He was, unfortunately, the reverse of an alarmist--proud of his
popularity--read his letters--drew his inferences--and came to
prompt conclusions. Through his lawyer, a house ready-furnished in
Leeson-street was secured. His plate and portable valuables were
forwarded to Dublin, and reached their destination safely. Had our
hearts been where the treasure was, we should, as in prudence bound,
have personally accompanied the silver spoons--but the owner, like
many an abler commander, played the waiting game too long. A day
sooner would have saved some trouble--but my father had carried habits
of absolute action into all the occurrences of daily life. Indecision
is, in character, a sad failure, but his weak point ran directly in
an opposite direction. He thought, weighed matters hastily, decided in
five minutes, and that decision once made, _coute qui coute_, must be
carried out to the very letter. He felt all the annoyance of leaving
the old roof-tree and its household gods--conflicting statements from
the executive--false information from local traitors--an assurance
from the priest that no immediate danger might be expected--these,
united to a yearning after home, rendered his operations rather
Fabian. The storm burst, however, while he still hesitated, or rather,
the burning of the mail-coaches and the insurrection were things
simultaneous--and my father afterward discovered that he, like many a
wiser man, had waited a day too long.

Whether the colonel might have dallied still longer is mere
conjecture, when a letter marked "haste" was delivered by an orderly
dragoon, and in half an hour the "leathern conveniency" was rumbling
down the avenue.

The journey of the Wronghead family to London--if I recollect the
pleasant comedy that details it correctly--was effected without the