Charles, ravi de vous voir.  But why are you not dancing?”

“Ah, mi ladi, Je ne puis pas, c’est a dire, Ich kann es nicht; I am too old; Ich bin—­”

“Oh, you horrid man; I understand you perfectly.  You hate ladies, that is the real reason.  You do—­you know you do.”

“Ah, my ladi, Gnaedige frau; glauben sie mir; I do loave de ladies; I do adore de sex.  Do you know, my ladi, when I was in Greenland I did keep four womans.”

“Oh, shocking, horrid, vile Sir Charles, how could you tell me such a story?  I shall die of it.”

“Ah, mine Gott, mi ladi; sie irren sich, vous, vous trompez.  You are quite in mistake; it was only to row my boat!”

“I leave you to guess how my lady’s taste for the broad-side of the story, and poor Sir Charles’s vindication of himself, in regard to his estimation of ‘le beau sexe,’ amused all who heard it; as for me, I had to leave the room, half-choked with suppressed laughter.  And, now, let us bolt, for I see Burke coming, and, upon my soul I am tired of telling him lies, and must rest on my oars for a few hours at least.”