back to our muttons,” as Barney Coyle used to say in the Dublin Library formerly—for Barney was fond of French allusions, which occasionally too he gave in their own tongue, as once describing an interview with Lord Cloncurry, in which he broke off suddenly the conference, adding, “I told him I never could consent to such a proposition, and putting my chateau (chapeau) on my head, I left the house at once.” It was nearly three o’clock in the morning, as accompanied by the waiter, who, like others of his tribe, had become a kind of somnambulist ex-officio, I wended my way up one flight of stairs, and down another, along a narrow corridor, down two steps, through an antechamber, and into another corridor, to No. 82, my habitation for the night. Why I should have been so far conducted from the habitable portion of the house I had spent my evening in, I leave the learned in such matters to explain; as for me, I have ever remarked it, while asking for a chamber in a large roomy hotel, the singular pride with which you are ushered up grand stair-cases, down passages, through corridors, and up narrow back flights, till the blue sky is seen through the sky-light, to No. 199, “the only spare bed-room in the house,” while the silence and desolation of the whole establishment would seem to imply far otherwise—the only evidence of occupation being a pair of dirty Wellingtons at the door of No. 2. “Well, we have arrived at last,” said I, drawing a deep sigh, as I threw myself upon a ricketty chair, and surveyed rapidly my meagre-looking apartment. “Yes, this is Monsieur’s chamber,” said the waiter, with a very peculiar look, half servile, half droll. “Madame se couche, No. 28.” “Very well, good night,” said I, closing the door hastily, and not liking the farther scrutiny of the fellow’s eye, as he fastened it on me, as if to search what precise degree of relationship existed between myself and my fair friend, whom he had called “Madame” purposely to elicit an observation from me. “Ten to one though,” said I, as I undressed myself, “but they think she is my wife—how good—but again—ay, it is very possible, considering we are in France. Numero vingt-huit, quite far enough from this part of the house I should suppose from my number,—that old gen-d’arme was a fine fellow—what strong attachment to Napoleon; and the story of the pope; I hope I may remember that. Isabella, poor girl—this adventure must really distress her—hope she is not crying over it—what a devil of a hard bed—and it is not five feet long too—and, bless my soul, is this all by way of covering; why I shall be perished here. Oh! I must certainly put all my clothes over me in addition, unfortunately there is no hearth-rug—well, there is no help for it now—so let me try to sleep—numero vingt-huit.”