the struggle was over. Well, peace to his ashes! We'll leave him in
the family vault, and start with a party for the metropolis, who, in
the demise of our honored kinswoman, had sustained a heavy loss, but
notwithstanding, endured the visitation with Christian fortitude and
marvelous resignation.

_Place au dames_. My lady-mother had been a beauty in her day, and
for a dozen years after her marriage, had seen her name proudly and
periodically recorded by George Faukiner, in the thing he called
a journal, which, in size, paper, and typography, might emulate a
necrologic affair cried loudly through the streets of London, "i' the
afternoon" of a hanging Monday, containing much important information,
whether the defunct felon had made his last breakfast simply from tea
and toast, or whether Mr. Sheriff ---- had kindly added mutton-chops
to the _déjeûner_, while his amiable lady furnished new-laid eggs from
the family corn-chandler. But to return to my mother.

Ten years had passed, and her name had not been hallooed from groom
to groom on a birth-day night, while the pearl neck-lace, a bridal
present, and emeralds, an heir-loom from her mother, remained in
strict abeyance. Now and again their cases were unclosed, and a
sigh accompanied the inspection--for sad were their reminiscences.
_Olim_--her name was chronicled on Patrick's night, by every Castle
reporter. They made, it is to be lamented, as Irish reporters will
make, sad mistakes at times. The once poor injured lady had been
attired in canary-colored lute-string, and an ostrich plume remarkable
for its enormity while she, the libeled one, had been becomingly
arrayed in blue bombazine, and of any plumage imported from Araby the
blest, was altogether innocent.