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Updated: June 1, 2025
"Till sine die, if the story be a long one, my dear sir there's nothing I hate so much, except cold punch." "You are going to Paris," said I; "is it not so?" "Yes, I'm thinking of it. I was up at Trolhatten, in Norway, three weeks ago, and I was obliged to leave it hastily, for I've an appointment with a friend in Geneva." "Then how do you travel?"
The “gentlemen of Liffey-street chapel,” far better-looking fellows than any foreign priest you’ll meet with from Trolhatten to Tivoli, will walk about in pontificalibus; and all the exciting enthusiasm that Romanism so artfully diffuses through every feature of life, will introduce itself among a people who have all the warm temper and hot blood of the south, with the stern determination and headlong impulse of the north of Europe.
"Till sine die, if the story be a long one, my dear sir there's nothing I hate so much, except cold punch." "You are going to Paris," said I; "is it not so?" "Yes, I'm thinking of it. I was up at Trolhatten, in Norway, three weeks ago, and I was obliged to leave it hastily, for I've an appointment with a friend in Geneva." "Then how do you travel?"
He might be a yachting man, who only cared for Salamis as good anchorage, nor thought of the Acropolis, except as a point of departure; or he might be one of those myriads who travel without knowing where, or caring why: airing their ennui now at Thebes, now at Trolhatten; a weariful, dispirited race, who rarely look so thoroughly alive as when choosing a cigar or changing their money.
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