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.