“Ah, our friend in the green travelling chariot, I’ll be bound,” said my companion; but as neither of us knew that part of the country, and I was too engrossed by my own thoughts, I never inquired further.  As the chaise in chase drove round to the door, I looked to see what the pursuer was like; and as he issued from the inn, recognised my “ci devant host,” Colonel Kamworth.  I need not say my vengeance was sated at once; he had lost his daughter, and Waller was on the road to be married.  Apologies and explanations came in due time, for all my injuuries and sufferings; and I confess, the part which pleased me most was, that I saw no more of Jack for a considerable period after; he started for the continent, where he has lived ever since on a small allowance, granted by his father-in-law, and never paying me the stipulated sum, as I had clearly broken the compact.

So much for my second attempt at matrimony; one would suppose that such experience should be deemed sufficient to show that my talent did not lie in that way.  And here I must rest for the present, with the additional confession, that so strong was the memory of that vile adventure, that I refused a lucrative appointment under Lord Anglesey’s government, when I discovered that his livery included “yellow plush breeches;” to have such “souvenirs” flitting around and about me, at dinner and elsewhere, would have left me without a pleasure in existence.

CHAPTER XII.

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