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 regarding its contents. [Illustration: 410] “Here's the whole, full, and true account (bad luck to the less!) of the great and sanguinary battle between Boney and the Roosians; with all the particklars about the killed, wounded, and missing; with what Boney said when it was over.” “What was that, Terry?” “Hould yer peace, ye spalpeen! Is it to the likes of yez I 'd be telling cabinet sacrets? (Here, yer honor),--'Falkner,' is it, or 'The Saunders'. With the report of Mr. O'Gogorman's grand speech in Ennis on the Catholic claims. There's, yer sowl, there's fippence worth any day ay the week. More be token, the letter from Jemmy O'Brien to his wife, wid an elegant epic poem called 'The Gauger.' Bloody news, gentlemen! bloody news! Won't yez sport a tester for a sight of a real battle, and ten thousand kilt; with 'The Whole Duty of an Informer, in two easy lessons.' The price of stocks and shares--Ay, Mr. O'Hara, and what boroughs is bringing in the market.” This last sally was directed towards a large, red-faced man, who good-humoredly joined in the laugh against himself. “And who's this, boys?” cried the fellow, turning suddenly his piercing eyes on me, as I endeavored, step by step, to reach the door of the hotel. “Hurrool look at his beard, acushla! On my conscience, I wouldn't wonder if it was General Hoche himself. 'Tis late yer come, sir,” said he, addressing me directly; “there's no fun here now at all, barrin' what Beresford has in the riding-house.”