A collection of several Christmas stories including Mrs Perkin’s Ball and The Rose and the Ring. Great reading over the festive holiday’s.
I do not know where Ballymulligan is, and never knew anybody who did. Once I asked the Mulligan the question, when that chieftain assumed a look of dignity so ferocious, and spoke of “Saxon curiawsitee” in a tone of such evident displeasure, that, as after all it can matter very little to me whereabouts lies the Celtic principality in question, I have never pressed the inquiry any farther. I don’t know even the Mulligan’s town residence. One night, as he bade us adieu in Oxford Street,—”I live THERE,” says he, pointing down towards Oxbridge, with the big stick he carries—so his abode is in that direction at any rate. He has his letters addressed to several of his friends’ houses, and his parcels, &c. are left for him at various taverns which he frequents. That pair of checked trousers, in which you see him attired, he did me the favor of ordering from my own tailor, who is quite as anxious as anybody to know the address of the wearer. In like manner my hatter asked me, “Oo was the Hirish gent as ‘ad ordered four ‘ats and a sable boar to be sent to my lodgings?” As I did not know (however I might guess) the articles have never been sent, and the Mulligan has withdrawn his custom from the “infernal four–and–nine–penny scoundthrel,” as he calls him. The hatter has not shut up shop in consequence.