g a very portentous design against mankind in general.

"She was at Mallow for the sake of the Spa, it being understood that she
was consumptive--though I'll answer for it, her lungs were not touched;
and I never saw any signs of consumption about her, except at meal
times, when her consumption was undoubtedly great. However, her mother,
a very nice middle-aged woman--she was of the O'Regans of the West, and
a perfect lady in her manners, with a very remarkable red nose, which
she attributed to a cold which had settled in that part, and which cold
she was always endeavouring to cure with various balsamic preparations
taken inwardly,--maintained that her poor chicken, as she called her,
was very delicate, and required the air and water of Mallow to cure her.
Theodosia (she was so named after some of the Limerick family), or, as
we generally called her, Dosy, was rather of a sanguine complexion, with
hair that might be styled auburn, but which usually received another
name. Her nose was turned up, as they say was that of Cleopatra; and her
mouth, which was never idle, being always employed in eating, drinking,
shouting, or laughing, was of considerable dimensions. Her eyes were
piercers, with a slight tendency to a cast; and her complexion was equal
to a footman's plush breeches, or the first tinge of the bloom of
morning bursting through a summer-cloud, or what else verse-making men
are fond of saying. I remember a young man who was in love with her
writing a song about her, in which there was one or other of the similes
above mentioned, I forget which. The verses were said to be very clever,
as no doubt they were; but I do not recollect them, never being able
to remember poetry. Dosy's mother used to say that it was a hectic
flush--if so, it was a very permanent flush, for it never left her
cheeks for a moment, and had it not belonged to a young lady in a
galloping consumption, would have done honour to a dairymaid.

"Pardon these details, gentlemen," said Bob Burke, sighing, "but one
always thinks of the first loves. Tom Moore says that 'there's nothing
half so sweet in life as young love's dram;' and talking of that, if
there's anything left in the brandy-bottle, hand it over to me. Here's
to the days gone by; they will never come again. Dear Dosy, you and I
had some fun together. I see her now with her red hair escaping from
under her hat, in a pea-green habit, a stiff-cutting whip in her hand,
licking it into Tom th