It was about eight or ten days after the events I have mentioned, when Father Tom Loftus, whose care and attention to me had been unceasing throughout, came in to inform me that all the preparations for our journey were properly made, and that by the following morning at sunrise we should be on the road.

I confess that I looked forward to my departure with anxiety. The dreary monotony of each day, spent either in perambulating my little room or in a short walk up and down before the inn door, had done more to depress and dispirit me than even the previous illness. The good priest, it is true, came often to see me; but then there were hours spent quite alone, without the solace of a book or the sight of even a newspaper. I knew the face of every man, woman, and child in the village; I could tell their haunts, their habits, and their occupations. Even the very hours of the tedious day were marked in my mind by various little incidents, that seemed to recur with unbroken precision; and if when the pale apothecary disappeared from over the half-door of his shop I knew that he was engaged at his one o'clock dinner, so the clink of the old ladies' pattens, as they passed to an evening tea, told me that the day was waning, when the town-clock should strike seven. There was nothing to break the monotonous jog-trot of daily life save the appearance of a few raw subalterns, who, from some cause or other, less noticed than others of the regiment by the neighbouring gentry, strolled about the town, quizzing and laughing at the humble townsfolk, and endeavouring, by looks of most questionable gallantry, to impress the female population with a sense of their merits.

After all, mankind is pretty much the same in every country and every age—some men ambitioning the credit of virtues the very garb of which they know not; others, and a large class too, seeking for the reputation of vices the world palliates with the appellation of 'fashionable.' We laugh at the old courtier of Louis xiv.'s time, who in the flattery of the age he lived in preferred being called a scÉlÉrat, an infÂme scÉlÉrat, that by the excesses he professed the vicious habits of the sovereign might seem less striking; and yet we see the very same thing under our own eyes every day we live.

But to return. There was nothing to delay me longer at Loughrea. Poor Joe was so nearly recovered that in a few days more it was hoped he might leave his bed. He was in kind hands, however, and I had taken every precaution that he should want for nothing in my absence. I listened, then, with pleasure to Father Tom's detail of all his preparations; and although I knew not whither we were going, nor how long the journey was likely to prove, yet I looked forward to it with pleasure, and only longed for the hour of setting out.

As the evening drew near, I looked anxiously out for the good father's arrival. He had promised to come in early with Major Mahon, whom I had not seen for the two days previous—the Major being deeply engaged in consultations with his lawyer regarding an approaching trial at the assizes. Although I could gather from his manner, as well as from the priest's, that something of moment impended, yet as neither of them more than alluded to the circumstance, I knew nothing of what was going forward.

It was eight o'clock when Father Tom made his appearance. He came alone, and by his flurried look and excited manner I saw there was something wrong.

'What is it, father?' said I. 'Where is the Major?'

'Och, confound him! they have taken him at last,' said he, wiping his forehead with agitation.

'Taken him!' said I. 'Why, was he hiding?'

'Hiding! to be sure he was hiding, and masquerading and disguising himself! But, 'faith, those Clare fellows, there's no coming up to them; they have such practice in their own county, they would take the devil himself if there was a writ out against him. And, to be sure, it was a clever trick they played old Bob.'

Here the good priest took such a fit of laughing that he was obliged to wipe his eyes.

'May I never,' said he, 'if it wasn't a good turn they played him, after what he did himself!'

'Come, father, let's hear it.'

'This was the way of it. Maybe you never remarked—of course you didn't, for you were only up there a couple of times—that opposite Bob's lodgings there was a mighty sweet-looking crayture, a widow-woman; she was dressed in very discreet black, and had a sorrowful look about her that somehow or other, I think, made her even more interesting.

'“I'd like to know that widow,” said Bob; “for now that the fellows have a warrant against me, I could spend my days so pleasantly over there, comforting and consoling her.”

'“Whisht,” said I, “don't you see that she is in grief?”

'“Not so much in grief,” said he, “but she lets down two beautiful braids of her brown hair under her widow's cap; and whenever you see that, Father Tom, take my word for it, the game's not up.”

'I believe there was some reason in what he said, for the last time I went up to see him he had the window open, and he was playing “Planxty Kelly” with all his might on an old fiddle; and the widow would come now and then to the window to draw the little muslin curtain, or she would open it to give a halfpenny to the beggars, or she would hold out her hand to see if it was raining—and a beautiful lily-white hand it was; but all the time, you see, it was only exchanging looks they were. Bob was a little ashamed when he saw me in the room, but he soon recovered.

'“A very charming woman that Mrs. Moriarty is,” said he, closing the window. “It 's a cruel pity that her fortune is all in the Grand Canal—I mean Canal debentures. But indeed it comes pretty much to the same thing.”

'And so he went on raving about the widow; for by this time he knew all about her. Her maiden name was Cassidy, and her father a distiller; and, in fact, Bob was quite delighted with his beautiful neighbour. At last I bid him good-bye, promising to call for him at eight o'clock to come over here to you; for you see there was a backdoor to the house that led into a small alley, by which Mahon used to make his escape in the evening. He was sitting, it seems, at his window, looking out for the widow, who for some cause or other hadn't made her appearance the entire of the day. There he sat with his hand on his heart, and a heavenly smile upon him for a good hour, sipping a little whisky-and-water between times, to keep up his courage.

'“She must be out,” said Bob to himself. “She 's gone to pass the day somewhere. I hope she doesn't know any of these impudent vagabonds up at the barracks. Maybe, after all, it's sick she is.”

'While he was ruminating this way, who should he see turn the corner but the widow herself. There she was, coming along in deep weeds, with her maid after her—a fine slashing-looking figure, rather taller than her though, and lustier every way; but it was the first time he saw her in the streets. As she got near to her door, Bob stood up to make a polite bow. Just as he did so, the widow slipped her foot, and fell down on the flags with a loud scream. The maid ran up, endeavouring to assist her, but she couldn't stir; and as she placed her hand on her leg, Bob perceived at once she had sprained her ankle. Without waiting for his hat, he sprang downstairs, and rushed across the street. '“Mrs. Moriarty, my angel!” said Bob, putting his arm round her waist. “Won't you permit me to assist you?”

'She clasped his hand with fervent gratitude, while the maid, putting her hand into her reticule, seemed fumbling for a handkerchief.

'“I am a stranger to you, ma'am,” said Bob; “but if Major Mahon, of the Roscommon——”

'“The very man we want!” said the maid, pulling a writ out of the reticule; for a devil a thing else they were but two bailiffs from Ennis.

'“The very man we want!” said the bailiffs.

'“I am caught!” said Bob.

'“The devil a doubt of it!”

'At the same moment the window opened overhead, and the beautiful widow looked out to see what was the matter.

'“Good-evening to you, ma'am,” says Bob; “and I 'd like to pay my respects if I wasn't particularly engaged to these ladies here.” And with that he gave an arm to each of them and led them down the street, as if it was his mother and sister.'

'The poor Major!' said I. 'And where is he now?'' On his way to Ennis in a post-chaise; for it seems the ladies had a hundred pounds for their capture. Ah, poor Bob! But there is no use fretting; besides it would be sympathy thrown away, for he 'll give them the slip before long. And now, Captain, are you ready for the road? I have got a peremptory letter from the bishop, and must be back in Murranakilty as soon as I can.'

'My dear father, I am at your disposal I believe we can do no more for poor Joe; and as to Mr. Burke—and, by-the-bye, how is he?'

'Getting better, they say. But I believe you've spoiled a very lucrative source of his income. He was the best jumper in the west of Ireland; and they tell me you've lamed him for life. He is down at Milltown, or Kilkee, or somewhere on the coast; but sure well have time enough to talk of these things as we go along. I'll be with you by seven o'clock. We must start early, and get to Portumna before night.'

Having promised implicit obedience to the worthy priest's directions, be they what they might, I pledged myself to make up my luggage in the smallest possible space, and have breakfast ready for him before starting. After a few other observations and some suggestions as to the kind of equipment he deemed suitable to the road, he took his leave, and I sat down alone to a little quiet reckoning with myself as to the past, the present, and the future.

From my short experience of Ireland, the only thing approaching to an abstract principle I could attain to was the utter vanity, the perfect impossibility, of any man's determining on a given line of action or the steady pursuit of any one enterprise. No; the inevitable course of fate seems to have chosen this happy island to exhibit its phenomena. Whether your days be passed in love or war, or your evenings in drink or devotion, not yours be the glory; for there would seem to be a kind of headlong influence at work, impelling you ever forward. Acquaintances grow up, ripen, and even bear fruit before in other lands their roots would have caught the earth; by them your tastes are regulated, your habits controlled, your actions fashioned. You may not, it is true, lisp in the patois of blarney; you may weed your phraseology of its tropes and figures; but trust me, that if you live in Ireland, if you like the people (and who does not?), and if you are liked by them (and who would not be?), then do I say you will find yourself, without knowing or perceiving it, going the pace with the natives—courtship, fun, frolic, and devilment filling up every hour of your day, and no inconsiderable portion of your night also. One grand feature of the country seemed to me, that, no matter what particular extravagance you were addicted to, no matter what strange or absurd passion to do or seem something remarkable, you were certain of always finding some one to sympathise with if not actually to follow you. Nothing is too strange, nothing too ridiculous, nothing too convivial, nothing too daring for Paddy. With one intuitive bound he springs into your confidence and enters into your plans. Only be open with him, conceal nothing, and he's yours heart and hand; ready to endorse your bill, to carry off a young lady, or carry a message; to burn a house for a joke, or jeopardy his neck for mere pastime; to go to the world's end to serve you, and on his return shoot you afterwards out of downright good-nature.

As for myself, I might have lived in England to the age of Methuselah, and yet never have seen as much of life as in the few months spent in Ireland. Society in other lands seems a kind of free-masonry, where for lack of every real or important secret men substitute signs and passwords, as if to throw the charm of mystery where, after all, nothing lies concealed; but in Ireland, where national character runs in a deep or hidden channel, with cross currents and backwater ever turning and winding—where all the incongruous and discordant elements of what is best and worst seem blended together—there, social intercourse is free, cordial, warm, and benevolent. Men come together disposed to like one another; and what an Irishman is disposed to, he usually has a way of effecting. My brief career had not been without its troubles; but who would not have incurred such, or as many more, to have evoked such kind interest and such warm friendship? From Phil O'Grady, my first, to Father Tom, my last friend, I had met with nothing but almost brotherly affection; and yet I could not help acknowledging to myself, that, but six short months before, I would have recoiled from the friendship of the one and the acquaintance of the other, as something to lower and degrade me. Not only would the outward observances of their manner have deterred me, but in their very warm and earnest proffers of good-nature, I would have seen cause for suspecting and avoiding them. Thank Heaven! I now knew better, and felt deeper. How this revolution became effected in me I am not myself aware. Perhaps—I only say perhaps—Miss Bellew had a share in effecting it.

Such were some of my thoughts as I betook myself to bed, and soon after to sleep.