is grey eyes, expanded to twice their former size, looked the very soul
of merriment; his nether lip, slightly dropped, quivered with the last
joke it uttered. Even his voice partook of the change, and was now
a rich, full, mellow Clare accent, which, with the recitative of his
country, seemed to Italianise his English. While such was Paul, his
_accessoires_--as the French would call them--were in admirable keeping:
a dark chesnut cob, a perfect model of strength and symmetry, would be
led up and down by a groom, also mounted upon a strong hackney,
whose flat rib and short pastern showed his old Irish breeding; the
well-fitting saddle, the well-balanced stirrup, the plain but powerful
snaffle, all looked like the appendages of one whose jockeyism was no
assumed feature; and, indeed, you had only to see Mr. Rooney in his
seat, to confess that he was to the full as much at home there as in the
Court of Chancery.

From this to the hour of a late dinner, the Phoenix Park became his
resort. There, surrounded by a gay and laughing crowd, Paul cantered
along, amusing his hearers with the last _mot_ from the King's Bench,
or some stray bit of humour or fun from a case on circuit. His
conversation, however, principally ran on other topics: the Curragh
Meeting, the Loughrea Steeple-chase, the Meath Cup, or Lord Boyne's
Handicap; with these he was thoroughly familiar. He knew the odds of
every race, could apportion the weights, describe the ground, and,
better than all, make rather a good guess at the winner. In addition to
these gifts, he was the best judge of a horse in Ireland; always well
mounted, and never without at least two hackneys in his stable, able to
trot their fifteen Irish miles within the hour. Such qualities as
these might be supposed popular ones in a country proverbially given
to sporting; but Mr. Rooney had other and very superior powers of
attraction,--he was the Amphitryou of Dublin. It was no figurative
expression to say that he kept open house. _Dejeuners_, dinners, routs,
and balls followed each other in endless succession. His cook was
French, his claret was Sneyd's; he imported his own sherry and Madeira,
both of which he nursed with a care and affection truly parental. His
venison and black-cock came from Scotland; every Holyhead packet had
its consignment of Welsh mutton; and, in a word, whatever wealth could
purchase, and a taste, nurtured as his had been by the counsel of many
who frequented his tabl