t in his heart very sorry), and, after having sat a preposterously
long time, left us, asking whether we would have coffee there or in her
boudoir.

"Oh! here, of course," said Dennis, with rather a troubled air, and
in about ten minutes the lovely creature was led back to us again by
"Edwards," and the coffee made its appearance. After coffee her husband
begged her to let Mr. Fitz-Boodle hear her voice: "He longs for some of
his old favourites."

"No! DO you?" said she; and was led in triumph to the jingling old
piano, and with a screechy wiry voice, sang those very abominable old
ditties which I had heard her sing at Leamington ten years back.

Haggarty, as she sang, flung himself back in the chair delighted.
Husbands always are, and with the same song, one that they have heard
when they were nineteen years old probably; most Englishmen's tunes have
that date, and it is rather affecting, I think, to hear an old gentleman
of sixty or seventy quavering the old ditty that was fresh when HE was
fresh and in his prime. If he has a musical wife, depend on it he thinks
her old songs of 1788 are better than any he has heard since: in fact
he has heard NONE since. When the old couple are in high good-humour the
old gentleman will take the old lady round the waist, and say, "My dear,
do sing me one of your own songs," and she sits down and sings with her
old voice, and, as she sings, the roses of her youth bloom again for a
moment. Ranelagh resuscitates, and she is dancing a minuet in powder and
a train.

This is another digression. It was occasioned by looking at poor
Dennis's face while his wife was screeching (and, believe me, the former
was the more pleasant occupation). Bottom tickled by the fairies could
not have been in greater ecstasies. He thought the music was divine;
and had further reason for exulting in it, which was, that his wife was
always in a good humour after singing, and never would sing but in that
happy frame of mind. Dennis had hinted so much in our little colloquy
during the ten minutes of his lady's absence in the "boudoir;" so, at
the conclusion of each piece, we shouted "Bravo!" and clapped our hands
like mad.

Such was my insight into the life of Surgeon Dionysius Haggarty and his
wife; and I must have come upon him at a favourable moment too, for poor
Dennis has spoken, subsequently, of our delightful evening at Kingstown,
and evidently thinks to this day that his friend was fascinated by
the