CHAPTER VI
The tide did not permit the packet to reach the Pigeon-house, and the
impatient Lord Colambre stepped into a boat, and was rowed across the
bay of Dublin. It was a fine summer morning. The sun shone bright on the
Wicklow mountains. He admired, he exulted in the beauty of the prospect;
and all the early associations of his childhood, and the patriotic hopes
of his riper years, swelled his heart as he approached the shores of
his native land. But scarcely had he touched his mother earth, when
the whole course of his ideas was changed; and if his heart swelled,
it swelled no more with pleasurable sensations, for instantly he found
himself surrounded and attacked by a swarm of beggars and harpies,
with strange figures and stranger tones: some craving his charity, some
snatching away his luggage, and at the same time bidding him 'never
trouble himself,' and 'never fear.' A scramble in the boat and on shore
for bags and parcels began, and an amphibious fight betwixt men, who had
one foot on sea and one on land, was seen; and long and loud the battle
of trunks and portmanteaus raged! The vanquished departed, clinching
their empty hands at their opponents, and swearing inextinguishable
hatred; while the smiling victors stood at ease, each grasping his
booty--bag, basket, parcel, or portmanteau: 'And, your honour, where
WILL these go?--Where WILL We carry 'em all to, for your honour?' was
now the question.
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