Lady Dasher, the head of this all-wise circle, was the youngest daughter of a deceased Irish peer, whom she was continually bringing on the carpet, and causing--unhappy ghost that he was--to retrace his weary way from wherever the spirits of defunct Hibernian nobles most do congregate. She did not do this through family pride, or with any boastful intention, but simply from sheer morbidity. She was always scoring down grievances in the present by looking back on the past. With her, it was all repining and retrospect. When her poor father, the earl, was alive, she was never slighted in this way. Had her dear papa but now existed, Mistress So-and-So would have returned her call, and not insulted her by her palpable neglect. It was very Christian-like and charitable to say otherwise; but _she_ knew better: it was on account of her being poor, and living in a small house. Oh, yes! she was very well aware of _that_; yet, although she could not keep up a grand establishment and was poor, she was proud, and would never forget that she was an earl's daughter. She would not be ground down with impunity! Even the worm will turn: and so on. You can understand her character almost without another word of description. In spite of being a kindly-hearted soul at bottom, she was really, I believe, the most morbid and melancholic person that ever breathed,--at least, in my experience. Should you, unfortunately, be forced to remain for any length of time in her presence, she had a most singularly depressing influence on your spirits. Wet blanket? Bless your heart! that would be no name for her. She was a patent shower-bath, coming down on all your cherished sentiments, hopes, and schemes, with a "whish" of heavy extinguishment. The cheeriest, sprightliest mortal in the world could not have continued gay in her society. Mark Tapley would have met his match in her, I'm certain. Next to the demise of her lamented parent--which was indeed an after consideration--Lady Dasher's marriage was the source and well-spring of all her woes. She had espoused, as soon as she had a will of her own, a handsome young gin distiller, who "ran" a large manufactory in Essex. People said it was entirely a love match; but, whether that was the case or no, all _I_ know is, that on changing the honoured name of Planetree--the first Earl had been boot-black to the conquering Cromwell in Ireland--for the base-born patronymic Dasher, all her troubles began. Her noble relatives cut her dead in the first instance, as Dasher, aspiring though he was, aspired a trifle too high. The connection was never acknowledged; and his papa-in-law, utterly ignoring his entity, never gave him the honour of an invitation to Ballybrogue Castle, the ancestral seat of the Planetrees in Tipperary.