358 MEMOIR OP A GENTLEMAN. 



the summer-house, these were my loved one's and her rela- 

 tive's. To use his own parlance, the latter, in the joy of hi& 

 heart, had taken a sufficiency of wine ' to smother a priest ;' 

 and as the conversation was interesting to the parties, and 

 mine was not the stride of a warrior, my approach was not 

 discovered by either. The conclave, however, had termi- 

 nated, and though hut the parting observation reached me, 

 it is too faithfully chronicled on my memory to be forgotten 

 ( The devil is an ommadawn, no doubt ; but he has money 

 galore, and we'll make him do in Gal way !' As he spoke 

 they rose, and passed into the house without observing me. 



t( What the observation of Marc Antony meant, I could 

 not for the life of me comprehend. Part of it was spoken, 

 too, in an unknown tongue. Was / the devil ? and what was 

 an ommadawn ? Dark doubts crossed my mind ; but vanished, 

 for Brasilia was more gracious than ever, and Marc Antony 

 squeezed my hand at parting, and assured me, as well as he 

 could articulate after six tumblers of hot Farintosh, ' that I 

 was a lucky man, and Brasilia a woman in ten thousand.' 



tc Well, the knot was tied, and but for the eclat of the 

 thing, the ceremony might have been as safely solemnized at 

 Margate. On the lady's side, the property was strictly per- 

 sonal. Her claim upon the estates of the defunct Field- 

 Marshal was never since established, for the properties of that 

 distinguished commander could never be localized. Marc 

 Antony had been a borrower from the first hour of our inti- 

 macy ; and on the morning of her marriage, Brasilia, I have 

 reason to believe, was not mistress of ten pounds but then 

 she was a treasure in herself, and so swore Marc Antony. 



" The private history of a honeymoon I leave to be narrated 

 by those who have found that haven of bliss which I had 

 pictured but never realized. If racketing night and day over 

 every quarter of the metropolis, with the thermometer steady 

 at 90 ; if skirmishing from Kensington to the Haymarket, 

 and thence to Astley' s and Vauxhall, with frequent excursions 

 to those suburban hotels infested by high- spirited apprentices, 

 6 and maids who love the moon :' if this be pleasure, I had 

 no reason to repine. In these aifairs c our loving cousin' was 

 an absolute dictator, and against his decrees there was no 

 appeal. To me, a quiet and nervous gentleman, Marc's ar- 

 rangements were detestable. What he called life, was death 

 to me his ideas of pleasure were formed on the keep-moving 



