THE following morning presented the exhilarating aspect of an unclouded sky, and the two friends were anticipating, at the breakfast-table, the enjoyment of a fine day,—when
A double rat-tat, quickly doubled again, » Announced an intruder of Consequence vain, Decorum inclin'd to defy all;— Again went the knocker, yet louder and faster, John ran to the door, and one ask'd for his master, Resolv'd against taking denial.—
“My good fellow,” said the stranger, “will you be after representing my obeisance and all that, to the Honorable Mr. Dashall, and I beg to know whether he is at home?”
“Your name, sir?”
“Augh, what does it signify?—Tell him an old friend with a new face,—arrah, not so,—tell him, that a new friend with no face at all at all, would be glad to wait upon him.—Sir Felix O'Grady, the Munster baronet, d'ye mind me?”
This was an unexpected visit, and the more kindly received by Dashall and Tallyho, who promised themselves considerable amusement in the acquisition of the baronet's society, which was readily conceded for the day, to their request.
“Have you breakfasted?” asked Dashall. “Whether or not,” answered Sir Felix, “I'll take a cup of taa with you, any how.”
When the repast was finished, the triumvirate set out on their pedestrian excursion; interrupted however, in their progress, by a temporary shower, they took refuge in a Coffee-house, where Sir Felix taking up a Newspaper, read from amongst the numerous advertisements, the following selected article of information,—“Convenient accommodations for ladies who are desirous of privately lying in, and their infants carefully put out to nurse.” “Well now, after all,” observed the baronet, “this same London is a very convanient place, where a lady may gratify her pleasurable propensities, and at same time preserve an unblemished reputation. It is only going into the country, sure, for the benefit of her health; that is to say, she retires to one of the villages in the neighbourhood of London, pays her way without name given or questions asked, and in a few months, returns to Town improved in health, but more slender in person, all her acquaintance exclaiming, “La! my dear, how vastly thin you have grown!”—
“There are in London and its neighbourhood,” said Dashall, “numerous such convenient asylums; but I cannot acquiesce in their utility.—I am rather of opinion that they have a demoralizing tendency, as accelerating by concealment, the progress of licentiousness.—Human failings will still predominate, and the indulgence of illicit intercourse is less frequently prevented by an innate principle of virtue than the dread of shame. When facility of concealment is therefore given to the result, these connexions will still become more prevalent.”
“By the Powers,” exclaimed Sir Felix, “but I think Morality ought to feel particularly benefited by these convanient asylums; they preserve reputation, and in some instances have prevented suicide and murder. I know of two cases wherein both crimes were perpetrated through a sense of shame and dread of discovery, which probably would not have happened could the unfortunates have resorted to “convanient accommodations.”—Well, here's good luck to the fair sex, the dear cratures! and may they, every one of them, die on a Christmas day, any how!”{1}