There was something in the tone
of the speaker's voice that I thought I recognised; I accordingly drew
near, and what was my surprise to discover my friend Tom O'Flaherty.
After our first salutation was over, Tom presented me to his friend, Mr.
Burke, of somewhere, who, he continued to inform me, in a stage whisper,
was a "regular dust," and never in Dublin in his life before.

"And so, you say, sir, that his majesty cannot enter without the
permission of the lord mayor?"

"And the aldermen, too," replied Tom. "It is an old feudal ceremony;
when his majesty comes up to the gate, he demands admission, and the lord
mayor refuses, because he would be thus surrendering his great
prerogative of head of the city; then the aldermen get about him, and
cajole him, and by degrees he's won over by the promise of being
knighted, and the king gains the day, and enters."

"Upon my conscience, a mighty ridiculous ceremony it is, after all," said
Mr. Burke, "and very like a bargain for sheep in Ballinasloe fair, when
the buyer and seller appear to be going to fight, till a mutual friend
settles the bargain between them."

At this moment, Mr. Burke suddenly sprung from his chair, which was
nearest the window, to look out; I accordingly followed his example, and
beheld a rather ludicrous procession, if such it could be called,
consisting of so few persons. The principal individual in the group was
a florid, fat, happy-looking gentleman of about fifty, with a profusion
of nearly white whiskers, which met at his chin, mounted upon a sleek
charger, whose half-ambling, half-prancing pace, had evidently been
acquired by long habit of going in procession; this august figure was
habited in a scarlet coat and cocked hat, having aiguillettes, and all
the other appanage of a general officer; he also wore tight buckskin
breeches, and high jack-boots, like those of the Blues and Horse Guards;
as he looked from side to side, with a self-satisfied contented air, he
appeared quite insensible of the cortege which followed and preceded him;
the latter, consisting of some score of half-ragged boys, yelling and
shouting with all their might, and the former, being a kind of instalment
in hand of the Dublin Militia Band, and who, in numbers and equipment,
closely resembled the "army which accompanies the first appearance of
Bombastes." The only difference, that these I speak of did not play "the
Rogue's March," which might have perhaps appeared persona