to make a choice, the
beggar's breech for decency, I say: I like it vastly in preference to a
Nymney, who leads you up to the curtain and agitates it, and bids you to
retire on tiptoe. You cannot help being angry with the man for both
reasons. But he is the writer society delights in, to show what it is
composed of. A man brazen enough to declare that he could hold us in
suspense about the adventures of a broomstick, with the aid of a yashmak
and an ankle, may know the world; you had better not know him--that is my
remark; and do not trust him.

He tells the story of the Old Buccaneer in fear of the public, for it was
general property, but of course he finishes with a Nymney touch: 'So the
Old Buccaneer is the doubloon she takes in exchange for a handful of
silver pieces.' There is no such handful to exchange--not of the kind he
sickeningly nudges at you. I will prove to you it was not Countess
Fanny's naughtiness, though she was indeed very blamable. Women should
walk in armour as if they were born to it; for these cold sneerers will
never waste their darts on cuirasses. An independent brave young
creature, exposing herself thoughtlessly in her reckless innocence, is
the victim for them. They will bring all society down on her with one of
their explosive sly words appearing so careless, the cowards. I say
without hesitation, her conduct with regard to Kirby, the Old Buccaneer,
as he was called, however indefensible in itself, warrants her at heart
an innocent young woman, much to be pitied. Only to think of her, I could
sometimes drop into a chair for a good cry. And of him too! and their
daughter Carinthia Jane was the pair of them, as to that, and so was
Chillon John, the son.

Those critics quoting Nymney should look at the portrait of her in the
Long Saloon of Cresset Castle, where she stands in blue and white,
completely dressed, near a table supporting a couple of holster pistols,
and then let them ask themselves whether they would speak of her so if
her little hand could move.

Well, and so the tale of her swim across the Shannon river and back drove
the young Earl of Cresset straight over to Ireland to propose for her, he
saying; that she was the girl to suit his book; not allowing her time to
think of how much he might be the man to suit hers. The marriage was what
is called a good one: both full of frolic, and he wealthy and rather
handsome, and she quite lovely and spirited.

No wonder the whole town wa