"What d'ye plaze to want, gintlemen, for breakfast?"

"What have you for the morning meal?" He then glibly dealt out a long list of good things, the burden being chickens and ham, which he repeated and transformed several times in the course of his verbal bill of fare. We then ordered chickens and ham, with tea, for which, with all the patience that keen appetites could muster, for three-quarters of an hour we waited in vain. A boy who was left in charge coolly informed us that his master had gone to his stall at the harbor and taken the chickens and ham with him. "Ah," said my pawky uncle, "this comes from too prompt payment. Had we held on to the price of his beds for awhile our fast might have been broken' in comparative comfort." The weather for an hour was bright and clear, long enough to feast our vision on one of the most beautiful sights I ever beheld. The Bay of Dublin at all times is one of nature's beauty spots, but on this occasion the scene was made enchanting by the numberless yachts of the three united kingdoms floating on its tranquil bosom, all busy in preparation for the trial of speed on which they were about to start. A gentle breeze from the north rippled the surface of the bay, bringing with it the harbinger of disappointment. A small but growing cloud kissed the summit of the hill of Howth, giving to the weather-wise unheeded warning of a soaking day. Nor was suspense of long duration. With the changing speed of a kaleidoscope the brilliant morning was embraced in gloom. The glorious bay, with its busy burden, was no longer to be seen, neither could the outline of the distant hill be drawn, and then the rain—I have heard of it raining in Glasgow, and tasted of rain in the Devil's Wash-Basin, a local title given to the city of Manchester, and both cities are proverbial for the extent of their rainfall—but the fall of rain that day in Kingston would be hard to surpass. The fine morning had emptied Dublin of its heterogeneous masses, who poured into the site of the new harbor at Kingston by the thousand, and a crowd more mixed never characterized the annual Derby day at Epsom. One peculiarity I noticed which goes to distinguish the western gathering from that of the east, namely, the use of the umbrella. In England the umbrella is supposed to be the property of the individual. In Ireland it is public property. Hoisting one of those useful commodities has the effect of attracting all those within sight of the holder who might be less fortunate, giving rise to the most ludicrous scenes, in one of which my jolly uncle was made to figure as a center. He had placed his back against a huge block of granite to shelter him from the pelting storm, and to increase his protection inflated his new bit of silk for the first time, which was no sooner done than a round dozen of all sorts of people laid claim to share the privilege with that of the owner. At first the kind old soul evinced no dislike to this singular proceeding, so new to him. A Dublin belle of apparent respectability, elegantly attired in satin, but woefully drenched with the rain, had placed her back against his rotund person, affording the old gentleman pleasure in the exercise of his gallantry in sheltering so fine a lady from the merciless storm.

"But pleasures are like poppies spread,
You seize the flower, the bloom is shed;
Or like the snow-flake on the river,
A moment white, then gone forever."

Less welcome were the dozen ragged, rollicking followers of the lady's example, who set up a rude, noisy bantering, many of their jokes made to appeal to the risibles of the ungainly crowd at Mr. Clements' expense, making his confined situation anything but pleasant. Retreat in the rear was cut off by reason of the granite; the obstacles in front were nearly as immovable. The old gentleman was very sensitive to odor, and the packing of so many saturated human beings so assailed his olfactories that his plight became unbearable, and with one effort of his burly body he freed himself of his untoward incumbrance. On our way to the viandless eating-house for our satchels I confess to the morbid satisfaction of seeing our host of the empty platter perhaps too severely punished for the trick he played on us as strangers. He had improvised a square platform with a pole at each corner. At the tops of each upright was fastened an unwashed sheet to keep the sun from his stock in trade. The sheet now, the sunshine having turned to rain, formed a leaky reservoir of the superincumbent downfall, and the unsold viands, even the veritable chickens and ham, uninvitingly lay exposed to the copious drippings of the extended sheet above, which from its inverted rotundity threatened to burst every minute. Bidding adieu to the prolonged scene of discomfort we sought and found its opposite (after a short ride of seven or eight miles over the only railroad which Ireland could at that date boast of) in the Victoria Hotel, Westland Row, Dublin, the landlord, Mr. Gilbert, a native of Droitwich, England, who for genuine hospitality could not be excelled. In addition to the home comforts of his well-managed house, he put himself to considerable expense and trouble on our behalf in doing the lions of the city and environs,—the park, the college, the custom house, the four courts, the castle the pigeon house, the cathedral, even through the romantic glen called the Dargle (where Grattan was wont to practice his parliamentary speeches), to the falls of Powerscourt, in the Wicklow mountains, and other places of interest. Among other curiosities in Dublin I may mention that of a new way to pay old debts.