think the shams of Ireland are more outrageous than those of any
country. A fellow shows you a hill and says, 'That's the highest
mountain in all Ireland;' a gentleman tells you he is descended from
Brian Boroo and has his five-and-thirty hundred a year; or Mrs. Macmanus
describes her fawther's esteet; or ould Dan rises and says the Irish
women are the loveliest, the Irish men the bravest, the Irish land the
most fertile in the world: and nobody believes anybody--the latter does
not believe his story nor the hearer:--but they make-believe to believe,
and solemnly do honour to humbug.

O Ireland! O my country! (for I make little doubt I am descended from
Brian Boroo too) when will you acknowledge that two and two make four,
and call a pikestaff a pikestaff?--that is the very best use you can
make of the latter. Irish snobs will dwindle away then and we shall
never hear tell of Hereditary bondsmen.

CHAPTER XVIII--PARTY-GIVING SNOBS

Our selection of Snobs has lately been too exclusively of a political
character. 'Give us private Snobs,' cry the dear ladies. (I have before
me the letter of one fair correspondent of the fishing village of
Brighthelmstone in Sussex, and could her commands ever be disobeyed?)
'Tell us more, dear Mr. Snob, about your experience of Snobs in
society.' Heaven bless the dear souls!--they are accustomed to the word
now--the odious, vulgar, horrid, unpronounceable word slips out of their
lips with the prettiest glibness possible. I should not wonder if it
were used at Court amongst the Maids of Honour. In the very best society
I know it is. And why not? Snobbishness is vulgar--the mere words
are not: that which we call a Snob, by any other name would still be
Snobbish.

Well, then. As the season is drawing to a close: as many hundreds
of kind souls, snobbish or otherwise, have quitted London; as many
hospitable carpets are taken up; and window-blinds are pitilessly
papered with the MORNING HERALD; and mansions once inhabited by cheerful
owners are now consigned to the care of the housekeeper's dreary LOCUM
TENENS--some mouldy old woman, who, in reply to the hopeless clanging
of the bell, peers at you for a moment from the area, and then slowly
unbolting the great hall-door, informs you my lady has left town, or
that 'the family's in the country,' or 'gone up the Rind,'--or what not;
as the season and parties are over; why not consider Party-giving Snobs
for a while, and review the conduct o