On a fine, calm, but dark night, in the latter end of April 1831, a middle-sized, but still strong and powerful looking man, was observed, slowly climbing up the southern side of the precipitous and rock-studded hill of Knock-shean-more. He was dressed in a great coat of coarse grey frize, a black velvet waistcoat, corduroy breeches, and a large fur cap, which almost entirely concealed his dark features. Having gained the hill top, he stood a moment, and looked around him with a restless and enquiring gaze. The earth was enveloped in darkness, and a thick, grey misty vapour, so peculiar to the season - the death of Spring - shrouded every exterior object in almost impenetrable gloom; and so, though the man gazed with intense anxiety, he could discover no defined object, except the deep, dark wood of Glen-na-ough-lare, which lay expanded in silence and loneliness at the eastern side of the barren hill.
 Having remained some moments motionless as the crag on which he stood, and looking still earnestly towards the wood, he thrust his hands into the ample pockets of his ‘trusty,’ which was closely buttoned around his waist, and commenced walking up and down the narrow ridge-way which formed the apex of the miniature mountain. As he strode silently along, his slow, musing gait, his downcast look, his contracted eye-brows, meeting almost together, as if from extreme intensity of thought, the uneasy twitchings of the muscles of his face and forbidding expression of his stern features, plainly indicated that something of a weighty and terrible character agitated the mind, and even before its consummation, seared the gloomy conscience of the desperado.
 After promenading up and down for some minutes, as if mechanically, he sat down on a ledge of rock which lay in his path; he put his hand into a breast pocket, and from it drew a small bottle which he instinctively applied to his mouth, and half emptied it of its exhilirating freight of ‘mountain dew’ with which it was stowed to the cork.
 ‘Bedad,’ exclaimed the Whitefoot, ‘bedad this harty pull of the crathur ’ill keep my hair up tal the boys is afther comin’ an’ faix meself wondhers what’s keepin’ ’em so long; Moya Bule ’ill soon be afther peepin’ up beyant the Cullenagh mountains, there beyant; ids gettin’ far in the night; an’ the bloody peelers - divil’s luck to their sowls - ’ill be an the pad-rowl comin’ an the brake of day.’
 During this soliloquy, the ruffian had again replaced the bottle in the pocket, and getting up from his cold seat on the dewy rock he put his finger to his mouth and blew a whistle, long, loud and shrill; no response, however, saluted his tympanum, and no sound was heard to break the awful silence of the hour, except the oft-reiterated echoes of the Whitefoot’s whistle.
 ‘The watch-dog’s voice that bayed the whispering wind,’ or the heart-appalling shriek of the screech-owl which whooped ominously from her ancient ivy-curtained nest in the gloomy towers of the adjacent lofty and romantic castle of Gortnaclea.
 ‘Be gor ids quare enough,’ resumed the fellow, ‘they promised to be here agin tin o’clock, and ids now, I’m shure, past eleven, an’ yit I see no signs ov the Captain or his men.’
 So saying he turned on his heel, began to walk, and as he continued his pace along the moistening path which he had eked out, he chaunted in a low, rough, yet not unharmonious voice, the following rude SONG.

He had scarcely concluded the last stanza of this precious morceau of ferocious sedition, when the explosion of a carbide rolled its echoes from the wood through the neighbouring valleys and ere its last repetition had expired on the night breeze, the Whitefoot had unbuttoned his great coat, and from a leathern belt which passed round his middle he drew a large brass barrelled pistol, and fired its contents into the air. This was the well-known signal, and before the smoke of the pistol had vanished in the clouds a strong body of men, all completely armed, ascended the hill, and bent their steps towards the spot where their comrade impatiently awaited their approach.
 ‘Musha bad luck to ye Tom, is id here he are arredy?’ was the polite salutation of one of the foremost of the gang.
 ‘The divil whisper ye knowledge in yer lift ear,’ answered Tom, ‘a putty show I am, watein’ here all night for ye, ye whore’s melts ye, (captain, I ax yer pardon).’
 ‘Arrah howld yer damn’d blatherin,’ returned another of the banditti, ‘shure we cum as soon as we wor ready, was’nt Sargant Lalor an’ his walkin gintlemin pimpin the whole night about the Crass, an’ so Bill couldn’t go into Fantin’s for the jar of ‘stuff,’ tal they wint home.’
 ‘An’ blood an nouns wor the peelers spyin’ afther ye?’
 ‘Oh no Tom, they wor watchin to know who they cud ketch drinkin, or may be, be gor, to see if they cud lay their thumb on Darby; for they say they’ll take people now for bein’ ugly.’
 ‘An’ so they would, the thievin pig-boys of the world, if they could, but couldn’t ye get our leathe full of whiskey at the Tougher?’
 ‘Oh Tom,’ said the captain, with a chuckle, ‘though I would like to see every one good Christians like ourselves, (here his bosom heaved with an involuntary sigh,) I’d rather see whiskey a Quaker.’
 ‘Why so, Captain?’
 ‘Why, because you know by baptisin us with wather we are made Christians; but it makes the devil of a glass of whiskey.’
 ‘That’s what the lan-leddies calls chrisnin.’
 ‘Exactly so, Tom.’
 ‘Oh faix an if chrisnin makes the divil of whiskey, ’tisn’t one divil’s at the Tougher, bud whole lejens iv im.’
 This remark of Tom’s elicited a loud horse-laugh amongst the outlaws.
 ‘Have you every thing illigant for our journey,’ demanded Tom.
 ‘Oh yes Tom,’ said the Captain, ‘but let us sit down an’ prime ourselves for the march.’
 ‘Och, glory to you, Captain,’ said another co-mate, ‘you was always kind to us, an’ is ye said id, let us sit down an’ be afther tryin the merits of the ‘rale Roscrea.’’.
 The whole party formed a circle on the dewy grass, having the Captain, who seated himself on a low, flat rock, as a centre.
 ‘Hand me that jar, Robinson,’ said the Captain. One of the group produced a large jar.
 The captain drew an ale-glass from his bosom, extracted the jar-stopple with his teeth, and filled a flowing bumper.
 ‘Here boys,’ said he, ‘here’s success and long life to Captain Rock, an’ a speedy overthrow to peelers, proctors an’ land jobbers of every sect and creed.’
 ‘Heaven to you Captain,’ shouted the entire party, ‘may confusion black as the gates of hell, an’ everlastin perdition attind the sowl of the cowltly (cowardly) rascal who wouldn’t say amin to your toast.’
 The glass passed quickly round, and it soon came to our friend Tom’s turn to drink.
 ‘Well boys,’ said he, ‘listen to my sintimint, here’s,’ raising the cup to his mouth, ‘here’s confusion, damnation, and desolation, to all informers an’ bad mimbers, especially proctors, parson, peelers, and land-jobbers.’
 ‘Bravo Tom,’ was the general response.
 ‘An’ here agin,’ added the fire-brand, ‘may I never cross the Gully agin, dead or alive, a-foot or a-horse back, iv I dont send some one’s soul pipin hot to hell this blissid night.’
 ‘Softly Tom,’ said one of the auditors, ‘dont be so bloodthirsty; be gor may be after all yer bladgin, if the long sargant and his min was to meet us on the way, you’d be the very first to shew ‘em yer brogue nails.’
 ‘Is it me,’ vociferated Tom, ‘No by - I would rather than a thousand pound that the schamin, vagabones was to meet us; what smash thirty pieces let slap at ‘em at onst would make iv the yella dogs; that I may never eat a Brohouge, bud I feel the pistols in my belt jumpin would madness to be after dhrivin some ov ther black souls to blazes.’
 ‘Ay iv they have a sowl at all, at all,’ cooly observed another.
 We will not pursue this diabolical discussion farther - the Jar was soon disembougued of its fiery contents, but the scene of confusion and blasphemy which the carouse of these midnight legislators presented is too revolting for detail - it even baffles description.
 After the whiskey vessel had been declared ‘completely snuck,’ the Captain seized it, and dashing it against the rock on which he sat, shivered it into a thousand fragments. ’Boys,’ said he ‘be up, its time to be movin’; I think the moon will be rising shortly; the sky is getting blood-red, and we will scarcely have time to do our job before the morning dawn.’
 They all arose simultaneously; examined and reprimed their arms; and strode with resolute step down the hill in the direction of the place in which they were to commit one of the most wanton and cold-blooded murders to be found recorded, even in the gory pages of Captain Rock’s ‘memoirs.’
 John D’Arcy was a respectable farmer, who resided on a good farm, at Knock-a-roe, in the parish of Aghaboe, near the post town of Borris-in-Ossory, Queen’s County. His brother, at the establishment of the Rockite System in that district, was Roman Catholic Curate of Aghaboe. He was a pious, mild and worthy disciple of Him beneath whose sacred banners he had enlisted as a minister of the Gospel. Averse to every species of wickedness and crime, he never ceased to admonish his ferocious flock of the evil consequences to which they exposed themselves in their wild attempts to frustrate the laws which had been established for the peace and safety of the community. He painted to them in lively colours, the miseries they would cause in their families, and the everlasting woes they would bring on their own immortal souls by their blind adherance to their accursed system of intimidation and outrage. All this and much more he pointed out to them, but, alas, he might as well be preaching to the walls of his chapel; he might as well attempt to ‘ride on the whirlwind,’ or ‘direct the storm,’ the infatuated dupes turned away from his instructions, and the good priest, instead of being able to reclaim the misguided wretches from the broad road of perdition, drew upon his own ‘reverend head’ the deep-rooted hatred and contempt of the lawless ruffians.
 Finding himself thus circumstanced, he applied to his Bishop for directions how to act. The Bishop, fearful of consequences, gave orders for his removal from amongst those turbulent spirits by whom his counsel was spurned, and on whom his pious exertions were lost in vain.
 Farmer D’Arcy, irritated at his brother’s removal from his native parish, and attributing the cause to the ‘White-feet,’ burned with resentment against, and took no measures to conceal his hostility to them. Many of them he turned from his employment; he peremptorily refused to pay his contributions to ‘the boys’ whiskey fund,’ and, moreover, he had the hardihood, or as the ‘law-givers’ expressed it, ‘the divil’s impidince an’ his own,’ to take a patch of land, from which an insolvent and bad character had been evicted, ‘over the poor crathur’s head.’ These were all, ‘av coorse, high crimes and misdemeanours’ in the Just and honourable estimation of the neighbouring Rockites; revenge they resolved on, and to ‘Civilize the spalpeen ov a scullogue’ was the chief object of this night’s foray.
 ’tis a long lane has no turn.’ So saith the Proverb, and so we will now demonstrate to our readers, for after our very long, but very necessary digression, we will again turn to the party which we left descending the hill, ‘on deeds of blood intent,’ on their route to Knockaroe.
 The moon had not as yet, displayed her lunated face over the hills, but myriads of stars were peeping coyly from behind the deep blue clouds which were slowly rolling away, as if preferring to make ‘an honourable retreat,’ rather than to await the disgrace of being compelled to quit the azure field before the ‘fairy moonbeams,’ which were soon to shed their blasting influence on all sublunary objects. The Rockites proceeded on, quickly, but silently. An hour’s walk brought them to the house of their intended victim, - they ‘halted’ to make arrangements, and to reconnoitre. The Captain divided the corps, consisting of upwards of thirty desperados, into three parties, one party to guard the rere of the house, the second to guard the front, and the third, under his own command, to do execution within. They summoned Mr. D’Arcy. No answer. The door was quickly demolished, but judge of their mortification, when they discovered that the object of their revenge was not in the house. He had gone that evening to the neighbouring town and, fortunately for himself, did not return that night.
 ‘Let us burn the house,’ exclaimed the demoniac Tom.
 ‘No, no,’ shouted several of the party, ‘we will not blast our sowls to hell intirely, intirely, by conshumin’ the innocent family that never offended uz.’
 They turned away, chagrined and disappointed at their not being able to glut their vengeance on the object for whose blood they panted with feline ferocity. ‘I’ll tell yez what boys,’ said one of the ‘Holy brother-hood,’ ‘we’ll call at Brophy’s for his gun, an’ to light our pipes, jist not to have our voyage fur nothin’ intirely.’
 This proposal was immediately agreed to, and to Brophy’s residence, but a few perches distant, they shaped their course.
 On arriving at the door they called loudly for admission. Brophy, altho’ far as it was in the night, was not yet retired to rest, his potatoe-pits had been robbed several nights previous, and on this particular night he sat up to try to ‘catch the thief.’ He was just after coming in and was preparing to go to bed, when he was startled by a loud cry of, ‘Get up Brophy an’ let me in.’
 ‘Who’s there?’ he demanded.
 ‘The Police,’ was the reply.
 The unfortunate man immediately unbarred the door, and the outlaws rushed in about the house.
 ‘Get a light instantly,’ said a voice in the party. Brophy stirred the fire with his foot, and by the flickering glare which it emitted, soon perceived it was another class of ’gintlemen’ than the ‘peelers’ that stood in grim array before his swelling eye-balls.
 ‘Who are ye at all?’ asked the astonished Brophy.
 ‘Hould yer prate, or ye’ll soon know to yer sarra - go hand us out that gun that’s sittin’ so easy an’ids breech an’ the chimley-piece wud in.’
 ‘Robbery, Robbery,’ shouted Brophy.
 One of the group flew at him and seized him by the throttle. Brophy, vigorously grasped his assailant by the middle, and swinging him violently around him, was about to dash him against the floor, when the Rockite passionately exclaimed, ‘What the divil are ye all about?’ This word acted like magic; the brutal Tom, who was, as our readers ere now perceived, the most savage of the savages, at this moment seized the firelock of the fellow who was grappling with the intrepid hero, who was fighting for his life and property, and taking fatal aim lodged its contents in the body of poor Brophy. The brave, but unfortunate fellow, uttered a soul-piercing shriek, threw up his arms convulsively, reeled forward a step, and tumbled down, senseless and inanimate as the floor on which he fell.
 The astonished murderers (for cruel and hardened as they were, they did not wish nor intend, with the exception of Tom, to add this murder to the catalogue of their crimes), gazed a moment wildly on the unhappy man who lay immersed in a lough of his own blood; a fleeting and demoniac smile passed over the terrific countenance of the unholy Tom, but his stern features assumed a different aspect, and his guilty soul sunk within him, when he found that his confreres in crime, instead of applauding his magnanimity and ‘risholute sperit,’ looked on him with horror-stricken countenances, and upbraided him reproachfully with his cold-blooded atrocity.
 ‘Tom,’ exclaimed the Captain, ‘you are nothin but a devil incarnate, why did you murder the man in cowld blood?’
 ‘I didn’t murdher ‘im at all,’ said the villain, ‘I shot ‘im clane and dacent.’
 ‘Ah ye hardened vagabone,’ said another, ‘we will all be swung by yer manes, ye bloody-thirsty thief iv the world.’
 ‘Didn’t Jem bid me have at ‘im?’ said Tom.
 ‘No,’ replied Jem, ‘I only called for help to brake the bowlts, an’ I minshined no one in particular.’
 It is needless to pursue this dialogue farther. An hour ago, and many of the party were free, at least from the actual guilt of murder, but, now, oh withering reflection! their unhappy souls were branded with the blood of the innocent one, for ever and ever. Already did ruin, and disgrace, and the gallows, and everlasting perdition, and all the other, maddening thoughts which ever sear and distract the gloomy conscience of the murderer, stare them in the face, and fill their unhappy minds with the most dreadful apprehensions.
 The waning moon was riding pale and ghastly in the lonely sky as the murderers again came in view of the hill, where they had so lately revelled in their unhallowed mirth. The stars, which a short time ago, were blinking and twinkling in all their glittering loveliness, had all faded from the blue expanse of Heaven, as if affrighted from their eternal station, in the firmament, by the horrible deeds which they had that night witnessed. To a careless observer, no sound was there to disturb the silent serenity of the melancholy hour. But it seemed not so to the unhappy Rockites. The echo of poor Brophy’s death-cry still rang in their ear, and the pattering of the dew-drops from the leaves, the rustling of the trees, and the fitful wail of the day-break breezes, as they swept with mournful moan across their path, seemed to their distracted imaginations, to be the voice of the Most High chiding them for their misdeeds, or the sound of the murdered one crying to Heaven for vengeance.
 Tho’ after a short time, the assassins were discovered to the local authorities, there could not be sufficient evidence found to convict them of the murder. Many of them however, were transported for other minor crimes. More of them fled to America, some of them have died at home, repenting their crimes, and we believe, there are more of them, still resident in and adjacent to, the neighbourhood where this wanton and atrocious murder was committed.

[ END ]

If there be one trait, one feature more prominently characteristic of the Irishman than another, it will be found in his undying love of home, and the land of his nativity. Of this I am proud: it is a noble and beautiful feeling, deeply implanted in the breasts of mankind; but in none more that in Irishmen, particularly Catholic Irishmen of the middle and humbler classes. Wherever he wanders, his spirit is at home in the west; and whether ploughing the surges of the sea, wasting his manhood in the red-coated cohorts of Great Britain, hewing and delving in the trans-Atlantic pine woods, or sweating in the harvest fields of England or the Scottish Lowlands, his thoughts are straying in the green valleys of father-land, and his toils are lightened, and his heart bounds gladly at the hope that his exile is but temporary, that he will again embrace the friends and play-mates of his childhood, - descend into the vale of years amid those whom he loves, and, finally, mingle his bones with those of his departed forefathers. It is so, even with thousands of Irishmen, moving in a higher sphere than the day-labourer, or the poor soldier. He may be comfortable, nay, in the enjoyment of respect and even in affluence; his pathway through this world may be free from perils and privations, yet he is not happy: he is not at home; he misses the bland smiles of his sisters, and the hearty honest laughter of his brothers. The friendship of the stranger is equivocal, and perhaps transient: and even were it otherwise, what is it compared with that light of affection, in whose glorious beams he walked in the home of his young days? He may now breathe the atmosphere of indolence and of pleasure. His waking hours may glide by in the club-room, or the midnight assembly, yet what are those joys when he recurs to the well remembered Sunday evening dance, or the rustic wedding of his own place, in that far-off valley of Erin. He walks arm in arm with beauty and rank, in the fashionable park or square; but a sigh steals from his heart as he remembers his summer evening rambles in that solitary green boreen, where he met and wooed the sunny-hearted girl of his boyish fancy. All these, and a hundred other endearing associations steal on his memory; he sighs at the retrospect: he feels his life wasting amid scenes where he has no sympathies: he yearns more bitterly for home: and that hour in which he again descries Irish land, brings him more true happiness than he found since he bade adieu to the bold promontories of the Emerald Isle.
 Such were my reflections, as the steamer in which I sailed from London ran up the dark waters of the Liffey into Dublin harbour. It was a raw and cheerless morning in the first days of January; a thick hazy rain descending pertinaciously, and a white sluggish fog lying heavily on all the adjacent portions of the Irish metropolis. But I heeded not the cold of the atmosphere, or the humidity of the vapours of the Liffey; they were the children of my Irish skies, - of my own dear land, - and I recognised them as old acquaintances. I had, too, been from home some months; and all minor feelings were merged in the joy I felt in again seeing Ireland, and the idea of being, in a few days, a welcome guest in my beloved native village.
 A string of jaunting cars was awaiting the arrival of the steamer; and, having engaged one to convey me to the place where I proposed fixing my quarters during my short stay in Dublin, I mounted and set forward. We had not proceeded far, however, when the driver reined in his horse, in order, as he said, ‘to pick up another face.’ I was totally unprepared for this; and, losing my equilibrium by the sudden stopping of the car, was pitched forward with considerable violence on the wet and dirty causeway. This occurred just opposite the shop or stall of a vender of second-hand books and music, who, seeing my distress, humanely ran forward to my succour, carried me into his shop, provided necessaries for my renovation, cleaned my dirty garments, and, by every means in his power, ministered to my comfort and accommodation.
 Whilst thus receiving the kind attentions of the bookseller, a man entered the shop, and, in a rich south of Ireland accent, asked for a copy of Banim’s celebrated novel - ‘Crohoore of the Bill-hook.’
 I looked at him. He was a tall, clumsy, iron-visaged countryman, about sixty years of age, hale, hearty, and vigorous-looking, dressed in a heavy riding-coat of blue frieze, corduroy breeches, white frieze gaiters, and thick leather shoes, or, as we call them in the country, brogues. He was not as handsome as the ‘scullogues’ of the south generally are; but his eyes sparkled with considerable vivacity, and his countenance was highly expressive of good-humour, independence, and well-natured, honest benevolence.
 ‘Sir’, said the bookseller, in answer to the inquiry of the new-comer.
 ‘I want some of Banim’s novels’, answered the countryman.
 ‘I regret, sir’, said the bookseller, ‘that at present I cannot accommodate you. I have not a single copy of any of Banim’s works in my shop.’
 ‘Then, would you inform me, where can I get them?’ asked the man.
 ‘To tell you the truth, sir, I cannot. They are extremely rare just now: in fact, unless by mere chance, you will not get one of them in Dublin.’
 ‘More shame, then, for Dublin, and for Ireland, too’, replied the stranger. ‘No other country would neglect such a man as poor John Banim, the greatest novelist of Ireland, the most warm-hearted patriot, and the best fellow that ever broke this world’s bread.’
 ‘’Tis not creditable to us, certainly, to forget Banim’, answered the bookseller. ‘However, there are many causes for this, which heretofore could not be controlled: but, I think a new edition of his entire works is in course of publication.’
 The stranger shook his head, evidently chagrined and disappointed.
 ‘You appear a warm admirer of Banim’, I remarked.
 ‘In troth, and I am’, returned the man. ‘What wonder? He was a credit to Kilkenny, his native town; and not only to Kilkenny, but to Ireland. May God have mercy on his soul! I hope he will not be unrewarded in heaven, as he was neglected on earth.’
 ‘You knew him, probably?’
 ‘As well as I know my right hand. Ochone, many’s the day I spent with him, roaming through the beautiful suburbs of Kilkenny, when he and I were children. It’s little notion either had then of what fame awaited him, or that his name would be an honour to old Ireland, as long as her green breast rose swelling from the waves of the Atlantic.’
 ‘You are a Kilkenny man?’
 ‘Aye, indeed; and, though I may deny it now, I seen the day when I was as wild and roving a blade as any of them, and true to the character of the boys of Kilkenny; spent my money free, kissed and courted the pretty maids of the marble city, and had as little notion that sixty years would find me as I am now, as that of John Banim occupying one of the highest niches in the temple of Erin’s literature.’
 By Jove, thought I, this old fellow is a character! I will improve his acquaintance; he appears to have a spark in him; I will try what can be done to bring it out.
 ‘May I venture to request further acquaintance with you, sir?’ I asked. ‘Would you honour me with your name; or where do you stop in Dublin?’
 ‘You’re heartily welcome. My name is Nicholas O’Loghlen, and I reside on a farm of 150 acres, near the banks of the river Dinan, within a few miles of Kilkenny town. I came to Dublin to sell bullocks; and I stop at the Church Inn, in Thomas Street.’
 ‘I am going now in that direction; will you favour me with your company?’
 ‘With a heart and a half’, was the cheerful response. ‘I like the look of you: you are an Irishman, I know; and one of the right sort, I think:’ and he winked knowingly with one of his eyes, as he glanced at a dark green cloak, in which I had wrapped myself after flinging off my puddled surtout in the bookseller’s stall.
 ‘I am an Irishman, at all events’, I answered; ‘and I hope you will find me one of the right sort, when you have an opportunity of studying my character.’
 ‘I hope so, too’, he replied. ‘And now, as I answered your questions, may I be after asking you, what is the name that’s upon you? or where do you live, when you are at home?’
 ‘I must beg you will excuse me, if I decline answering you at present’, I replied. ‘Before we part, however, you shall have full information; but, in the interim, you may call me by any appellation your own taste or humour may suggest.’
 ‘Very well’, he replied; ‘I shall call you, then, ‘THE MAN IN THE GREEN CLOAK’; although, by the bye, when I came into the shop, and looked at the pickle you were in, I could hardly refrain from knocking your two eyes into one; for, the devil take me, if I did not think you were that step-father of all liars, the ‘gutter commissioner.’’
 A loud and prolonged laugh, in which all joined heartily, followed this joke; and, bidding a warm adieu to the kind-hearted bookseller, we remounted the car, and set forward, through the great thoroughfare of Dublin, in the direction of the Church Inn - the very popular hostelry of the well-known Clare Wogan.
 The very queen of cities is this Dublin. London is much bigger, Edinburgh more romantic and historical, Liverpool and Glasgow more busting and money-making; but, for the magnificence of its public buildings, the elegance and convenience of its leading streets and squares, the beauty and variety of its suburbs, the attractions of its promenades and places of public resort, and a thousand other charms, which cannot now be so much as alluded to, Dublin bears away the palm. You will scarcely meet, in any European city, a grander view than that which strikes you as you pass over Carlisle bridge, the last on the Liffey to the eastward, and forming the grand point of communication between the modern and most splendid and important parts of the city. Behind you is Sackville Street - for its length, allowed to be the finest, perhaps, in the world - with its magnificent shops and bazaars, the vast tide of human beings promenading its flagways, innumerable carriages, jaunting-cars, and equestrians dashing over its pavement; whilst, in the centre, the vast Tuscan pillar, surmounted with a gigantic statue of Lord Nelson, rears its huge form, and constitutes, if not one of the most appropriate or national, at least one of the most striking and prominent of the architectural beauties of the Irish metropolis. Eastward, and immediately beneath you, is the harbour, with its steamers smoking and puffing, the hoarse song of the ship-boy stealing mellowed over the waters, and the gay pennons of the merchant vessels and smaller craft floating gaily in the breeze. Westward, then, for a distance of nearly two miles, extend the splendid lines of quays, with the dome of the four courts, and the elegant cupola of St. Paul’s Catholic church, looming over the Liffey, the entire view terminating in the entrance to the Phoenix Park, and the massive obelisk, called the ‘Wellington Pillar’, rearing its heavy truncated form in the far distance.
 Emerging from Westmoreland Street, we found ourselves in the very focus of Dublin splendor, resort and attraction. At one side - to the left, is Trinity College, a truly noble establishment; and on the other, stands that queenly pile, the bank of Ireland - in good old times, the Irish parliament house; concerning which, we have heard so much in these latter days, and which, many think, is destined at no distant day to be restored to its pristine uses. Lying before us, is College Green, one of the most historic spots in the city, in the centre of which stands the beautiful equestrian idol of Orangeism, the statue of William III, ‘of glorious, pious, and immortal memory.’
 ‘Blood an ouns’, vociferated Mr. O’Loghlen, my new acquaintance, ‘how blue old Glencoe looks this raw winter’s morning.’
 ‘Rather greenish, you mean’,
 ‘A mixture of both’, replied O’Loghlen. ‘He appears about becoming a convert to the Repealer’s plan, of uniting the orange and green, especially, since the old rotten corporation became extinct.’
 ‘I am thinking, the next livery the old chap will get, is a suit of the uniform of the south-Dublin poor-house’, remarked the jarvey with a chuckle. ‘The corporation is tired of him, and many of his best friends are getting ashamed of their connexion with the Dutch usurper.’
 ‘There’s better fellows than him wearing the poor-house costume’, said Mr. O’ Loghlen. ‘And I have seen the day when the Dublin Orangemen would be glad to see the grey frieze jacket and trowsers covering the disgrace of their darling.’
 ‘Faix, I know what you mane, sir’, replied the driver, with a significant grin. ‘Aye, indeed; on the morning of the 12th July, 1805, he cut a more ridiculous figure than the veriest scare-crow in the south-Dublin poor-house.’
 ‘Go on’, I said, eager to hear O’Loghlen’s account of the well-known daubing of Billy.
 ‘I was in Dublin, at the very time, and oh! if you were in College Green when the morning’s sun shone on the bedivilled statue! ‘twas funny, aye, delightful! Never did old Bill look so glorious - at least in the eyes of such well-wishers as Nicholas O’ Loghlen, as he did that morning. Whoo! Whoop!’ and cracking his fingers he commenced singing in stentorian tones:

 ‘For it’s he was the buck at the Boyne.’
 ‘For God’s sake, sir’, said the car-driver, addressing me with a deprecating and rather rueful phiz, ‘stop his throat, or devil a blaggard from Harold’s Cross, to the Broadstone, that won’t be at our heels in five minutes. Besides, it’s a miracle, if a police-man comes on us, if we all be not swept off to the station-house in College Street, or Chancery Lane.’
 Laughing heartily at the jarvey’s anxiety, as well as at the old Kilkenny boy’s oddities, and delighted at the fine musical voice in which he trolled forth that well-known Irish ditty, I offered no remonstrance, and the song continued to awake the echoes of the streets, until we arrived at the corner of Werburgh Street, where I ordered the car-driver to wheel off the great thoroughfare, and drive us to Kevin Street, in the Liberty.
 ‘Stop, stop!’ roared the vocalist. ‘Where are you going, man? to Mrs. Wogan’s, 113 Thomas Street?’
 ‘But one master at a time for me’, coolly observed the car-driver.
 ‘Come with me to Kevin Street, Mr. O’Loghlen’, I said. ‘I have a friend there who will welcome any one whom I choose to introduce.’
 ‘With all my heart’, said O’Loghlen. ‘Any place at all where I will have a friend at my elbow, a good dinner under my nose, and a smoking jug of punch, to toast the former and wash down the latter.’
 ‘All awaits you in Kevin Street.’
 ‘Very well; on with you, Mr. Coachman. A good night, and pleasant dreams to my friends at the Church Inn; I’ll see them tomorrow.’
 Kevin Street is in the Liberty of Dublin. It was once a rich and respectable neighbourhood; but now ruinous, dirty, and decayed. My friend, however, from the peculiar nature of his business, was well to do, and resided in a large house in full repair, comfortable, and respectably furnished. The ‘cead-mille-failtha’ was given us; and, before we had been half an hour domiciled in the dark, spacious parlour of Mr. McSwiney, the Kilkenny farmer felt himself as much at home as he possibly could in the Thomas Street inn, or even at his own huge fire-side on the banks of the Dinan.
 The morning, as I remarked, had been dreary and unpromising; and, as evening came, the storm blew bitterly down from the Dublin mountains, and the rain fell in torrents on the low and miry streets of the Liberty. I had intended to proceed on a tour of inspection through the city; but, in consequence of the unpropitious state of the weather, was obliged to limit my excursion to a visit to the old cathedral of St. Patrick’s, in the immediate vicinity of which the residence of my friend was situated.
 Accompanied by Mr. O’Loghlen, I proceeded to view this fine old pile. It is, indeed, a vast and venerable edifice, of high antiquity; and, to the historian, the antiquary, and the enthusiast, the most interesting of the many public buildings of the chief town of Ireland.
 The interior is far more attractive than the exterior. The copu-d’oeil of the choir, in particular, is sublime. The roof, which is grooved, is of stucco, and still retains its ancient elegance and grace. The archbishop’s throne, the stalls, and pews, are of carved oak, and hung with crimson velvet. The swords, armour, and golden helmets of the living knights of St. Patrick, who are installed in this cathedral, are hung up near the roof; and, in the ‘dim religious light’ of day, or the wan lamp-light of evening, glitter with a strange and haggard radiance. Over these, again, float heavily in the chill breeze, the gorgeous banners and ensignia of those puissant nobles, mutely boasting of earthly power and human greatness; whilst, underneath their shadows, the numerous monuments and memorials of poor mortality, mark the proud pageantry of the living.
 ‘Come, come away’, cried Mr. O’Loghlen impatiently, as I stood with enthusiasm in the nave, gazing on the monuments of Dean Swift and his - his - what shall I term her - the celebrated ‘Stella.’
 ‘You seem unwell, Mr. O’Loghlen.’
 ‘Aye, sick and sore at heart; why should I not? As I contemplate this grand old pile, and when I think of what it was, what it is, and what it ought to be; when I fancy I can hear the solemn voices of the monks of old, as they chaunted the sacred offices of the Catholic Church; when, in my mind’s eye, I gaze on the long train of white-robed priests, moving in slow procession up these stately aisles, with host, and crucifix, and tapers, brightly flickering and glancing in the shadows of twilight, whilst thousands of humble and hopeful devotees prostrate themselves on that tessellated pavement, and adore the God of mercy and love. When I reflect on these things, and then turn to contemplate -’
 ‘Peace, peace, Mr. O’Loghlen’, I whispered: and, taking his proffered arm, we bade adieu to one of the most impressive and interesting monuments I had ever beheld.
 The gloom of eve was now quickly falling on the dark streets of the Liberty; and, as we entered the domicile of our worthy host, we were summoned to dinner in the spacious parlour, to arrive at which, we had to climb a pair of dark and rather narrow wooden stairs. It was a dark and gloomy apartment, to the rear of the house; the one large window, by which it was lit, looking out on the dingy houses of Mitre-alley and Patrick’s-close, and commanding a full view of the cathedral which we had just forsaken. A soiled and faded carpet was on the floor; the scarlet damask window curtain hung dusty and neglected; some old-fashioned pictures ornamented the damp walls; and the furniture was in profusion, prim, massive, and out of fashion. I asked myself, as I sat down, did this room ever echo to the boisterous merriment of the ‘Monks of the Screw?’ For I remembered it was in this very neighbourhood - in Kevin Street, too - that celebrated brotherhood held their midnight orgies, during the period of their existence.
 Dinner over, whiskey, sugar, and all the materials for making punch, appeared on the table. The topers were Mr. O’Loghlen and our host, Mr. McSwiney. I myself, being a disciple of Father Matthew, declined partaking of the ‘Humours of Whiskey.’
 We had a right merry evening. Nicholas O’Loghlen was in high spirits, and sang, and laughed, and talked, of twenty matters. His father was out in the memorable year of ninety-eight, and his adventures supplied the son with many a wild and exciting theme. I found my companion a jovial, honest, open-minded man, a rigid Catholic, and a staunch repealer. He was an advocate for universal liberty, and a bitter enemy to tyrants and oppressors - whether ‘Celt’ or ‘Saxon’, or whether he were an idolator of the ‘green’ or ‘orange.’ Although uncouth in manner and address, he was well educated, and of considerable information, for in early life he studied classics, with a view to becoming a priest of the Irish Catholic Church.
 ‘But this was not God’s will’, sighed the worthy Nicholas. ‘My father was ruined in the troubles and desolations, and sorrow fell on our family.’
 ‘All for the better, let us hope.’
 ‘May be so, I am well enough in worldly circumstances, yet I am not happy. My home is a lonely one; and in my last hour, I will have no daughter to weep at my board, or no son to raise my bier, or say, ‘Lord have mercy on your soul, Nicholas O’Loghlen.’’
 ‘Had you never any children?’
 ‘I had one - a fine a boy as you’d see from the hill of Ballough to the bridge of Waterford - Lord be with his soul, he is rotten in the clay this many a year.’
 ‘What caused his early death?’
 ‘In troth I can’t well tell - some said decay, some said love - but almost every one said he was taken by the fairies.’
  My curiosity was aroused - ‘the fairies!’ - can it be that this sensible, well-informed man can be impressed with this superstition? and fanciful and pretty as it is, I should regret to find it could boast of such a votary.
 ‘And do you really give any credit to the fairy creed, Mr. O’Loghlen?’ I asked.
 ‘Not the least, but sure I cannot stop the mouths of ignorant people, and I am not ashamed of having my son supposed to be a wanderer in fairy-land, for it is an old and time-honoured superstition; and though I spurn it myself, as every pious and well-informed Catholic must do, yet I half regret that a few years more will see it utterly exploded in Ireland.’
 ‘Would you please tell us your son’s story?’
 ‘Why, when he was a very young boy he was courting a beautiful girl, named Sally Doyle, over at Horse-leap near Tullaroan; and one night as he was coming home from seeing her - but no - there is a song in the country which records the affair, and sad as my heart is at the recollections it awakens, I will sing it, if you have no objection.’
 ‘On the contrary, we shall be delighted’, I answered with much eagerness.
 Wiping a tear from his eye, and rubbing his high and furrowed forehead with his handkerchief, he chanted in a bold, rough, but sweetly-plaintive voice, the following song:

 With difficulty the old man finished the melancholy and impassioned lay; and as he concluded, a few huge tears fell hot and burning from his eyes, and he rested his grey head on his palm, as if to conceal his emotion.
 ‘And poor Sally Doyle’, I resumed, ‘what about her?’
 ‘Her story is a sad one, too, but now I am too much oppressed to relate it; at some other time you shall hear the subsequent history of the heart-broken maiden.’
 Just as he spoke, the great bell of St. Patrick’s Cathedral commenced tolling the midnight hour, and before its echoes had ceased booming over the crowded purlieus of the Liberty, we had all retired for the night to our sleeping apartments.