LUCK.

PART II.

DERMOT O'DWYER.

THE following illustration of "Luck," for so the hero of it invariably termed his destiny, is of a very different character from that I have last given. The sketch may amuse, if it do not interest my readers.

A good many years have elapsed since Charles James Fox visited Ireland, and some venerable friends of mine still recount the delight my country folk felt at his frank and Irish manners. A portion of his time during his sojourn was spent at the palace of a right reverend prelate-a churchman of the old school, with a cauliflower wig, a gold-headed cane, and as much importance of appearance and address

as any one attached to dignity and formality could possibly require. One of his lordship's intimates, or, as he used in his moments of relaxation to denominate him, "his familiar," was a merry, jovial, fox-hunting squire, of large hospitality and small fortune, one of the genuine six-bottle school, with more heart than head, and more wit than judgment, and Dermot O'Dwyer by name.

It was, in truth, a strange companionship, to which I can liken nothing except a species of regard that once existed between a grave Newfoundland dog of my own, (Neptune he was called,) and a mischief-loving ring-tailed monkey of my cousin's. The great dog would sit for hours blinking his eyes in the sunbeams, and watching with a kind of sleepy interest Jocko's manifold tricks and capers, and when the skipping thing was tired permit him to nestle in his thick coat, and submit to the pushing and scratching he exercised to form a bed to his own taste, with extraordinary good-nature.

When the worthy dignitary succeeded in obtaining a promise from Mr. Fox, that he would visit his country residence, it will easily be believed that the reception he proposed giving the great M. P. was in keeping with his usual pomposity. Cards of invitation were duly sent

VOL. II.

forth, and one of the first despatched to his eccentric friend Dermot. On the appointed day, his tenants were drawn up on each side of the avenue, his servants drilled into new, stiff liveries, glittering with gold and embroidery; even his wife's little lap-dog had its little throat garlanded with true blue riband.

Just as everything was arranged Dermot O'Dwyer, attended by his favourite hounds, Tan and Freelove, burst into the state drawing-room.

"Come an hour earlier than dinner-time, my old boy," was the commencement of his unceremonious address to the stately personage who received him—“ come an hour earlier my old boy, to have a long chat with the parliamentman; saw him driving down the hill, threw him clean out at the corner, and egad got here first. Arn't I a buck? quite the thing, eh ?”

" Boots!" exclaimed the dignitary, with a reproving glance at the offending articles.

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Why, what the devil, have me ride without boots? We'll make a night of it. Ay, here's Charlie Fox, black-muzzled as a terrier-fine face though; I wish he hadn't come so soon, for I wanted to read you a speech I intended to make after dinner."

The gentleman was terrified at his friend's

oratorical talents; for an entire month he had been lecturing O'Dwyer on the greatness and importance of Charles James Fox, and the necessity for proper behaviour in his presence. How was he petrified when, on his presenting his friend to the M. P. " as one of the free and independent landholders of the county," Dermot unceremoniously interrupted him, and shaking Fox by the hand until his very arm ached, he exclaimed, "It's my lord's trade to blarney the people; you, I suppose, are Charles James Fox, M. P., a sturdy independent fellow, and I am Dermot O'Dwyer, a hater of ceremony and Tories; so there now, my worthy friend in the big wig has an acre of breath saved for the next oration."

This originality was highly entertaining to a man of Fox's disposition. The party separated at about four the next morning, neither wiser nor better, that I could learn, for having met, which I believe is generally the case at gentlemen's dinner parties; certainly, the hairdresser occupied a most unusual time next day in arranging his lordship's wig.

Mr. O'Dwyer lived bachelor-fashion in the dilapidated home of his ancestors, about three miles from the prelate's abode. The house was spacious, and, in one sense of the word, well

furnished, for there was no lack of inhabitants: a family of favoured pigeons occupied the attics, and reared their young in undisturbed tranquillity amid the ruin of old bedsteads and mouldering furniture. Whenever there was need of provender Dennis O'Hay, huntsman, footman, head groom, and valet, mounted the once handsome but then decayed staircase, and making his way over recumbent balustrades, and prostrate trophies of field and chase, brought down, to use his own phrase, “two or three dozen birdeens with the end of a stick; though sorra a mouthful on each o' the craturs." The middle rooms were sadly off for want of entire windows and other little conveniences deemed matters of absolute necessity in English houses. The oak flooring was only partially concealed by tattered carpets, and venerable tapestry hung in fragments from the mildewed walls. Below, indeed, with all my fastidiousness, I confess there was much to interest the lovers of animated nature. Large folding-doors, leading from the great hall to the dining-room, remained hospitably open, the hinges positively refusing to perform the office for which they had been designed, some eighty years previous to the date of which I write. O'Dwyer's miscellaneous favourites had here