If his sperit comes back in some still moonlight night, and looks over the world with him, I wonder if it ever looks over the mistakes he made? I wonder if the beautiful Lady Hamilton ever comes into its thoughts?
She hain’t got any monument.
I wonder if he’s sorry for it, that he stands up so high and she so low in the opinion of people—so low, when once he felt it his greatest glory and happiness to kneel at her feet?
But such surmises are futile, futiler than there’s any need on.
To resoom.
Charles Lever, the novelist, wuz born in Dublin, and so wuz Tom Moore.
We went to the birthplace of Moore.
It wuz a common-lookin’ buildin’, though it had a bust of the poet in front up between the winders.
The lower part of the house wuz used as a grocery store, and Josiah himself proposed that we should buy here some little souvenir of the poet.
I wuz dumbfoundered. I never knew him to propose any outlay of the kind before, and I sez as much.