," said I, somewhat stung that I should get a lesson in
manner where I had meant to be a model for imitation; "if they like that
kind of thing, I must only conform."

CHAPTER VII. THE ROONEYS.

I cannot proceed further in this my veracious history without dwelling
a little longer upon the characters of the two interesting individuals I
have already presented to my readers as Mr. and Mrs. Rooney.

Paul Rooney, attorney-at-law, 42, Stephen's-green, north, was about
as well known in his native city of Dublin as Nelson's Pillar. His
reputation, unlimited by the adventitious circumstances of class, spread
over the whole surface of society; and, from the chancellor down to the
carman, his claims were confessed.

It is possible that, in many other cities of the world, Mr. Rooney might
have been regarded as a common-place, every-day personage, well to do
in the world, and of a free-and-easy character, which, if it left little
for reproach, left still less for remark: but in Ireland, whether it was
the climate or the people, the potteen or the potatoes, I cannot say,
but certainly he "came out," as the painters call it, in a breadth of
colour quite surprising.

The changeful character of the skies has, they tell us, a remarkable
influence in fashioning the ever-varying features of Irish temperament;
and, certainly, the inconstant climate of Dublin had much merit if it
produced in Mr. Rooney the versatile nature he rejoiced in.

About ten o'clock, on every morning during term, might be seen a
shrewd, cunning-looking, sly little fellow, who, with pursed-up lips and
slightly elevated nose, wended his way towards the Four Courts, followed
by a ragged urchin with a well-filled bag of purple stuff. His black
coat, drab shorts, and gaiters, had a plain and business-like cut; and
the short, square tie of his white cravat had a quaint resemblance to a
flourish on a deed; the self-satisfied look, the assured step, the easy
roll of the head--all bespoke one with whom the world was thriving; and
it did not need the additional evidence of a certain habit he had of
jingling his silver in his breeches-pocket as he went, to assure you
that Rooney was a warm fellow, and had no want of cash.

Were you to trace his steps for the three or four hours that ensued, you
would see him bustling through the crowded hall of the Four Courts--now,
whispering some important point to a leading barrister, while he held
another by the gown lest he s