With the innate courtesy of his country, my humble companion endeavoured to lighten the road by song and story. There was not a blackened gable, not a ruined tower, not even a well we passed, without its legend. The very mountains themselves, that reared their mighty peaks towards the clouds, had their tale of superstitious horror; and, though these stories were simple in themselves, there was something in the association of the scene, something in the warm fervour of his enthusiasm that touched and thrilled my heart.

Like a lamp, whose fitful glare flickers through the gloomy vault of some rocky cavern, too feeble to illumine it, but yet calling up wild and goblin shapes on every side, and peopling space with flickering spectres, so did the small modicum of intellect this poor fellow possessed enable him to look at life with strange, distorted views. Accustomed to pass his days in the open air—the fields, the flowers, the streams, his companions—he had a sympathy in the eddying current that flowed on beneath—in the white cloud that rolled above him. Happy—for he had no care—he journeyed about from one county to another. In the hunting season he would be seen lounging about a kennel, making or renewing his intimacy with the dogs, who knew and loved him; then he was always ready to carry a drag, to stop an earth, or do a hundred other of those minor services that are ever wanted. Many who lived far from a post-town knew the comfort of falling in with poor 'Tipperary Joe.' for such was he called. Not more fleet of foot than honest in heart, oftentimes was a letter intrusted to his keeping that with any other messenger would have excited feelings of anxiety. His was an April-day temperament—ever varying, ever changing. One moment would he tell, with quivering lip and broken voice, some story of wild and thrilling interest; the next, breaking suddenly off, he would burst out into some joyous rant, generally ending in a loud 'tally-ho,' in which all his enthusiasm would shine forth, and in his glistening eye and flushed cheek one could mark the pleasure that stirred his heart He knew every one, not only in this, but in the surrounding counties; and they stood severally classed in his estimation by their benevolence to the poor, and their prowess in the hunting-field. These, with him, were the two great qualities of mankind. The kind man, and the bold rider, made his beau-ideal of all that was excellent, and it was strange to watch with what ingenuity he could support his theory.

'There's Burton Pearse—that's the darling of a man!

It's he that's good to the poor, and takes his walls flying. It isn't a lock of bacon or a bag of meal he cares for—be-gorra, it's not that, nor a double ditch would ever stop him. Hurroo! I think I'm looking at him throwing up his whip-hand this way, going over a gate and calling out to the servant, “Make Joe go in for his dinner, and give him half-a-crown”—devil a less! And then there's Mr. Power of Kilfane—maybe your honour knows him? Down in Kilkenny, there. He's another of them—one of the right sort. I wish you see him facing a leap—a little up in his stirrups, just to look over and see the ground, and then—hoo! he's across and away. A beautiful place he has of it, and an elegant pack of dogs, fourteen hunters in the stable, and as pleasant a kitchen as ever I broke my fast in. The cook's a mighty nice woman—a trifle fat, or so; but a good sowl, and a raal warrant for an Irish stew.' 'And Mr. Ulick Burke, Joe, do you know him?' 'Is it blazing Burke? Faix, I do know him! I was as near him as I am to you when he shot Matt Callanan at the mills. “There, now,” says he, when he put a ball in his hip, and lamed him for life, “you were always fond of your trade, and I'll make you a hopper.” And sure enough, this is the way he goes ever since.'

'He is a good horseman, they tell me, Joe?' 'The best in Ireland; for following the dogs, flat race, or steeplechase, show me his equal. Och! it's himself has the seat in a saddle. Mighty short he rides with his knees up, this way, and his toes out. Not so purty to look at, till you are used to it; but watch him fingering his baste—feeling his mouth with the snaffle—never tormenting, but just letting him know who is on his back. It 's raal pleasure to look at him; and then to see him taking a little canter before he sets off, with his hand low, and just tickling the flanks with his spurs, to larn the temper of the horse. May I never! if it isn't a heavenly sight!' 'You like Mr. Burke, then, I see, Joe?' 'Like him! Who wouldn't like him a-horseback? Isn't he the moral of a rider, that knows his baste better than I know my Hail Mary? But see him afoot, he's the greatest divil from here to Croaghpatrick—nothing civiller in his mouth than a curse and a “bloody end” to ye! Och! it's himself hates the poor, and they hate him; the beggars run away from him as if he was the police; and the blind man that sits on Banagher Bridge takes up his bags, and runs for the bare life the minit he hears the trot of his horse. Isn't it a wonder how he rides so bowld with all the curses over him? Faix, myself wouldn't cross that little stream there, if I was like him. Well, well, he'll have a hard reckoning at last. He's killed five men already, and wounded a great many more; but they say he won't be able to go on much further, for when he kills another the divil's to come for him. The Lord be about us! by rason he never let's any one kill more nor six.'

Thus chatting away, the road passed over; and as the sun was setting we came in sight of the town, now not above a mile distant.

'That's Loughrea you see there—it's a mighty fine place,' said Joe. 'There's slate houses, and a market and a barrack; but you 'll stop a few days in the town?'

'Oh, certainly; I wish to see this race.'

'That will be the fine race. It is a great country entirely—every kind of fence, gates, ditches, and stone walls, as thick as they can lie. I'll show you all the course, for I know it well, and tell you the names of all the gentlemen, and the names of their horses, and their servants; and I'll bring you where you 'll see the whole race, from beginning to end, without stirring an inch. Are you going to bet any money?'

'I believe not, Joe; but I'm greatly interested for a friend.'

'And who is he?'

'Captain O'Grady.'

'Master Phil! Tare-an'-ages! are you a friend of Master Phil's? Arrah, why didn't you tell me that before? Why didn't you mintion his name to me? Och! isn't myself proud this evening to be with a friend of the Captain's. See now, what's your name?'

'Hinton,' said I.

'Ay, but your Christian name?'

'They who know me best call me Jack Hinton.'

'Musha! but I'd like to call you Jack Hinton just for this once. Now, will you do one thing for me?'

'To be sure, Joe; what is it?'

'Make them give me a half-pint to drink your health and the Captain's; for, faix, you must be the right sort, or he wouldn't keep company with you. It's just like yesterday to me the day I met him, down at Bishop's Loch. The hounds came to a check, and a hailstorm came on, and all the gentlemen went into a little shebeen house for shelter. I was standing outside, as it may be here, when Master Phil saw me. “Come in, Joe,” says he; “you 're the best company, and the pleasantest fellow over a mug of egg-nip.” And may I never! if he didn't make me sit down fornint him at a little table, and drink two quarts of as beautiful flip as ever I tasted. And Master Phil has a horse here, ye tell me—what's his name?'

'That, Joe, I am afraid I can't pronounce for you; it's rather beyond my English tongue; but I know that his colour's grey, and that he has one cropped ear.'

'That's Moddiridderoo!' shouted Joe, as throwing my portmanteau to the ground, he seated himself leisurely on it, and seemed lost in meditation.

'Begorra,' said he at length, 'he chose a good-tempered one, when he was about it! there never was such a horse foaled in them parts. Ye heard what he did to Mr. Shea, the man that bred him? He threw him over a wall, and then jumped after him; and if it wasn't that his guardian-angel made his leather breeches so strong, he'd have ate him up entirely! Sure, there's no one can ride him barrin' the man I was talkin' of.'

'Well, Joe, I believe Mr. Burke is to ride him.'

'Musha! but I am sorry for it!'

'And why so? You seem to think highly of his horsemanship.'

'There's no mistaken that, ay it was fair; but then, you see, he has as many tricks in him as the devil. Sometimes he 'll break his stirrup leather, or he 'll come in a pound too heavy, or he'll slip the snaffle out of the mouth; for he doesn't care for his neck. Once I see him stake his baste, and bring him in dead lame.'

Here ended our conversation; for by this time we entered the town, and proceeded to Mrs. Doolan's. The house was full, or the apartments bespoke; and I was turning away in disappointment, when I accidentally overheard the landlady mention the two rooms ordered by Captain O'Grady. A little explanation ensued, and I discovered, to my delight, that these were destined for me by my friend, who had written sometime before to secure them. A few minutes more saw me comfortably installed in the little inn, whose unpretending exterior and cheerful comfort within doors were the direct antithesis to the solemn humbug I had left at Shannon Harbour.

Under Joe's auspices—for he had established himself as my own man—tea and rashers made their appearance. My clothes were unpacked and put by; and as he placed my dressing-gown and slippers in readiness before the fire, I could not help observing the servant-like alacrity of his manner, perfect in everything, save in his habit of singing to himself as he went, which I can't say, however, that I disliked, and certainly never dreamed of checking. Having written a few lines to Mr. Burke, expressing my desire for a few minutes' interview the following morning, I despatched the note, and prepared for bed.

I had often listened with apathy to the wise saws of people who, never having felt either hunger or fatigue, are so fond of pronouncing a glowing eulogium on such luxuries, when the period of their gratification has arrived; but, I confess, as I lay down that night in bed, and drew the clothes around me, I began to believe that they had underrated the pleasures they spoke of. The house clock ticked pleasantly in the room without; the cheerful turf-fire threw its mild red light across the room; the sounds from the street were those of happy voices and merry laughter, and when I ceased to hear them I had fallen into a sound and peaceful sleep.

It was after about a dozen efforts, in which I had gone through all the usual formula on such occasions—rubbing my eyes, stretching, and even pinching myself—before I could awake on the following morning. I felt somewhat stiffened from the unaccustomed exertions of the day before, but, somehow, my spirits were unusually high, and my heart in its very lightest mood. I looked about me through the little room, where all was order, neatness, and propriety. My clothes carefully brushed and folded, my boots resplendent in their blacking, stood basking before the fire; even my hat, placed gently on one side, with my gloves carefully flattened, were laid out in true valet fashion. The door into my little sitting-room lay open, and I could mark the neat and comfortable preparations for my breakfast, while at a little distance from the table, and in an attitude of patient attention, stood poor Joe himself, who, with a napkin across his arm, was quietly waiting the moment of my awaking.

I know not if my reader will have any sympathy with the confession; but I own I have always felt a higher degree of satisfaction from the unbought and homely courtesy chance has thrown in my way, than from the more practised and dearly-paid-for attentions of the most disciplined household. There is something nattering in the personal devotion which seems to spring from pure good-will, that insensibly raises one in his own esteem. In some such reflection as this was I lost, when the door of my outer room was opened, and a voice inquired if Mr. Hinton stopped there.

'Yes, sir,' replied Joe; 'he is in bed and asleep.'

'Ah! it is you, Joe?' replied the other. 'So you are turned footman, I see. If the master be like the man, it ought to be a shrewd establishment.'

'No,' replied Joe carelessly; 'he's not very like anything down in these parts, for he appears to be a gentleman.'

'Tell him I am here, and be d——d to you,' was the indignant reply, as the speaker threw himself into his chair and stirred the fire with his foot.

Suspecting at once who my visitor was, I motioned to Joe to leave the room, and proceeded to dress myself with all despatch. During the operation, however, my friend without manifested several symptoms of impatience: now walking the room with rapid strides, as he whistled a quick step; now beating the bars of the grate with a poker, and occasionally performing that popular war-dance, 'The Devil's Tattoo,' with his knuckles upon the table. At length his endurance seemed pushed to its limit, and he knocked sharply at the door, calling out at the same moment—

'I say, sir, time's up, if you please.'

The next moment I was before him.

Mr. Ulick Burke—for I need not say it was he—was a well-looking man, of about eight-and-twenty or thirty years of age. Although his height was below the middle size, he was powerfully and strongly made; his features would have been handsome, were it not for a certain expression of vulgar suspicion that played about the eyes, giving him a sidelong look when he spoke; this, and the loss of two front teeth from a fall, disfigured a face originally pleasing. His whiskers were large, bushy, and meeting beneath his chin. As to his dress, it was in character with his calling—a green coat cut round in jockey fashion, over which he wore a white 'bang-up,' as it was called, in one pocket of which was carelessly thrust a lash-whip; a belcher handkerchief, knotted loosely about his neck, buckskin breeches, reaching far down upon the leg, and top-boots completed his costume. I had almost forgotten a hat, perhaps the most characteristic thing of all. This, which once had been white, was now, by stress of time and weather, of a dirty drab colour, its crown dinged in several places, and the leaf jagged and broken, bespoke the hard usage to which it was subjected. While speaking, he held it firmly clutched in his ungloved hand, and from time to time struck it against his thigh, with an energy of manner that seemed habitual His manner was a mixture of timid embarrassment and vulgar assurance, feeling his way, as it were, with one, while he forgot himself with the other. With certain remnants of the class he originally belonged to, he had associated the low habitudes and slang phraseology of his daily associates, making it difficult for one, at first sight, to discover to which order he belonged. In the language of his companions, Click Burke 'could be a gentleman when he pleased it.'

How often have we heard this phrase, and with what a fatal mistake is it generally applied! He who can be a gentleman when he pleases, never pleases to be anything else. Circumstances may, and do, every day in life, throw men of cultivated minds and refined habits into the society of their inferiors; but while, with the tact and readiness that is their especial prerogative, they make themselves welcome among those with whom they have few, if any, sympathies in common, yet never by any accident do they derogate from that high standard that makes them gentlemen. So, on the other hand, the man of vulgar tastes and coarse propensities may simulate, if he be able, the outward habitudes of society, speaking with practised intonation and bowing with well-studied grace; yet is he no more a gentleman in his thought or feeling than is the tinselled actor, who struts the board, the monarch his costume would bespeak him. This being the 'gentleman when he likes' is but the mere performance of the character. It has all the smell of the orange-peel and the footlights about it, and never can be mistaken by any one who knows the world.

But to come back to Mr. Burke. Having eyed me for a second or two, with a look of mingled distrust and impertinence, he unfolded my note, which he held beneath his fingers, and said—

'I received this from you last night, Mr. ———'

'Hinton,' said I, assisting him.

'Mr. Hinton,' repeated he slowly.

'Won't you be seated?' said I, pointing to a chair, and taking one myself.

He nodded familiarly, and placing himself on the window-sill, with one foot upon a chair, resumed—

'It's about O'Gradys business I suppose you've come down here. The Captain has treated me very ill.'

'You are quite right,' said I coolly, 'in guessing the object of my visit; but I must also let you know, that in any observations you make concerning Captain O'Grady, they are made to a friend, who will no more permit his name to be slightingly treated than his own.'

'Of course,' pronounced with a smile of the most insulting coolness, was the only reply. 'That, however, is not the matter in hand: your friend, the Captain, never condescended to answer my letter.'

'He only received it a few days ago.'

'Why isn't he here himself? Is a gentleman-rider to be treated like a common jockey that's paid for his race?'

I confess the distinction was too subtle for me, but I said nothing in reply.

'I don't even know where the horse is, nor if he is here at all. Will you call that handsome treatment Mr. Hinton?'

'One thing I am quite sure of, Mr. Burke—Captain O'Grady is incapable of anything unworthy or unbecoming a gentleman; the haste of his departure for foreign service may have prevented him observing certain matters of etiquette towards you, but he has commissioned me to accept your terms. The horse is here, or will be here to-night; and I trust nothing will interrupt the good understanding that has hitherto subsisted between you.'

'And will he take up the writ?' 'He will,' said I firmly.

'He must have a heavy book on the race.' 'Nearly a thousand pounds.'

'I'm sorry for it for his sake,' was the cool reply, 'for he'll lose his money.'

'Indeed!' said I; 'I understand that you thought well of his horse, and that with your riding——'

'Ay; but I won't ride for him.'

'You won't ride!—not on your own terms?'

'No; not even on my own terms. Don't be putting yourself into a passion, Mr. Hinton—you've come down to a country where that never does any good; we settle all our little matters here in a social, pleasant way of our own. But, I repeat it, I won't ride for your friend; so you may withdraw his horse as soon as you like; except,' added he, with a most contemptuous sneer, 'you have a fancy for riding him yourself.'

Resolving that whatever course I should follow I would at least keep my temper for the present, I assumed as much calmness as I could command, and said—

'And what is there against O'Gradys horse?'

'A chestnut mare of Tom Molloy's, that can beat him over any country. The rest are withdrawn; so that I'll have a “ride over” for my pains.'

'Then you ride for Mr. Molloy?' said I.

'You've guessed it,' replied he with a wink, as throwing his hat carelessly on one side of his head he gave me an insolent nod and lounged out of the room.

I need not say that my breakfast appetite was not improved by Mr. Burke's visit; in fact, never was a man more embarrassed than I was. Independent of the loss of his money, I knew how poor Phil would suffer from the duplicity of the transaction; and in my sorrow for his sake I could not help accusing myself of ill-management in the matter. Had I been more conciliating or more blunt—had I bullied, or bid higher, perhaps a different result might have followed. Alas! in all my calculations, I knew little or nothing of him with whom I had to deal. Puzzled and perplexed, uncertain how to act—now resolving on one course, now deciding on the opposite, I paced my little room for above an hour, the only conviction I could come to being the unhappy choice that poor O'Grady had made when he selected me for his negotiator.

The town clock struck twelve. I remembered suddenly that was the hour when the arrangements for the race were to be ratified; and without a thought of what course I should pursue, what plan I should adopt, I took my hat and sallied forth.

The main street of the little town was crowded with people, most of them of that class which, in Irish phrase, goes by the appellation of squireen—a species of human lurcher, without any of the good properties of either class from which it derives its origin, but abounding in the bad traits of both. They lounged along, followed by pointers and wire-haired greyhounds, their hands stuck in their coat-pockets, and their hats set well back on their heads. Following in the train of this respectable cortege, I reached the market-house, upon the steps of which several 'sporting gentlemen' of a higher order were assembled. Elbowing my way with some difficulty through these, I mounted a dirty and sandy stair to a large room, usually employed by the magistrates for their weekly sessions; here, at a long table, sat the race committee, an imposing display of books, pens, and papers before them. A short little man, with a powdered head, and a certain wheezing chuckle when he spoke that voluntarily suggested the thought of apoplexy, seemed to be the president of the meeting.

The room was so crowded with persons of every class that I could with difficulty catch what was going forward. I looked anxiously round to see if I could not recognise some friend or acquaintance, but every face was strange to me. The only one I had ever seen before was Mr. Burke himself, who with his back to the fire was edifying a select circle of his friends by what I discovered, from the laughter of his auditory, was a narrative of his visit to myself. The recital must have owed something to his ingenuity in telling, for indeed the gentlemen seemed convulsed with mirth; and when Mr. Burke concluded, it was plain to see that he stood several feet higher in the estimation of hie acquaintances.

'Silence!' wheezed the little man with the white head: 'it is a quarter past twelve o'clock, and I'll not wait any longer.'

'Read the list, Maurice,' cried some one. 'As it is only “a walk over,” you needn't lose any time.'

'Here, then, No. 1—Captain Fortescue's Tramp.' 'Withdrawn,' said a voice in the crowd. 'No. 2—Harry Studdard's Devil-may-care.'

'Paid forfeit,' cried another.

'No. 3—Sir George O'Brien's Billy-the-bowl.' 'Gone home again,' was the answer. 'No. 4—Tom Molloy's Cathleen.'

'All right!' shouted Mr. Burke, from the fireplace» 'Who rides?' asked the president.

'Ulick!' repeated half-a-dozen voices together.

'Eleven stone eight,' said the little man.

'And a pound for the martingale,' chimed in Mr. Burke.

'Well, I believe that's all. No; there's another horse-Captain O'Grady's Moddiridderoo.'

'Scratch him out with the rest,' said Mr. Burke.

'No!' said I, from the back of the room.

The word seemed electric; every eye was turned towards the quarter where I stood; and as I moved forward towards the table the crowd receded to permit my passage.

'Are you on the part of Mr. O'Grady, sir?' said the little man, with a polite smile.

I bowed an affirmative.

'He does not withdraw his horse, then?' said he.

'No,' said I again.

'But you are aware, sir, that Mr. Burke is going to ride for my friend, Mr. Molloy, here. Are you prepared with another gentleman?'

I nodded shortly.'

'His name, may I ask?' continued he. 'Mr. Hinton.'

By this time Mr. Burke, attracted by the colloquy, had approached the table, and, stooping down, whispered some words in the president's ear.

'You will forgive me, I'm sure,' said the latter, addressing me, 'if I ask, as the name is unknown to me, if this be a gentleman-rider?'

The blood rushed to my face and temples. I knew at once from whom this insult proceeded. It was no time, however, to notice it, so I simply replied—

'Mr. Hinton is an officer of the Guards, an aide-de-camp to the Lord Lieutenant, and I beg leave respectfully to present him to you.'

The obsequious civility exhibited by the party as I pronounced these few words were an ample amende for what I had suffered a few minutes before. Meanwhile, Mr. Burke had resumed his place at the fire, once more surrounded by his admiring satellites.

Being accommodated with a chair at the table, I proceeded to read over and sign the usual papers, by which I bound myself to abide by the regulations of the course, and conform in all things to the decision of the stewards. Scarcely had I concluded, when Mr. Burke called out—

'Who'll take eight to one on the race?'

Not a word was spoken in reply.

'Who'll take fifty to five?' cried he again.

'I will,' said a voice from the door.

'Who is that takes my bet? What is his name?' 'Tom Loftus, P.P. of Murranakilty.'

'A better fellow nor an honester couldn't do it, said the president.

'Book your bet, sir,' said Mr. Burke; 'or if it is equally convenient for you, you can pay it at present.'

'I never make a memorandum of such trifles,' said the priest; 'but I'll stake the money in some decent man's hands.'

A roar of laughter followed the priest's proposition, than which nothing could be less to Mr. Burke's taste. This time, however, he was in funds; and while the good father disengaged his five-pound note from the folds of a black leather pocket-book as large as a portfolio, his antagonist threw a fifty on the table, with an air of swaggering importance. I turned now to shake hands with my friend; but to my surprise and astonishment he gave me a look of cold and impressive import, that showed me at once he did not wish to be recognised, and the next moment left the room. My business there was also concluded, and having promised to be forthcoming the following day at two o'clock, I bowed to the chairman and withdrew.