It was upon a clear, sharp morning in January, of the year 18—, that I took my place upon the box-seat of the old Galway mail and set out on my journey. My heart was depressed, and my spirits were miserably low. I had all that feeling of sadness which leave-taking inspires, and no sustaining prospect to cheer me in the distance. For the first time in my life, I had seen a tear glisten in my poor uncle’s eye, and heard his voice falter as he said, “Farewell!” Notwithstanding the difference of age, we had been perfectly companions together; and as I thought now over all the thousand kindnesses and affectionate instances of his love I had received, my heart gave way, and the tears coursed slowly down my cheeks. I turned to give one last look at the tall chimneys and the old woods, my earliest friends; but a turn of the road had shut out the prospect, and thus I took my leave of Galway.
My friend Mickey, who sat behind with the guard, participated but little in my feelings of regret. The potatoes in the metropolis could scarcely be as wet as the lumpers in Scariff; he had heard that whiskey was not dearer, and looked forward to the other delights of the capital with a longing heart. Meanwhile, resolved that no portion of his career should be lost, he was lightening the road by anecdote and song, and held an audience of four people, a very crusty-looking old guard included, in roars of laughter. Mike had contrived, with his usual savoir faire, to make himself very agreeable to an extremely pretty-looking country girl, around whose waist he had most lovingly passed his arm under pretence of keeping her from falling, and to whom, in the midst of all his attentions to the party at large, he devoted himself considerably, pressing his suit with all the aid of his native minstrelsy.
“Hould me tight, Miss Matilda, dear.”
“My name’s Mary Brady, av ye plase.”
“Ay, and I do plase.
‘Oh, Mary Brady, you are my darlin’,
You are my looking-glass from night till morning;
I’d rayther have ye without one farthen,
Nor Shusey Gallagher and her house and garden.’
May I never av I wouldn’t then; and ye needn’t be laughing.”
“Is his honor at home?”
This speech was addressed to a gaping country fellow that leaned on his spade to see the coach pass.
“Is his honor at home? I’ve something for him from Mr. Davern.”