And now our “Little Tour” is over; and its story must go forth, like some small boy to a public school, to find its true place and level. It may, perhaps, receive more pedal indignities than donations of a pecuniary kind; vulgarly speaking, more kicks than halfpence; but as no severities can deprive the boy of his pleasant memories of the past, nor chase the smile from his tear-stained and inky cheek, as he sleeps to dream of home; so no criticism, however caustic, can ever mar my glad remembrance of our happy days in Ireland.
And in mine adversity, should such befall, I shall have yet another solace. Hooted, like some bad actor, from the stage, I can hide myself behind scenery, which has a charm for all, and which, like Phyllis the fair, “never fails to please.”
Cheered or condemned, whether “the Duke shall say, Let him roar again,” or the poor player shall hear
“On all sides, from innumerable tongues,
An universal hiss,”
the drama is over, and the curtain falls.