rmitting them to marry--a privilege which they,
unlike their brethren at Oxford and Cambridge, enjoy to this day. His
position as provost did not prevent his righting a duel with a Mr.
Doyle, but neither was hurt. Mr. Hutchinson had a great dislike to a Mr.
Shrewbridge, one of the junior fellows, who had shown opposition to him.
Mr. Shrewbridge died, and the under--graduates attributed his death to
the provost's having refused him permission to go away for change of
air. A thoroughly Hiber-man _emeute_ was the consequence. The provost
ordered that the great bell, which usually tolls for a fellow, should
not toll, and that the body should be privately buried at six A.M. in
the fellows' burial-ground. The students immediately posted up placards
that the great bell _should_ toll, and that the funeral should be by
torchlight. They carried the point. Almost all the students attended the
corpse to the grave in scarfs and hatbands at their own expense, and
when the funeral oration was pronounced they flew in wild excitement to
the provost's house, burst open his doors and smashed the furniture to
pieces. The provost had a hint given him, and with his family had
retreated to his house near Dublin. It was subsequently stated on good
authority that Mr. Shrewbridge could not in any case have recovered.

Any one who takes an interest in the most original writer--not to say,
man--of the eighteenth century will not fail to find his way to "the
Liberties," as that queer district is called which surrounds St.
Patrick's Cathedral. Some years ago the present writer made his way into
the great deserted deanery--the then dean resided in another part of
the city--got the old woman in charge of the house to open the shutters
of the dining-room, and gazed at the original portrait of Jonathan
Swift, which hangs there an heirloom to his successors. Of the precincts
of his cathedral he writes to Pope: "I am lord-mayor of one hundred and
twenty houses,[5] I am absolute lord of the greatest cathedral in the
kingdom, and am at peace with the neighboring princes--_i.e._, the
lord-mayor of the city and the archbishop of Dublin--but the latter
sometimes attempts encroachments on my dominions, as old Lewis did in
Lorraine."

Again, he writes to Dr. Sheridan: "No soul has broken his neck or is
hanged or married; only Cancerina is dead.[6] I let her go to her grave
without a coffin and without fees."

St. Patrick's, which was, in a deplorable state dur