ing to mind the last scene I
witnessed there, a tall, strongly-built man brushed close past me,
and then turning round, fixed a steady and searching look on me. As I
returned his stare, a sudden thought flashed upon me that I had seen
the face before; but where, how, and when, I could not call to mind. And
thus we stood silently confronting each other for some minutes.

"I see you are a stranger here, sir," said he, touching his hat
courteously; "can I be of service to you with any information as to the
city?"

"I was curious to know, sir," said I, still more puzzled by the voice
than I had been by the features of the stranger, "if Miley's Hotel,
which was somewhere in the neighborhood, exists still?"

"It does, sir; but it has changed proprietors several times since you
knew it," replied he, significantly. "The house is yonder, where you
see that large lamp. I perceive, sir, I was mistaken in supposing you a
foreigner. I wish you good-evening." And again saluting me, he resumed
his way.

As I crossed the street towards the hotel, I remarked that he turned as
if to watch me, and became more than ever embarrassed as to who he might
be.

The doorway of the hotel was crowded with loungers and idlers of every
class, from the loitering man about town to the ragged newsvendor,
between whom, whatever disparity of condition existed, a tone of the
most free-and-easy condition prevailed; the newsmen interpolating, amid
the loud announcements of the latest intelligence, the reply to the
observation beside him.

One figure was conspicuous in the group. He was a short, dwarfish
creature, with an enormous head, covered with a fell of black hair,
falling in masses down his back and on his shoulders. A pair of
fierce, fiery black eyes glared beneath his heavy brows; and a large,
thick-lipped mouth moved with all the glib eloquence of his class and
calling. Fearfully distorted legs and club feet gave to his gait a
rolling motion, which added to the singularity of his whole appearance.

Terry Regan was then at the head of his walk in Dublin; and to his
capacious lungs and voluble tongue were committed the announcement of
those great events which, from time to time, were given to the Irish
public through the columns of the "Correspondent" and the "Dublin
Journal."

I soon found myself in the crowd around this celebrated character,
who was, as usual, extolling the great value of that night's paper by
certain brief suggestions re