more like them, and to any one you so speak, the answer is—­“Pooh, pooh, my dear fellow, never fear—­don’t fuss yourself —­take it easy—­to-morrow will do just as well.”  If, on the other hand, however, you reject such flimsy excuses, and simply say, “I’m booked in the mail,” the opposition at once falls to the ground, and your quondam antagonist, who was ready to quarrel with you, is at once prepared to assist in packing your portmanteau.

Having soon satisfied my friend Tom that resistance was in vain, I promised to eat an early dinner with him at Morrisson’s, and spent the better part of the morning in putting down a few notes of my Confessions, as well as the particulars of Mr. Daly’s story, which, I believe, I half or wholly promised my readers at the conclusion of my last chapter; but which I must defer to a more suitable opportunity, when mentioning the next occasion of my meeting him on the southern circuit.

My dispositions were speedily made.  I was fortunate in securing the exact dress my friend’s letter alluded to among the stray costumes of Fishamble-street; and rich in the possession of the only “properties” it has been my lot to acquire, I despatched my treasure to the coach office, and hastened to Morrisson’s, it being by this time nearly five o’clock.  There, true to time, I found O’Flaherty deep in the perusal of the bill, along which figured the novel expedients for dining, I had been in the habit of reading in every Dublin hotel since my boyhood.  “Mock turtle, mutton, gravy, roast beef and potatoes—­shoulder of mutton and potatoes! —­ducks and peas, potatoes!! ham and chicken, cutlet steak and potatoes!!! apple tart and cheese:”  with a slight cadenza of a sigh over the distant glories of Very, or still better the “Freres,” we sat down to a very patriarchal repast, and what may be always had par excellence in Dublin, a bottle of Sneyd’s claret.

Poor Tom’s spirits were rather below their usual pitch; and although he made many efforts to rally and appear gay, he could not accomplish it.  However, we chatted away over old times and old friends, and forgetting all else but the topics we talked of, the time-piece over the chimney first apprised me that two whole hours had gone by, and that it was now seven o’clock, the very hour the coach was to start.  I started up at once, and notwithstanding all Tom’s representations of the impossibility of my being in time, had despatched waiters in different directions for a jarvey, more than ever determined upon going; so often is it that when real reasons for our conduct are wanting, any casual or chance opposition confirms us in an intention which before was but uncertain.  Seeing me so resolved, Tom, at length, gave way, and advised my pursuing the mail, which must be now gone at least ten minutes, and which, with smart driving, I should probably overtake before getting free of the city, as they have usually many delays in so doing.  I at once ordered out the “yellow post-chaise,” and before many minutes had elapsed, what, with imprecation and bribery, I started in pursuit of his Majesty’s Cork and Kilkenny mail coach, then patiently waiting in the court-yard of the Post Office.