was Attacked With a Sort of Choking in Her Bed
Chapter 71. In which Mr. Irons’s Narrative Reaches Merton Moor
Chapter 72. In which the Apparition of Mr. Irons is Swallowed in Darkness
Chapter 76. Relating How the Castle was Taken, and How Mistress Moggy Took Heart of Grace
Chapter 77. In which Irish Melody Prevails
Chapter 81. In which Mr. Dangerfield Receives a Visitor, and Makes a Call
Chapter 84. In which Christiana Goes Over; and Dan Loftus Comes Home
Chapter 88. In which Mr. Moore the Barber Arrives, and the Medical Gentlemen Lock the Door
Chapter 90. Mr. Paul Dangerfield has Something on His Mind, and Captain Devereux Receives a Message
Chapter 93. In which Doctor Toole and Dirty Davy Confer in the Blue-Room
Chapter 94. What Doctor Sturk Brought to Mind, and All that Doctor Toole Heard at Mr. Luke Gamble’s
Chapter 95. In which Doctor Pell Declines a Fee, and Doctor Sturk a Prescription
Chapter 96. About the Rightful Mrs. Nutter of the Mills, and How Mr. Mervyn Received the News
Chapter 97. In which Obediah Arrives
Chapter 98. In which Charles Archer Puts Himself Upon the Country
A Prologue — Being a Dish of Village Chat
We are going to talk, if you please, in the ensuing chapters, of what was going on in Chapelizod about a hundred years ago. A hundred years, to be sure, is a good while; but though fashions have changed, some old phrases dropped out, and new ones come in; and snuff and hair-powder, and sacques and solitaires quite passed away — yet men and women were men and women all the same — as elderly fellows, like your humble servant, who have seen and talked with rearward stragglers of that generation — now all and long marched off — can testify, if they will.
In those days Chapelizod was about the gayest and prettiest of the outpost villages in which old Dublin took a complacent pride. The poplars which stood, in military rows, here and there, just showed a glimpse of formality among the orchards and old timber that lined the banks of the river and the valley of the Liffey, with a lively sort of richness. The broad old street looked hospitable and merry, with steep roofs and many coloured hall-doors. The jolly old inn, just beyond the turnpike at the sweep of the road, leading over the buttressed bridge by the mill, was first to welcome the excursionist from Dublin, under the sign of the Phoenix. There, in the grand wainscoted back-parlour, with ‘the great and good King William,’ in his robe, garter, periwig, and sceptre presiding in the panel over the chimneypiece, and confronting the large projecting window, through which the river, and the daffodils, and the summer foliage looked so bright and quiet, the Aldermen of Skinner’s Alley — a club of the ‘true blue’ dye, as old as the Jacobite wars of the previous century — the corporation of shoemakers, or of tailors, or the freemasons, or the musical clubs, loved to dine at the stately hour of five, and deliver their jokes, sentiments, songs, and wisdom, on a pleasant summer’s evening. Alas! the inn is as clean gone as the guests — a dream of the shadow of smoke.
Lately, too, came down the old ‘Salmon House’— so called