Meanwhile I had become a daring cragsman, a character to which an English lad has seldom opportunities of aspiring; for in England there are neither crags nor mountains.  Of these, however, as is well known, there is no lack in Scotland, and the habits of individuals are invariably in harmony with the country in which they dwell.  The Scotch are expert climbers, and I was now a Scot in most things, particularly in language.  The castle in which I dwelt stood upon a rock, a bold and craggy one, which, at first sight, would seem to bid defiance to any feet save those of goats and chamois; but patience and perseverance generally enable mankind to overcome things which, at first sight, appear impossible.  Indeed, what is there above man’s exertions?  Unwearied determination will enable him to run with the horse, to swim with the fish, and assuredly to compete with the chamois and the goat in agility and sureness of foot.  To scale the rock was merely child’s play for the Edinbro’ callants.  It was my own favourite diversion.  I soon found that the rock contained all manner of strange crypts, crannies, and recesses, where owls nestled, and the weasel brought forth her young; here and there were small natural platforms, overgrown with long grass and various kinds of plants, where the climber, if so disposed, could stretch himself, and either give his eyes to sleep or his mind to thought; for capital places were these same platforms either for repose or meditation.  The boldest features of the rock are descried on the southern side, where, after shelving down gently from the wall for some distance, it terminates abruptly in a precipice, black and horrible, of some three hundred feet at least, as if the axe of nature had been here employed cutting sheer down, and leaving behind neither excrescence nor spur—a dizzy precipice it is, assimilating much to those so frequent in the flinty hills of Northern Africa, and exhibiting some distant resemblance to that of Gibraltar, towering in its horridness above the neutral ground.

“What are you thinking of, David?” said I, as I sat behind him and trembled, for I repeat that I was afraid.

David Haggart.  I was thinking of Willie Wallace.

Myself.  You had better be thinking of yourself, man.  A strange place this to come to and think of William Wallace.

David Haggart.  Why so?  Is not his tower just beneath our feet?

Myself.  You mean the auld ruin by the side of the Nor Loch—the ugly stane bulk, from the foot of which flows the spring into the dyke, where the watercresses grow?

David Haggart.  Just sae, Geordie.

Myself.  And why were ye thinking of him?  The English hanged him long since, as I have heard say.

David Haggart.  I was thinking that I should wish to be like him.

Myself.  Do ye mean that ye would wish to be hanged?

David Haggart.  I wad na flinch from that, Geordie, if I might be a great man first.

David Haggart.  I hae na wish to be drum-major; it were na great things to be like the doited carle, Else-than-gude, as they call him; and, troth, he has nae his name for naething.  But I should have nae objection to be a general, and to fight the French and Americans, and win myself a name and a fame like Willie Wallace, and do brave deeds, such as I have been reading about in his story book.

Myself.  Ye are a fule, Davie; the story book is full of lies.  Wallace, indeed! the wuddie rebel!  I have heard my father say that the Duke of Cumberland was worth twenty of Willie Wallace.

David Haggart.  Ye had better sae naething agin Willie Wallace, Geordie, for, if ye do, De’il hae me, if I dinna tumble ye doon the craig.

* * * * *

Fine materials in that lad for a hero, you will say.  Yes, indeed, for a hero, or for what he afterwards became.  In other times, and under other circumstances, he might have made what is generally termed a great man, a patriot, or a conqueror.  As it was, the very qualities which might then have pushed him on to fortune and renown were the cause of his ruin.  The war over, he fell into evil courses; for his wild heart and ambitious spirit could not brook the sober and quiet pursuits of honest industry.

“Can an Arabian steed submit to be a vile drudge?” cries the fatalist.  Nonsense!  A man is not an irrational creature, but a reasoning being, and has something within him beyond mere brutal instinct.  The greatest victory which a man can achieve is over himself, by which is meant those unruly passions which are not convenient to the time and place.  David did not do this; he gave the reins to his wild heart, instead of curbing it, and became a robber, and, alas! alas! he shed blood—under peculiar circumstances, it is true, and without malice prepense—and for that blood he eventually died, and justly; for it was that of the warden of a prison from which he was escaping, and whom he slew with one blow of his stalwart arm.

But peace to thee, poor David! why should a mortal worm be sitting in judgment over thee?  The Mighty and Just One has already judged thee, and perhaps above thou hast received pardon for thy crimes, which could not be pardoned here below; and now that thy feverish existence has closed, and thy once active form become inanimate dust, thy very memory all but forgotten, I will say a few words about thee, a few words soon also to be forgotten.  Thou wast the most extraordinary robber that ever lived within the belt of Britain; Scotland rang with thy exploits, and England, too, north of the Humber; strange deeds also didst thou achieve when, fleeing from justice, thou didst find thyself in the Sister Isle; busy wast thou there in town and on curragh, at fair and race-course, and also in the solitary place.  Ireland thought thee her child, for who spoke her brogue better than thyself?—she felt proud of thee, and said, “Sure, O’Hanlon is come again.”  What might not have been thy fate in the far west in America, whither thou hadst turned thine eye, saying, “I will go there, and become an honest man!”  But thou wast not to go there, David—the blood which thou hadst shed in Scotland was to be required of thee; the avenger was at hand, the avenger of blood.  Seized, manacled, brought back to thy native land, condemned to die, thou wast left in thy narrow cell and told to make the most of thy time, for it was short: and there, in thy narrow cell, and thy time so short, thou didst put the crowning stone to thy strange deeds, by that strange history of thyself, penned by thy own hand in the robber tongue.  Thou mightest have been better employed, David!—but the ruling passion was strong with thee, even in the jaws of death.  Thou mightest have been better employed!—but peace be with thee, I repeat, and the Almighty’s grace and pardon.

Onward, onward! and after we had sojourned in Scotland nearly two years, the long continental war had been brought to an end; Napoleon was humbled for a time, and the Bourbons restored to a land which could have well have dispensed with them.  We returned to England, where the corps was disbanded, and my parents with their family retired to private life.  I shall pass over in silence the events of a year, which offer little of interest as far as connected with me and mine.  Suddenly, however, the sound of war was heard again; Napoleon had broken forth from Elba, and everything was in confusion.  Vast military preparations were again made, our own corps was levied anew, and my brother became an officer in it; but the danger was soon over, Napoleon was once more quelled and chained for ever, like Prometheus, to his rock.  As the corps, however, though so recently levied, had already become a very fine one, thanks to my father’s energetic drilling, the Government very properly determined to turn it to some account, and, as disturbances were apprehended in Ireland about this period, it occurred to them that they could do no better than despatch it to that country.

We entered a kind of bay, or cove, by a narrow inlet; it was a beautiful and romantic place this cove, very spacious, and being nearly land-locked, was sheltered from every wind.  A small island, every inch of which was covered with fortifications, appeared to swim upon the waters, whose dark blue denoted their immense depth; tall green hills, which ascended gradually from the shore, formed the background to the west; they were carpeted to the top with turf of the most vivid green, and studded here and there with woods, seemingly of oak; there was a strange old castle half-way up the ascent, a village on a crag—but the mists of morning were half veiling the scene when I surveyed it, and the mists of time are now hanging densely between it and my no longer youthful eye; I may not describe it;—nor will I try.

Leaving the ship in the cove, we passed up a wide river in boats till we came to a city where we disembarked.  It was a large city, as large as Edinburgh to my eyes; there were plenty of fine houses, but little neatness; the streets were full of impurities; handsome equipages rolled along, but the greater part of the population were in rags; beggars abounded; there was no lack of merriment, however; boisterous shouts of laughter were heard on every side.  It appeared a city of contradictions.  After a few days’ rest we marched from this place in two divisions.  My father commanded the second; I walked by his side.

Our route lay up the country; the country at first offered no very remarkable feature; it was pretty, but tame.  On the second day, however, its appearance had altered, it had become more wild; a range of distant mountains bounded the horizon.  We passed through several villages, as I suppose I may term them, of low huts, the walls formed of rough stones without mortar, the roof of flags laid over wattles and wicker-work; they seemed to be inhabited solely by women and children; the latter were naked, the former, in general, blear-eyed beldames, who sat beside the doors on low stools, spinning.  We saw, however, both men and women working at a distance in the fields.

I walked on by my father’s side, holding the stirrup-leather of his horse; presently several low uncouth cars passed by, drawn by starved cattle; the drivers were tall fellows, with dark features and athletic frames—they wore long loose blue cloaks with sleeves, which last, however, dangled unoccupied; these cloaks appeared in tolerably good condition, not so their under garments.  On their heads were broad slouching hats; the generality of them were bare-footed.  As they passed, the soldiers jested with them in the patois of East Anglia, whereupon the fellows laughed and appeared to jest with the soldiers; but what they said who knows, it being in a rough guttural language, strange and wild.  The soldiers stared at each other, and were silent.

“A strange language that!” said a young officer to my father, “I don’t understand a word of it; what can it be?”

“Irish,” said my father, with a loud voice, “and a bad language it is; I have known it of old, that is, I have often heard it spoken when I was a guardsman in London.  There’s one part of London where all the Irish live—at least all the worst of them—and there they hatch their villanies and speak this tongue; it is that which keeps them together and makes them dangerous.  I was once sent there to seize a couple of deserters—Irish—who had taken refuge among their companions; we found them in what was in my time called a ken, that is, a house where only thieves and desperadoes are to be found.  Knowing on what kind of business I was bound, I had taken with me a sergeant’s party; it was well I did so.  We found the deserters in a large room, with at least thirty ruffians, horrid-looking fellows, seated about a long table, drinking, swearing, and talking Irish.  Ah! we had a tough battle, I remember; the two fellows did nothing, but sat still, thinking it best to be quiet; but the rest, with an ubbubboo, like the blowing up of a powder-magazine, sprang up, brandishing their sticks; for these fellows always carry sticks with them, even to bed, and not unfrequently spring up in their sleep, striking left and right.”

“And did you take the deserters?” said the officer.

“A queer tongue,” said I, “I wonder if I could learn it?”

“Learn it!” said my father; “what should you learn it for?—however, I am not afraid of that.  It is not like Scotch; no person can learn it, save those who are born to it, and even in Ireland the respectable people do not speak it, only the wilder sort, like those we have passed.”

Within a day or two we had reached a tall range of mountains running north and south, which I was told were those of Tipperary; along the skirts of these we proceeded till we came to a town, the principal one of these regions.  It was on the bank of a beautiful river, which separated it from the mountains.  It was rather an ancient place, and might contain some ten thousand inhabitants; I found that it was our destination; there were extensive barracks at the farther end, in which the corps took up its quarters; with respect to ourselves, we took lodgings in a house which stood in the principal street.

Such was the speech of the Irish Protestant addressed to my father in the long lofty dining-room with three windows, looking upon the High street of the good town of Clonmel, as he sat at meat with his family, after saying grace like a true-hearted respectable soldier as he was.

“A bigot and an Orangeman!”  Oh, yes!  It is easier to apply epithets of opprobrium to people than to make yourself acquainted with their history and position.  He was a specimen, and a fair specimen, of a most remarkable body of men, who during two centuries have fought a good fight in Ireland in the cause of civilisation and religious truth; they were sent as colonists, few in number, into a barbarous and unhappy country, where ever since, though surrounded with difficulties of every kind, they have maintained their ground; theirs has been no easy life, nor have their lines fallen upon very pleasant places; amidst darkness they have held up a lamp, and it would be well for Ireland were all her children like these her adopted ones.  “But they are fierce and sanguinary,” it is said.  Ay, ay! they have not unfrequently opposed the keen sword to the savage pike.  “But they are bigoted and narrow-minded.”  Ay, ay! they do not like idolatry, and will not bow the knee before a stone!  “But their language is frequently indecorous.”  Go to, my dainty one, did ye ever listen to the voice of Papist cursing?

We continued at this place for some months, during which time the soldiers performed their duties, whatever they were; and I, having no duties to perform, was sent to school.  I had been to English schools, and to the celebrated one of Edinburgh; but my education, at the present day, would not be what it is—perfect, had I never had the honour of being alumnus in an Irish seminary.

“Captain,” said our kind host, “you would, no doubt, wish that the young gentleman should enjoy every advantage which the town may afford towards helping him on in the path of genteel learning.  It’s a great pity that he should waste his time in idleness—doing nothing else than what he says he has been doing for the last fortnight—fishing in the river for trouts which he never catches, and wandering up the glen in the mountain in search of the hips that grow there.  Now, we have a school here, where he can learn the most elegant Latin, and get an insight into the Greek letters, which is desirable; and where, moreover, he will have an opportunity of making acquaintance with all the Protestant young gentlemen of the place, the handsome well-dressed young persons whom your honour sees in the church on the Sundays, when your honour goes there in the morning, with the rest of the Protestant military; for it is no Papist school, though there may be a Papist or two there—a few poor farmers’ sons from the country, with whom there is no necessity for your honour’s child to form any acquaintance at all, at all!”

And there I made acquaintance, notwithstanding the hint of the landlord, with the Papist “gasoons,” as they were called, the farmers’ sons from the country; and of these gasoons, of which there were three, two might be reckoned as nothing at all; in the third, however, I soon discovered that there was something extraordinary.

He was about sixteen years old, and above six feet high, dressed in a gray suit; the coat, from its size, appeared to have been made for him some ten years before.  He was remarkably narrow-chested and round-shouldered, owing, perhaps, as much to the tightness of his garment as to the hand of nature.  His face was long, and his complexion swarthy relieved, however, by certain freckles, with which the skin was plentifully studded.  He had strange wandering eyes, gray, and somewhat unequal in size; they seldom rested on the book, but were generally wandering about the room from one object to another.  Sometimes he would fix them intently on the wall; and then suddenly starting, as if from a reverie, he would commence making certain mysterious movements with his thumbs and forefingers, as if he were shuffling something from him.

One morning, as he sat by himself on a bench, engaged in this manner, I went up to him and said, “Good day, Murtagh; you do not seem to have much to do.”

“Faith, you may say that, Shorsha dear! it is seldom much to do that I have.”

“And what are you doing with your hands?”

“Faith, then, if I must tell you, I was e’en dealing with the cards.”

“Do you play much at cards?”

“Sorra a game, Shorsha, have I played with the cards since my uncle Phelim, the thief, stole away the ould pack, when he went to settle in the county Waterford!”

“But you have other things to do?”

“Sorra anything else has Murtagh to do that he cares about; and that makes me dread so going home at nights.”

“Faith, then, ye shall know all about me, and where I live.  It is at a place called the Wilderness that I live, and they call it so, because it is a fearful wild place, without any house near it but my father’s own; and that’s where I live when at home.”

“And your father is a farmer, I suppose?”

“You may say that; and it is a farmer I should have been, like my brother Denis, had not my uncle Phelim, the thief! tould my father to send me to school, to learn Greek letters, that I might be made a saggart of and sent to Paris and Salamanca.”

“And you would rather be a farmer than a priest?”

“You may say that! for, were I a farmer, like the rest, I should have something to do, like the rest, something that I cared for, and I should come home tired at night and fall asleep, as the rest do, before the fire; but when I comes home at night I am not tired, for I have been doing nothing all day that I care for; and then I sits down and stares about me, and at the fire, till I become frighted; and then I shouts to my brother Denis, or to the gasoons, ‘Get up, I say, and let’s be doing something; tell us a tale of Finn-ma-Coul, and how he lay down in the Shannon’s bed and let the river flow down his jaws!’  Arrah, Shorsha, I wish you would come and stay with us, and tell us some o’ your sweet stories of your ownself and the snake ye carried about wid ye.  Faith, Shorsha dear! that snake bates anything about Finn-ma-Coul or Brian Boroo, the thieves two, bad luck to them!”

“And do they get up and tell you stories?”

“Sometimes they does, but oftenmost they curses me and bids me be quiet!  But I can’t be quiet, either before the fire or abed; so I runs out of the house, and stares at the rocks, at the trees, and sometimes at the clouds, as they run a race across the bright moon; and the more I stares, the more frighted I grows, till I screeches and holloas.  And last night I went into the barn and hid my face in the straw; and there, as I lay and shivered in the straw, I heard a voice above my head singing out ‘To whit, to whoo!’ and then up I starts and runs into the house, and falls over my brother Denis, as he lies at the fire.  ‘What’s that for?’ says he.  ‘Get up, you thief!’ says I, ‘and be helping me.  I have been out in the barn, and an owl has crow’d at me!’”

“And what has this to do with playing cards?”

“Little enough, Shorsha dear!—If there were card-playing, I should not be frighted.”

“Did I not tell you that the thief, my uncle Phelim, stole away the pack?  If we had the pack, my brother Denis and the gasoons would be ready enough to get up from their sleep before the fire, and play cards with me for ha’pence, or eggs, or nothing at all; but the pack is gone—bad luck to the thief who took it!”

“And why don’t you buy another?”

“Is it of buying you are speaking?  And where am I to get the money?”

“Ah! that’s another thing!”

“Faith it is, honey!—And now the Christmas holidays is coming, when I shall be at home by day as well as night, and then what am I to do?  Since I have been a saggarting, I have been good for nothing at all—neither for work nor Greek—only to play cards!  Faith, it’s going mad I will be!”

“I say, Murtagh!”

“Yes, Shorsha dear!”

“I have a pack of cards.”

“You don’t say so, Shorsha mavourneen! you don’t say that you have cards fifty-two?”

“I do, though; and they are quite new—never been once used.”

“And you’ll be lending them to me, I warrant?”

“Don’t think it!  But I’ll sell them to you, joy, if you like.”

“Hanam mon Dioul! am I not after telling you that I have no money at all?”

“But you have as good as money, to me, at least; and I’ll take it in exchange.”

“What’s that, Shorsha dear?”

“Irish!”

“Irish?”

“Yes, you speak Irish; I heard you talking it the other day to the cripple.  You shall teach me Irish.”

“And is it a language-master you’d be making of me?”

“To be sure!—what better can you do?—it would help you to pass your time at school.  You can’t learn Greek, so you must teach Irish!”

Before Christmas, Murtagh was playing at cards with his brother Denis, and I could speak a considerable quantity of broken Irish.

When Christmas was over, and the new year commenced, we broke up our quarters, and marched away to Templemore.  This was a large military station, situated in a wild and thinly inhabited country.  Extensive bogs were in the neighbourhood, connected with the huge bog of Allan, the Palus Mæotis of Ireland.  Here and there was seen a ruined castle looming through the mists of winter; whilst, at the distance of seven miles, rose a singular mountain, exhibiting in its brow a chasm, or vacuum, just, for all the world, as if a piece had been bitten out; a feat which, according to the tradition of the country, had actually been performed by his Satanic majesty, who, after flying for some leagues with the morsel in his mouth, becoming weary, dropped it in the vicinity of Cashel, where it may now be seen in the shape of a bold bluff hill, crowned with the ruins of a stately edifice, probably built by some ancient Irish king.

We had been here only a few days, when my brother, who, as I have before observed, had become one of his Majesty’s officers, was sent on detachment to a village at about ten miles’ distance.  He was not sixteen, and, though three years older than myself, scarcely my equal in stature, for I had become tall and large-limbed for my age; but there was a spirit in him that would not have disgraced a general; and, nothing daunted at the considerable responsibility which he was about to incur, he marched sturdily out of the barrack-yard at the head of his party, consisting of twenty light-infantry men, and a tall grenadier sergeant, selected expressly by my father for the soldier-like qualities which he possessed, to accompany his son on this his first expedition.  So out of the barrack-yard, with something of an air, marched my dear brother, his single drum and fife playing the inspiring old melody,

Marlbrouk is gone to the wars,
He’ll never return no more!

Ah, that Irish!  How frequently do circumstances, at first sight the most trivial and unimportant, exercise a mighty and permanent influence on our habits and pursuits!—how frequently is a stream turned aside from its natural course by some little rock or knoll, causing it to make an abrupt turn!  On a wild road in Ireland I had heard Irish spoken for the first time; and I was seized with a desire to learn Irish, the acquisition of which, in my case, became the stepping-stone to other languages.  I had previously learnt Latin, or rather Lilly; but neither Latin nor Lilly made me a philologist.  I had frequently heard French and other languages, but had felt little desire to become acquainted with them; and what it may be asked, was there connected with the Irish calculated to recommend it to my attention?

Ah, that Irish!  I am much indebted to it in more ways than one.  But I am afraid I have followed the way of the world, which is very much wont to neglect original friends and benefactors.  I frequently find myself, at present, turning up my nose at Irish, when I hear it in the street; yet I have still a kind of regard for it, the fine old language:

A labhair Padruic n’insefail nan riogh.

One of the most peculiar features of this part of Ireland is the ruined castles, which are so thick and numerous that the face of the country appears studded with them, it being difficult to choose any situation from which one, at least, may not be descried.  They are of various ages and styles of architecture, some of great antiquity, like the stately remains which crown the Crag of Cashel; others built by the early English conquerors; others, and probably the greater part, erections of the times of Elizabeth and Cromwell.  The whole, speaking monuments of the troubled and insecure state of the country, from the most remote periods to a comparatively modern time.

An old woman, at least eighty, was seated on a stone, cowering over a few sticks burning feebly on what had once been a right noble and cheerful hearth; her side-glance was towards the doorway as I entered, for she had heard my footsteps.  I stood suddenly still, and her haggard glance rested on my face.

“Is this your house, mother?” I at length demanded, in the language which I thought she would best understand.

“Yes, my house, my own house; the house of the broken-hearted.”

“Any other person’s house?” I demanded.

“My own house, the beggar’s house—the accursed house of Cromwell!”

One morning I set out, designing to pay a visit to my brother at the place where he was detached; the distance was rather considerable, yet I hoped to be back by evening fall, for I was now a shrewd walker, thanks to constant practice.  I set out early, and directing my course towards the north, I had in less than two hours accomplished considerably more than half of the journey.  The weather had at first been propitious: a slight frost had rendered the ground firm to the tread, and the skies were clear; but now a change came over the scene: the skies darkened and a heavy snow-storm came on; the road then lay straight through a bog, and was bounded by a deep trench on both sides; I was making the best of my way, keeping as nearly as I could in the middle of the road, lest, blinded by the snow which was frequently borne into my eyes by the wind, I might fall into the dyke, when all at once I heard a shout to windward, and turning my eyes I saw the figure of a man, and what appeared to be an animal of some kind, coming across the bog with great speed, in the direction of myself; the nature of the ground seemed to offer but little impediment to these beings, both clearing the holes and abysses which lay in their way with surprising agility; the animal was, however, some slight way in advance, and, bounding over the dyke, appeared on the road just before me.  It was a dog, of what species I cannot tell, never having seen the like before or since; the head was large and round, the ears so tiny as scarcely to be discernible, the eyes of a fiery red; in size it was rather small than large, and the coat, which was remarkably smooth, as white as the falling flakes.  It placed itself directly in my path, and showing its teeth, and bristling its coat, appeared determined to prevent my progress.  I had an ashen stick in my hand, with which I threatened it; this, however, only served to increase its fury; it rushed upon me, and I had the utmost difficulty to preserve myself from its fangs.

“What are you doing with the dog, the fairy dog?” said a man who at this time likewise cleared the dyke at a bound.

“What are ye doing with the dog of peace?”

“I wish he would show himself one,” said I; “I said nothing to him, but he placed himself in my road, and would not let me pass.”

“Of course he would not be letting you till he knew where ye were going.”

“He’s not much of a fairy,” said I, “or he would know that without asking; tell him that I am going to see my brother.”

“And who is your brother, little Sas?”

“What my father is, a royal soldier.”

“Oh, ye are going then to the detachment at ---; by my shoul, I have a good mind to be spoiling your journey.”

“You are doing that already,” said I, “keeping me here talking about dogs and fairies; you had better go home and get some salve to cure that place over your eye; it’s catching cold you’ll be, in so much snow.”

On one side of the man’s forehead there was a raw and staring wound, as if from a recent and terrible blow.

“Faith, then I’ll be going, but it’s taking you wid me I will be.’

“And where will you take me?”

“Why, then, to Ryan’s Castle, little Sas.”

“You do not speak the language very correctly,” said I; “it is not Sas you should call me—’tis Sassannach,” and forthwith I accompanied the word with a speech full of flowers of Irish rhetoric.

The man looked upon me for a moment, fixedly, then, bending his head towards his breast, he appeared to be undergoing a kind of convulsion, which was accompanied by a sound something resembling laughter; presently he looked at me, and there was a broad grin on his features.

“By my shoul, it’s a thing of peace I’m thinking ye.”

But now with a whisking sound came running down the road a hare; it was nearly upon us before it perceived us; suddenly stopping short, however, it sprang into the bog on the right-hand side; after it amain bounded the dog of peace, followed by the man, but not until he had nodded to me a farewell salutation.  In a few moments I lost sight of him amidst the snow-flakes.

“Is my brother here?” said I, rather timidly, dreading to hear that he was out, perhaps for the day.

“The ensign is in his room, sir,” said Bagg, “I am now preparing his meal, which will presently be ready; you will find the ensign above stairs,” and he pointed to a broken ladder which led to some place above.

And there I found him—the boy soldier—in a kind of upper loft, so low that I could touch with my hands the sooty rafters; the floor was of rough boards, through the joints of which you could see the gleam of the soldiers’ fire, and occasionally discern their figures as they moved about; in one corner was a camp bedstead, by the side of which hung the child’s sword, gorget, and sash; a deal table stood in the proximity of the rusty grate, where smoked and smouldered a pile of black turf from the bog—a deal table without a piece of baize to cover it, yet fraught with things not devoid of interest: a Bible, given by a mother; the Odyssey, the Greek Odyssey; a flute, with broad silver keys; crayons, moreover, and water colours, and a sketch of a wild prospect near, which, though but half finished, afforded ample proof of the excellence and skill of the boyish hand now occupied upon it.

Ah! he was a sweet being, that boy soldier, a plant of early promise, bidding fair to become in after time all that is great, good, and admirable.  I have read of a remarkable Welshman, of whom it was said, when the grave closed over him, that he could frame a harp, and play it; build a ship, and sail it; compose an ode, and set it to music.  A brave fellow that son of Wales—but I had once a brother who could do more and better than this, but the grave has closed over him, as over the gallant Welshman of yore; there are now but two that remember him—the one who bore him, and the being who was nurtured at the same breast.  He was taken, and I was left!  Truly, the ways of Providence are inscrutable.

“You seem to be very comfortable, John,” said I, looking around the room and at the various objects which I have described above: “you have a good roof over your head, and have all your things about you.”

“But your time must frequently hang heavy on your hands; this is a strange wild place, and you must be very solitary?”

“I am never solitary; I have, as you see, all my things about me, and there is plenty of company below stairs.  Not that I mix with the soldiers; if I did, good-bye to my authority; but when I am alone I can hear all their discourse through the planks, and I often laugh to myself at the funny things they say.”

“And have you any acquaintance here?”

“The very best; much better than the Colonel and the rest, at their grand Templemore; I had never so many in my whole life before.  One has just left me, a gentleman who lives at a distance across the bog; he comes to talk with me about Greek, and the Odyssey, for he is a very learned man, and understands the old Irish and various other strange languages.  He has had a dispute with Bagg.  On hearing his name, he called him to him, and, after looking at him for some time with great curiosity, said that he was sure he was a Dane.  Bagg, however, took the compliment in dudgeon, and said that he was no more a Dane than himself, but a true-born Englishman, and a sergeant of six years’ standing.”

“And what other acquaintance have you?”

“All kinds; the whole neighbourhood can’t make enough of me.  Amongst others there’s the clergyman of the parish and his family; such a venerable old man, such fine sons and daughters!  I am treated by them like a son and a brother—I might be always with them if I pleased; there’s one drawback, however, in going to see them; there’s a horrible creature in the house, a kind of tutor, whom they keep more from charity than anything else; he is a Papist and, they say, a priest; you should see him scowl sometimes at my red coat, for he hates the king, and not unfrequently, when the king’s health is drunk, curses him between his teeth.  I once got up to strike him, but the youngest of the sisters, who is the handsomest, caught my arm and pointed to her forehead.”

“We do what is required of us: we guard this edifice, perform our evolutions, and help the excise; I am frequently called up in the dead of night to go to some wild place or other in quest of an illicit still; this last part of our duty is poor mean work, I don’t like it, nor more does Bagg; though without it, we should not see much active service, for the neighbourhood is quiet; save the poor creatures with their stills, not a soul is stirring.  ’Tis true, there’s Jerry Grant.”

“And who is Jerry Grant?”

“Did you never hear of him? that’s strange, the whole country is talking about him; he is a kind of outlaw, rebel, or robber, all three, I daresay; there’s a hundred pounds offered for his head.”

“And where does he live?”

“His proper home, they say, is in the Queen’s County, where he has a band; but he is a strange fellow, fond of wandering about by himself amidst the bogs and mountains, and living in the old castles; occasionally he quarters himself in the peasants’ houses, who let him do just what he pleases; he is free of his money, and often does them good turns, and can be good-humoured enough, so they don’t dislike him.  Then he is what they call a fairy man, a person in league with fairies and spirits, and able to work much harm by supernatural means, on which account they hold him in great awe; he is, moreover, a mighty strong and tall fellow.  Bagg has seen him.”

“Has he?”

“And that man was—”

Myself.  A strange adventure that; it is well that Bagg got home alive.

John.  He says that the fight was a fair fight, and that the fling he got was a fair fling, the result of a common enough wrestling trick.  But with respect to the storm, which rose up just in time to save the fellow, he is of opinion that it was not fair, but something Irish and supernatural.

Myself.  I dare say he’s right.  I have read of witchcraft in the Bible.

John.  He wishes much to have one more encounter with the fellow; he says that on fair ground, and in fine weather, he has no doubt that he could master him, and hand him over to the quarter sessions.  He says that a hundred pounds would be no bad thing to be disbanded upon; for he wishes to take an inn at Swanton Morley, keep a cock-pit, and live respectably.

Myself.  He is quite right; and now kiss me, my darling brother, for I must go back through the bog to Templemore.

And it came to pass that, as I was standing by the door of the barrack stable, one of the grooms came out to me, saying, “I say, young gentleman, I wish you would give the cob a breathing this fine morning.”

“Why do you wish me to mount him?” said I; “you know he is dangerous.  I saw him fling you off his back only a few days ago.”

“Why, that’s the very thing, master.  I’d rather see anybody on his back than myself; he does not like me; but, to them he does, he can be as gentle as a lamb.”

“But suppose,” said I, “that he should not like me?”

“We shall soon see that, master,” said the groom; “and, if so be he shows temper, I will be the first to tell you to get down.  But there’s no fear of that; you have never angered or insulted him, and to such as you, I say again, he’ll be as gentle as a lamb.”

“And how came you to insult him,” said I, “knowing his temper as you do?”

“Merely through forgetfulness, master.  I was riding him about a month ago, and having a stick in my hand, I struck him, thinking I was on another horse, or rather thinking of nothing at all.  He has never forgiven me, though before that time he was the only friend I had in the world; I should like to see you on him, master.”

“I should soon be off him; I can’t ride.”

“Then you are all right, master; there’s no fear.  Trust him for not hurting a young gentleman, an officer’s son who can’t ride.  If you were a blackguard dragoon, indeed, with long spurs, ’twere another thing; as it is, he’ll treat you as if he were the elder brother that loves you.  Ride! he’ll soon teach you to ride, if you leave the matter with him.  He’s the best riding master in all Ireland, and the gentlest.”

“There!” said the groom, as he looked at him, half-admiringly, half-sorrowfully, “with sixteen stone on his back, he’ll trot fourteen miles in one hour; with your nine stone, some two and half more, ay, and clear a six-foot wall at the end of it.”

“I’m half afraid,” said I; “I had rather you would ride him.”

“I’d rather so, too, if he would let me; but he remembers the blow.  Now, don’t be afraid, young master, he’s longing to go out himself.  He’s been trampling with his feet these three days, and I know what that means; he’ll let anybody ride him but myself, and thank them; but to me he says, ‘No! you struck me’”.

“But,” said I, “where’s the saddle?”

“Never mind the saddle; if you are ever to be a frank rider, you must begin without a saddle; besides, if he felt a saddle, he would think you don’t trust him, and leave you to yourself.  Now, before you mount, make his acquaintance—see there, how he kisses you and licks your face, and see how he lifts his foot, that’s to shake hands.  You may trust him—now you are on his back at last; mind how you hold the bridle—gently, gently!  It’s not four pair of hands like yours can hold him if he wishes to be off.  Mind what I tell you—leave it all to him.”

Off went the cob at a slow and gentle trot, too fast and rough, however, for so inexperienced a rider.  I soon felt myself sliding off, the animal perceived it too, and instantly stood stone still till I had righted myself; and now the groom came up: “When you feel yourself going,” said he, “don’t lay hold of the mane, that’s no use; mane never yet saved man from falling, no more than straw from drowning; it’s his sides you must cling to with your calves and feet, till you learn to balance yourself.  That’s it, now abroad with you; I’ll bet my comrade a pot of beer that you’ll be a regular rough rider by the time you come back.”

In less than two hours I had made the circuit of the Devil’s Mountain, and was returning along the road, bathed with perspiration, but screaming with delight; the cob laughing in his equine way, scattering foam and pebbles to the left and right, and trotting at the rate of sixteen miles an hour.

Oh, that ride! that first ride!—most truly it was an epoch in my existence; and I still look back to it with feelings of longing and regret.  People may talk of first love—it is a very agreeable event, I dare say—but give me the flush, and triumph, and glorious sweat of a first ride, like mine on the mighty cob!  My whole frame was shaken, it is true; and during one long week I could hardly move foot or hand; but what of that?  By that one trial I had become free, as I may say, of the whole equine species.  No more fatigue, no more stiffness of joints, after that first ride round the Devil’s Hill on the cob.

Oh, that cob! that Irish cob!—may the sod lie lightly over the bones of the strongest, speediest, and most gallant of its kind!  Oh! the days when, issuing from the barrack-gate of Templemore, we commenced our hurry-skurry just as inclination led—now across the fields—direct over stone walls and running brooks—mere pastime for the cob!—sometimes along the road to Thurles and Holy Cross, even to distant Cahir!—what was distance to the cob?

It was thus that the passion for the equine race was first awakened within me—a passion which, up to the present time, has been rather on the increase than diminishing.  It is no blind passion; the horse being a noble and generous creature, intended by the All-Wise to be the helper and friend of man, to whom he stands next in the order of creation.  On many occasions of my life I have been much indebted to the horse, and have found in him a friend and coadjutor, when human help and sympathy were not to be obtained.  It is therefore natural enough that I should love the horse; but the love which I entertain for him has always been blended with respect; for I soon perceived that, though disposed to be the friend and helper of man, he is by no means inclined to be his slave; in which respect he differs from the dog, who will crouch when beaten; whereas the horse spurns, for he is aware of his own worth, and that he carries death within the horn of his heel.  If, therefore, I found it easy to love the horse, I found it equally natural to respect him.

“Arrigod yuit?” said the fellow, desisting from his work and staring at me.

“O yes, I have money,” said I, “and of the best;” and I pulled out an English shilling.

“Tabhair chugam,” said the smith, stretching out his grimy hand.

“No, I sha’n’t,” said I; “some people are glad to get their money when their work is done.”

The fellow hammered a little longer and then proceeded to shoe the cob, after having first surveyed it with attention.  He performed his job rather roughly, and more than once appeared to give the animal unnecessary pain, frequently making use of loud and boisterous words.  By the time the work was done, the creature was in a state of high excitement, and plunged and tore.  The smith stood at a short distance, seeming to enjoy the irritation of the animal, and showing, in a remarkable manner, a huge fang, which projected from the under jaw of a very wry mouth.