with the appearance of a stout elderly gentleman, with red whiskers, and
a high, bald forehead; he had, although the day was an oppressively hot
one, three waistcoats on, and by the brown York tan of his long topped
boots, evinced a very considerable contempt either for weather or
fashion; in the quick glance of his sharp grey eye, I read that he
listened half doubtingly to the narrative of his companion, whose back
was turned towards me, but who appeared, from the occasional words which
reached me, to be giving a rather marvellous and melodramatic version of
the expected pleasures of the capital. There was something in the tone
of the speaker's voice that I thought I recognised; I accordingly drew
near, and what was my surprise to discover my friend Tom O'Flaherty.
After our first salutation was over, Tom presented me to his friend, Mr.
Burke, of somewhere, who, he continued to inform me, in a stage whisper,
was a "regular dust," and never in Dublin in his life before.

"And so, you say, sir, that his majesty cannot enter without the
permission of the lord mayor?"

"And the aldermen, too," replied Tom. "It is an old feudal ceremony;
when his majesty comes up to the gate, he demands admission, and the lord
mayor refuses, because he would be thus surrendering his great
prerogative of head of the city; then the aldermen get about him, and
cajole him, and by degrees he's won over by the promise of being
knighted, and the king gains the day, and enters."

"Upon my conscience, a mighty ridiculous ceremony it is, after all," said
Mr. Burke, "and very like a bargain for sheep in Ballinasloe fair, when
the buyer and seller appear to be going to fight, till a mutual friend
settles the bargain between them."