“In crossing a country, choose the—­”

Another coughing fit, and a long hiatus in valedictory instructions succeeded, but the old man, as they say in hunting, got second wind, and thus proceeded—­

“Never fence a ditch when a gate is open—­avoid late hours and attorneys—­and the less you have to say to doctors, all the better—­ugh! ugh! ugh!  When it’s your misfortune to be in company with an old maid—­I mean a reputed one—­ugh! ugh! always be on the muzzle—­for in her next issue of scandal she’ll be sure to quote you as her authority.  If a saint comes in your way, button your breeches-pocket, and look now and then at your watch-chain.  I’m brought nearly to a fix, for bad bellows won’t stand long speeches.”

Here the ripple in his speech, which disturbed Commodore Trunnion so much, sorely afflicted my worthy grandfather.  He muttered something that a snaffle was the safest bit a sinner could place faith in—­assumed the mantle of prophecy—­foretold, as it would appear, troublous times to be in rapid advent—­and inculcated that faith should be placed in heaven, and powder kept very dry.

He strove to rally and reiterate his counsels for my father’s guidance, but strength was wanting.  The story of a life was told—­he swayed on one side from the supporting pillows—­and in a minute more the struggle was over.  Well, peace to his ashes!  We’ll leave him in the family vault, and start with a party for the metropolis, who, in the demise of our honored kinswoman, had sustained a heavy loss, but notwithstanding, endured the visitation with Christian fortitude and marvelous resignation.

Place au dames.  My lady-mother had been a beauty in her day, and for a dozen years after her marriage, had seen her name proudly and periodically recorded by George Faukiner, in the thing he called a journal, which, in size, paper, and typography, might emulate a necrologic affair cried loudly through the streets of London, “i’ the afternoon” of a hanging Monday, containing much important information, whether the defunct felon had made his last breakfast simply from tea and toast, or whether Mr. Sheriff ——­ had kindly added mutton-chops to the dejeuner, while his amiable lady furnished new-laid eggs from the family corn-chandler.  But to return to my mother.

Ten years had passed, and her name had not been hallooed from groom to groom on a birth-day night, while the pearl neck-lace, a bridal present, and emeralds, an heir-loom from her mother, remained in strict abeyance.  Now and again their cases were unclosed, and a sigh accompanied the inspection—­for sad were their reminiscences. Olim—­her name was chronicled on Patrick’s night, by every Castle reporter.  They made, it is to be lamented, as Irish reporters will make, sad mistakes at times.  The once poor injured lady had been attired in canary-colored lute-string, and an ostrich plume remarkable for its enormity while she, the libeled one, had been becomingly arrayed in blue bombazine, and of any plumage imported from Araby the blest, was altogether innocent.