departure. Dublin was, of course, fairly familiar to us from our
stays there, when we travelled to and from the north of Ireland.
Some of the minor customs of the "sixties" seem so remote now that
it may be worth while recalling them. In common with most Ulster
people, we always stayed at the Bilton Hotel in Dublin, a fine old
Georgian house in Sackville Street. Everything at the Bilton was
old, solid, heavy, and eminently respectable. All the plate was of
real Georgian silver, and all the furniture in the big gloomy
bedrooms was of solid, not veneered, mahogany. Quite invariably my
father was received in the hall, on arrival, by the landlord, with
a silver candlestick in his hand. The landlord then proceeded
ceremoniously to "light us upstairs" to a sitting-room on the
first floor, although the staircase was bright with gas. This was
a survival from the eighteenth century, when staircases and
passages in inns were but dimly lit; but it was an attention that
was expected. In the same way, when dinner was ready in our
sitting-room, the landlord always brought in the silver soup-
tureen with his own hands, placed it ceremoniously before my
father, and removed the cover with a great flourish; after which
he retired, and left the rest to the waiter. This was another
traditional attention.

Towards the end of dinner it became my father's turn to repay
these civilities. Though he himself very rarely touched wine, he
would look down the wine-list until he found a peculiarly
expensive port. This he would order for what was then termed "the
good of the house." When this choice product of the Bilton bins
made its appearance, wreathed in cobwebs, in a wicker cradle, my
father would send the waiter with a message to the landlord, "My
compliments to Mr. Massingberg, and will he do me the favour of