"Yes, my lord."
"Where are you?"
"Here—dying, I believe; I never was so ill!" and there in truth lay Faddle, rolling on the bare floor.
"I say, Mother Murphy," said the tipsy Waggoner, "that ere chap's a lord!"
"They be going to do away wi' them, I hear," said the Radical knife-grinder, waking up; "and a good job too;—werry useless fellors, I take it."
"Bless his pretty face!" said the Irish lady: "exchange is no robbery; and I'd gi' him a kiss for a drop of the cratur."
"You be hung!" cried her husband, throwing a stool at her head; "you've had too much already."
The fair representative of Hibernia was not to be put upon; up she started, and there was a pitched battle between her and her husband, which ended in the fall of both.
Unused to fatigue, Lord John at last threw himself on his straw. But what a night did he pass! the noise, the smell, the discomfort, the fleas—oh!
By many will the last week of 1836 be long remembered, but by none with greater horror than by the Right Honourable Lord John Lavender.