began to increase in wealth and importance. But it is not so easy as some
people imagine to shake off the remembrance of what we have been, and it is
still more difficult to make our friends oblivious on that point,
particularly if we have ascended in the scale of respectability. Thus it
was, that in spite of my grandfather's weighty purse, he could not succeed
in prefixing _Mister_ to his name; find he continued for a long time to be
known as plain 'Shawn Duffy, of the Devil's Half-acre.' It was undoubtedly
a most diabolic address; but Shawn was a man of considerable strength of
mind, as well as of muscle, and he resolved to become a _juntleman_,
despite this damning reminiscence. Vulgarity, it is said, sticks to a man
like a limpet to a rock. Shawn knew the best way to rub it off would be by
mixing with good society. Dress, he always understood, was the best
passport he could bring for admission within the pale of gentility;
accordingly, he boldly attempted to pass the boundary of plebeianism, by
appearing one fine morning at the fair of Ballybreesthawn in a flaming red
waistcoat, an elegant _oarline_[2] hat, a pair of buckskin breeches, and a
new pair of yellow-topped boots, which, with the assistance of large plated
spurs, and a heavy silver-mounted whip, took the shine out of the smartest
squireens at the fair.

[2] A beaver hat.

"Fortunately for the success of my grandfather's invasion of the
aristocratic rights, it occurred on the eve of a general election, and as
he had the command of six or eight votes in the county, his interest was a
matter of some importance to the candidates. Be that as it may, it was with
feelings little short of absolute dismay, that the respectable inhabitants
of the extensive village of Ballybreesthawn beheld the metamorphosed tenant
of 'The Devil's Half-acre,' walking arm-in-arm down the street with Sir
Denis Daly, the popular candidate. At all events, this public and familiar