"Well, but, my dear Mr. O'Flaherty, you forget how ignorant I am of every
thing here--"

"Ah, true," said Tom, interrupting; "I forgot you never saw him before."

"And who is he, sir?"

"Why, that's the Duke of Wellington."

"Lord have mercy upon me, is it?" said Mr. Burke, as he upset the table,
and all its breakfast equipage, and rushed through the coffee-room like
one possessed. Before I could half recover from the fit of laughing this
event threw me into, I heard him as he ran full speed down Dawson-street,
waving his hat, and shouting out at the top of his lungs, "God bless your
grace--Long life to your grace--Hurra for the hero of Waterloo; the great
captain of the age," &c. &c.; which I grieve to say, for the ingratitude
of the individual lauded, seemed not to afford him half the pleasure, and
none of the amusement it did the mob, who reechoed the shouts and
cheering till he was hid within the precincts of the Mansion House.

"And, now," said Tom to me, "finish your breakfast as fast as possible;
for, when Burke comes back he will be boring me to dine with him, or some
such thing, as a kind of acknowledgment of his gratitude for showing him
the Duke. Do you know he has seen more wonders through my poor
instrumentality, within the last three days in Dublin than a six months'
trip to the continent would show most men. I have made him believe that
Burke Bethel is Lord Brougham, and I am about to bring him to a soiree at
Mi-Ladi's, who he supposes to be the Marchioness of Conyngham. Apropos
to the Bellissima, let me tell you of a "good hit" I was witness to a few
nights since; you know, perhaps, old Sir Charles Giesecke, eh?"