resplendent glare of fifty
wax-lights, was now made a resting-place for chakos, bearskins, and
foraging caps; an ominous-looking star in the looking-glass bore witness
to the bullet of a pistol; and the very Cupids carved upon the frame,
who once were wont to smile blandly at each other, were now disfigured
with cork moustaches, and one of them even carried a short pipe in his
mouth. Swords, sashes, and sabretasches, spurs and shot-belts, with
guns, fishing-tackle, and tandem whips, were hung here and there upon
the walls, which themselves presented the strangest spectacle of all,
there not being a portion of them unoccupied by caricature sketches,
executed in every imaginable species of taste, style, and colouring.
Here was a field-day in the Park, in which it was easy to see the
prominent figures were portraits: there an enormous nose, surmounted
by a grenadier cap, was passing in review some trembling and terrified
soldiers. In another, a commander of the forces was seen galloping
down the lines, holding on by the pommel of the saddle. Over the sofa I
occupied, a levee at the Castle was displayed, in which, if the company
were not villanously libelled, the Viceroy had little reason to be proud
of his guests. There were also dinners at the Lodge; guards relieved by
wine puncheons dressed up like field-officers; the whole accompanied by
doggrel verses explanatory of the views.

The owner of this singular chamber had, however, not merely devoted his
walls to the purposes of an album, but he had also made them perform the
part of a memorandum-book. Here were the "meets" of the Kildare and the
Dubber for the month of March; there, the turn of duty for the garrison
of Dublin, interspersed with such fragments as the following:--"Mem. To
dine at Mat Kean's on Tuesday, 4th.--Not to pay Hennesy till he settles
about the handicap.--To ask Courtenay--for Fanny Burke's fan; the same
Fanny has pretty legs of her own.--To tell Holmes to have nothing to do
with Lanty Moore's niece, in regard to a reason!--Five to two on Giles's
two-year-old, if Tom likes. N.B. The mare is a roarer.--A heavenly day;
what fun they must have!--may the devil fire Tom O'Flaherty, or I would
not be here now." These and a hundred other similar passages figured on
every side, leaving me in a state of considerable mystification, not as
to the character of my host, of which I could guess something, but as to
the nature of his abode, which I could not imagine