“Wednesday—sold out my African at seventy-one and an eighth—realized well, and bought in Poyais, which will rise for at least ten days to come—took Canchard's château at Ghent for his old debt at écarté—don't like it, as it may be talked about.
“Gave a dinner to Wilson, Morris, Leader, Whyte, and Martin—Lescour could n't come—played little whist afterwards—changed for hazard after supper—won a few Naps., and home to bed.
“Took Rigby's curricle and horses for the two hundred he owes me—glad to have done with him—he evidently wanted a row—and so play with him no more.
“Sent ten Naps, to the fund for the poor injured by the late inundations, as the police called to ask about my passport, &c.
“Saturday—the Curé of St. Rochette, to ask for alms—gave three hundred francs, and secured his services against the police—the curé mentions some curious drawings in the sacristy—promised to go and see them.
“Bought Walrond's library for a franc a volume—the Elzevirs alone worth double the amount paid—Bailey bolted, and so lose his last bills—Martin quarrelsome—said he never yet won at any sitting with me—lost seventy to him, and sent him home satisfied.
“Gave five hundred francs for the drawings at St. R———, abominable daubs; but the police grow more troublesome every day—besides, Crowthorpe is collecting early studies of Rembrandt—these sketches are marked R.
“A great evening—cleared Martin out—suspect that this night's work makes me an Irish estated gentleman—must obtain legal opinion as to these same Irish securities and post-obits, involving, as they do, a heavy sum.”
Mr. Merl paused at this entrée in his diary, and began to reflect in no very gratulatory mood on the little progress he had as yet made in this same object of inquiry; in fact, he was just discovering what a vast number of more shrewd observers than himself have long since found out, that exploring in Ireland is rather tough work. Everything looks so easy and simple and plain upon the surface, and yet is so puzteling and complicated beneath; all seems so intelligible, where there is nothing in reality that is not a contradiction. It is true he was not harassing himself with problems of labor and wages, the condition of the people, the effects of emigration, and so forth. He wanted to ascertain some few facts as to the value of a certain estate, and what incumbrances it might be charged with; and to the questions he put on this head, every reply was an insinuated interrogatory to himself. “Why are you here, Mr. Merl?” “How does it concern you?” “What may be your interest in the same investigation?” This peculiar dialectic met him as he landed; it followed him to the West. Scanlan, the landlord, even that poor simpleton the painter—as he called Crow—had submitted him to its harsh rule, till Mr. Merl felt that, instead of pursuing an examination, he was himself everlastingly in the witness-box.
Wearied of these speculations, dissatisfied with himself and his fruitless journey, he summoned the landlord to ask if that “old gent” above stairs had not a book of some kind, or a newspaper, he could lend him. A ragged urchin speedily returned with a key in his hand, saying, “That's the key of No. 4. Joe says you may go up and search for yourself.”