Buch lesen: «Confessions Of Con Cregan, the Irish Gil Blas», Seite 20

CHAPTER XIX. ON BOARD THE ‘CHRISTOBAL’

Without further delay, the men prepared to obey the summons. The boat’s chain was cast off, and, as she swung out from the wall, I could see a small standard at her stern, carrying a little white flag, which, as the breeze wafted towards mer showed the enigmatical number 438.

I sprang to my legs and uttered a cry of surprise.

“Well, what is it, master?” said Ben, looking up, and probably expecting to see me take a header into the muddy stream.

“That’s the number!” cried I, not knowing what I said. “That’s the very number!”

“Very true, master, so it is, but you ha’n’t got the counterpart, I guess!”

“Yes, but I have, though!” said I, producing the ticket from the pocket-book.

“Why, darn me if that a’n’t himself!” cried the men; and they sung out three hearty cheers at the discovery.

“Were you there long, old fellow?” said Ben.

“About half an hour,” said I.

“Tarnation! and why did ye keep us a-waitin’? didn’t you see the tide was on the ebb, and that Christy was making signals every five minutes or so?”

“I was waiting – waiting – ”

“Waiting for what? I ‘d like to know.”

“Waiting for my baggage,” said I, taking a long breath.

“An’ it ain’t come yet?”

“No; I ‘m afraid they missed the road.”

“Be that as it may, master, I’ll not stay longer. Come along without your kit, or stay behind with it, whichever you please.”

“Hang the traps!” said I, affecting a bold carelessness; “I’ve a few things there I left out loose, that will do. When shall we be there?” This was a leading question, for I did not yet know whither we were bound.

“At Galveston? Well, to-morrow evening or by nightfall, I guess, if the wind hold. Sit down there and make yourself snug; there’s always a little splash of a sea in this river. And now, lads, pull away, – all together!”

A second shot from the smack announced that her anchor was tripped, and we saw her now lurch over as her foresail filled.

The men pulled vigorously, and in about twenty minutes I stood upon the deck of the “Christobal,” making sundry excuses to her skipper for being late, and assuring him, on the faith of a gentleman, that I had utterly forgotten all about my voyage till the last moment.

“They only sent me the number from the office late last night,” said he, “and told me to look out for the gemman about the docks. But I war n’t goin’ to do that, I said. He’s got a passage and grub to Galveston, – as good as ere a gemman can desire; he’s won a nag they says is worth seven or eight hundred dollars, with furniture and arms for the new expedition; and I take it them things is worth a-looking arter, – so darn me blue if I gives myself no trouble about ‘em.”

These scattered hints were all I wanted. The sea-breeze had restored me to my wonted clearness, and I now saw that “438” meant that I had won a free passage to Texas, a horse and a rifle when I got there; so far, the “exchange of coats” was “with a difference.” It was with an unspeakable satisfaction that I learned I was the only passenger on board the “Christobal.” The other “gentlemen” of the expedition had either already set out or abandoned the project, so that I had not to undergo any unpleasant scrutiny into my past life, or any impertinent inquiry regarding my future.

Old Kit Turrel, the skipper, did not play the grand inquisitor on me. His life had been for the most part passed in making the voyage to and from New Orleans and Galveston, where he had doubtless seen sufficient of character to have satisfied a glutton in eccentricity. There was not a runaway rogue or abandoned vagabond that had left the coast for years back, with whose history he was not familiar. You had but to give him a name, and out came the catalogue of his misdeeds on the instant.

These revelations had a prodigious interest for me. They opened the book of human adventure at the very chapter I wanted. It was putting a keen edge upon the razor to give me the “last fashions in knavery,” – not to speak of the greater advantage of learning the success attendant on each, since “Kit” could tell precisely how it fared with every one who had passed through his hands.

He enlightened me also as to these Texan expeditions, which, to use his own phrase, had never been anything better than “almighty swindles,” planted to catch young flats from the north country, the Southerns being all too “crank” to be done.

“And is there no expedition in reality?” said I, with all the horror of a man who had been seduced from home, and family, and friends, under false pretences.

“There do be a dash now and then into the Camanche trail when buffaloes are plenty, or to bring down a stray buck or so. Mayhap, too, they cut off an Injian fellow or two, if he linger too late in the fall; and then they come back with wonderful stories of storming villages, and destroying war-parties, and the rest of it; but we knows better. Most of ‘em ‘ere chaps are more used to picklocks than rifles, and can handle a ‘jemmy’ better than a ‘bowie-knife.’”

“And in the present case, what kind of fellows are they?”

He rolled a tobacco quid from side to side of his mouth, and seemed to hesitate whether he would speak out.

“There is no danger with me, Captain; I am an Englishman, a perfect stranger here, and have never seen or heard of a man amongst them.”

“I see that,” said he; “and your friends must be rank green ‘uns to let you go and join this trail, – that’s a fact.”

“But what are they?”

“Well, they call ‘emselves horse-dealers; but above Austin there, and along by Bexar, they call ‘em horsestealers!” and he laughed heartily at the excessive drollery of the remark.

“And where do they trade with their cattle?”

“They sells ‘em here, or up in the States away north sometimes; but they picks up the critters along the Chehuhua Line, or down by Aguaverde, or San Pueblo. I ‘ve known ‘em to go to Mexico too. When they don’t get scalped, they ‘ve rather good fun of it; but they squable a bit now and then among ‘emselves; and so there’s a Texan proverb that ‘buffalo-meat in spring is as rare as a mustang merchant with two eyes!’”

“What does that mean?”

“They gouge a bit down there, they do, – that’s a fact. I ‘ve known two or three join the Redmen, and say Injians was better living with, than them ‘ere.”

“I own your picture is not flattering.”

“Yes, but it be, though! You don’t know them chaps; but I know ‘em, – ay, for nigh forty year. I ‘m a-livin’ on this ‘ere passage, and I’ve seen ‘em all. I knew Bowlin Sam, I did!” From the manner this was said, I saw that Bowlin Sam was a celebrity, to be ignorant of whom was to confess one’s self an utter savage.

“To be sure, I was only a child at the time; but I saw him come aboard with the negro fellow that he followed up the Red River trail. They were two of the biggest fellows you could see. Sam stood six feet six-an’-a-quarter; the Black was six feet four, – but he had a stoop in his shoulders. Sam tracked him for two years; and many’s the dodge they had between ‘em. But Sam took him at last, and he brought him all the way from Guajaqualle here, bound with his hands behind him, and a log of iron-wood in his mouth; for he could tear like a juguar.

“They were both on ‘em ugly men, – Sam very ugly! Sam could untwist the strongest links of an iron boat-chain, and t’ other fellow could bite a man-rope clean in two with his teeth. ‘The Black’ eat nothing from the time they took him; and when they put him into the shore-boat, in the river, he was so weak they had to lift him like a child. Well, out they rowed into the middle of the stream, where the water is roughest among the ‘snags,’ and many a whirlpool dashing around ‘atween the bows of the ‘sawyers.’ That’s the spot you ‘re sure to see one of these young sharks, – for the big chaps knows better than to look for their wittals in dangerous places, – while the water is black, at times, with alligators. Well, as I was sayin’, out they rowed; and just as they comes to this part of the stream, the black fellow gives a spring, and drives both his heavy ironed feet bang through the flooring-plank of the boat. It was past bailin’; they were half swamped before they could ship their oars; the minute after, they were all struggling in the river together. There were three besides the nigger; but he was the only one ever touched land again. He was an Antigua chap, that same nigger; and they knows sharks and caymans as we does dog-fish: but, for all that, he was all bloody, and had lost part of one foot, when he got ashore.”

“Why had he been captured? What had he done?” “What had n’t he done! That same black murdered more men as any six in these parts; he it was burned down Che-coat’s mill up at Brandy Cove, with all the people fastened up within. Then he run away to the ‘washings’ at Guajaqualle, where he killed Colonel Rixon, as was over the ‘Placer.’ He cut him in two with a bowie-knife, and never a one guessed how it happened, as the juguars had carried off two or three people from the ‘washins ‘; but the nigger got drunk one night, and began a-cuttin’ down the young hemlock-trees, and sayin’, ‘That’s the way I mowed down Buckra’ Georgy,’ – his name was George Rixon. Then he bolted, and was never seen more. Ah, he was a down-hard ‘un, that fellow Crick!”

“Crick, – Menelaus Crick!” said I, almost springing up with amazement as I spoke.

“Just so. You ‘ve heard enough of him ‘fore now, I guess.”

The skipper went on to talk about the negro’s early exploits, and the fearful life of crime which he had always pursued; but I heard little of what he said. The remembrance of the man himself, bowed down with years and suffering, was before me; and I thought how terribly murder is expiated, even in those cases where the guilty man is believed to have escaped. So is it; the dock, the dungeon, and the gallows can be mercies in comparison with the self-torment of eternal fear, the terror of companionship, or the awful hell of solitude! The scene at Anticosti and the terrific night in the Lower Town of Quebec rose both together to my mind, and so absorbed my thoughts that the old skipper, seeing my inattention, and believing that I was weary and inclined for sleep, left me for the deck; and I lay still, pondering over these sad themes.

At last I roused myself and went on deck. The city had long since disappeared from view, and even the low land at the mouth of the river had faded in the distance; while, instead or the yellow, polluted flood of the Mississippi, the blue waves, shining and sparkling, danced merrily past, or broke in foam-sheets at the bow. The white sails were bent like boards, firm and immovable before the breeze, and the swift vessel darted her way onward as proudly as though her freight were something prouder and better than a poor adventurer, without one in the wide world who cared whether he won or lost the game with Fortune.

My spirits rose every mile we left New Orleans behind us; I felt, besides, that to bring my skill to such a market was but to carry “coals to Newcastle;” nor, from the skipper’s account, did Texas offer a much more favorable field. However, it smacked of adventure; the very name had a charm for me; and I thought I should far rather confront actual danger than live a life of petty schemes and small expedients. But what a strange crucible is the human heart! here was I, placed in a situation to which an incident had elevated me, – of a kind which a more scrupulous sense of honor would have made some shudder at, – fancying, ay, and persuading myself too, that, in the main, I possessed very admirable sentiments and most laudable ambitions; that the occasional little straits to which I was reduced were only so many practical jokes played on me by “Fate,” which took, doubtless, a high delight in the ingenuity by which I always fell on my feet, – while I felt certain that, were I only fairly treated, a more upright, honorable, straightforward young gentleman never lived than I should prove!

“Let Dame Fortune only deal me trumps,” said I, “and I’ll promise never ‘to look into my neighbor’s hand.’” Gentle reader, you smile at my humility; well, then, it’s clear you are neither a secretary of state nor a railway director, – that’s all.

We dropped anchor off Galveston just as the sun was setting; and the evening being calm, and the reflection of the houses and steeples in the water sharp and defined, the scene was sufficiently striking. The city itself was more important as to size and wealth than I had anticipated, and the office of the “Texan Expedition,” held at the “Moon,” a great coffee-house on the Quay, impressed me most favorably with the respectability and pretensions of my “Co-expeditionaries.” Old Kit presented me to the secretary – a very knavish-looking fellow in spectacles of black gauze – as the winner of the great prize, which, to my excessive mortification, I learned was at Houston, about eighty miles farther up the Bay.

I apologized for my careless dress by stating that my baggage had been unfortunately left behind at New Orleans, and that in my haste I had been obliged to come on board with actually nothing but the few dollars I had in my pocket.

“That’s a misfortune easily repaired, sir,” said the gauze-eyed secretary; “you can have your ‘credit’ cashed here just as liberally as at any town in the country.”

“I have no doubt of that,” responded I, somewhat tartly, for I did not fancy this allusion to banks and bankers; “but all my papers are in my portmanteau.”

“Provoking, certainly,” said he, taking a long pinch of snuff, – “ain’t it, Kit?”

But Kit only scratched his nose, and looked puzzled.

“Are your bankers Vicars and Bull, sir?”

“No,” said I, “my credits are all on a Northern house; but I fancy my name is tolerably well known. You ‘ve heard of the Cregans, I suppose.”

“Cregan – Cregan,” repeated he a couple of times; then, opening a huge ledger at the letter C, ran his eye down a long column. “Crabtree – Crossley – Croxam – Crebell – Creffet – Cregmore. It is not Cregmore, sir?”

“No, Cregan is the name.”

“Ah, well, there’s no Cregan. There was a Cregmore was ‘lynched’ here, I see by the mark in the book, and we have a small trunk waiting to be claimed, belonging to him.”

“That ain’t the fellow as purtended to be winner of the wagon team that was lotteried here a twelvemonth since, is it?” said Kit.

“Yes, but it is, though. He made out he had the ticket all right and straight, when up comes one Colonel Jabus Harper, and showed the real thing; and the chaps took it up hotly, and they lynched Cregmore that evening.”

“Yes, sir, that’s a fact,” quoth Kit.

“What was the penalty?” asked I, with a most imposing indifference.

“They hanged him up at Hall’s Court yonder. I ain’t sure if he be n’t hanging there still.”

“And this packet,” said I, for the theme was excessively distasteful, “when does she sail?”

“She starts to-night at twelve, – first cabin, two dollars; steerage, one-twenty.”

“Thank you,” said I, touching my hat with the condescending air one occasionally employs to humiliate an inferior, by its mingled pride and courtesy; and I turned into the street.

“You ain’t a-going to Hall’s Court, are you?” said Kit, overtaking me.

“Of course not,” responded I, indignantly. “Such sights are anything but pleasurable.”

“He ain’t all right, that ‘un,” said Gauze-eyes, as old Kit re-entered the office, and I stepped back to listen.

“Well, I don’t know,” muttered the other; “I ‘m a-think-ing it be doubtful, sir. He ha’ n’t got much clink with him, that’s a fact.”

“I have half a mind to send Chico up in the boat to-night, just to dodge him a bit.”

“Well, ye might do it,” yawned the other; “but Chico is such an almighty villain that he’ll make him out a rogue or a swindler, at all events.”

“Chico is smart, that I do confess,” said the other, with a grin.

“And he do look so uncommon like a vagabond, too; Chico, I don’t like him.”

“He can look like anything he pleases, Chico can. I’ve seen him pass for a Pawnee, and no one ever disciver it.”

“He ‘s a rank coward, for all that,” rejoined the skipper; “and he can put no disguise upon that.”

The sound of feet, indicative of leaving, made me hasten from the spot, but in a mood far from comfortable. With the fate of my ingenious predecessor in “Hall’s Court” before me, and the small possibility of escaping the shrewd investigations of “Chico,” I really knew not what course to follow. The more I reflected, however, the less choice was there at my disposal; the bold line, as generally happens, being not a whit more dangerous than the timid path, since, were I to abandon my prize, and not proceed to Houston, the inevitable Chico would only be the more certain to discover me.

My mind was made up; and, stepping into a shop, I expended two of my four dollars in the purchase of a “revolver,” – second-hand, but an excellent weapon, and true as gold. A few cents supplied me with some balls and powder; and, thus provided, I took my way towards the wharf where the steamer lay, already making some indicative signs of readiness.

I took a steerage passage; and, not knowing where or how to dispose of myself in the interval before starting, I clambered into a boat on deck, and, with my bundle for a pillow, fell into a pleasant doze. It was not so much sleep as a semi-waking state that merely dulled and dimmed impressions, – a frame of mind I have often found very favorable to thought. One is often enabled to examine a question in this wise, as they look at the sun through a smoked glass, and observe the glittering object without being blinded by its brilliancy. I suppose the time I passed in this manner was as near an approach to low spirits as I am capable of feeling; for of regular downright depression, I know as little as did Nelson of fear.

I bethought me seriously of the “scrape” in which I found myself, and reflected with considerable misgivings upon the summary principles of justice in vogue around me; and yet the knavery was not of my own seeking. Like Falstaff’s honor, it was “thrust upon me.” I was innocent of all plot or device. “Le diable qui se mêle en tout “ – never was there a truer saying – would have it that I should exchange coats with another, and that this confounded ticket should be the compensation for worn seams and absent buttons.

I have no doubt, thought I, but that “Honesty is the best policy,” pretty much upon the same principle that even a dead calm is better than a hurricane. But to him who desires “progress,” on whose heart the word “onward” is written, the calm is lethargy, while the storm may prove propitious. I then tried to persuade myself that even this adventure could not turn out ill, – not that I could by any ingenuity devise how it should prove otherwise; but I knew that Fortune is as skilful as she is kind, and so I left the whole charge to her.

Is it my fault, I exclaimed, that I am not rich, and wellborn, and great? Show me any one who would have enjoyed such privileges more. Is it my fault that, being poor, ignoble, and lowly in condition, I have tastes and aspirations at war with my situation? These ought rather to be stimulants to exertion than caprices of Fortune. I like the theory better, too; and is it not hard to be condemned for the devices I am reduced to employ to combat such natural evils? If the prisoner severs his fetters with an old nail, it is because he does not possess the luxury of a file or a “cold chisel.” As for me, the employment of small and insignificant means is highly distasteful; instead of following the lone mountain-path on foot, I’d drive “life’s high road” four-in-hand, if I could.

The furious rush of the escape-steam, the quick coming and going of feet, the heavy banging of luggage on the deck, and all the other unmistakable signs of approaching departure, aroused me, as I lay patiently contemplating the bustle of leave-taking, hand-shaking, and embracing, in which I had no share. A lantern at the gangway lit up each face that passed, and I strained my eyes to mark one, the only one in whom I was interested. As I knew not whether the ingenious Chico were young, old, short, slim, fat, or six-foot, – whether brown or fair, smooth-faced or bearded, – my observations were necessarily universal, and I was compelled to let none escape me.

At first, each passenger appeared to be “him;” and then, after a few minutes, I gave up the hope of detection. There were fellows whose exterior might mean anything, – large, loose-coated figures, with leather overalls and riding-whips, many of them with pistols at their girdles, and one or two wearing swords, parading the deck on every side. It needed not the accompaniment of horse-gear, saddles, holsters, halters, and cavessons to show that they belonged to a fraternity which, in every land of the Old World or the New, has a prescriptive claim to knavery. Although all of them were natives of the United States, neither in their dark-brown complexions, deep mustaches and whiskers, and strange gestures, was there any trace of that land which we persist in deeming so purely Anglo-Saxon. The prairie and the hunting-ground, the life of bivouac and the habit of danger, had imparted its character to their looks; and there was, besides, that air of swagger and braggadocio so essentially the type of your trafficker in horse-flesh.

If my attention had not been turned to another subject, I would willingly have studied a little the sayings and doings of this peculiar class, seeing that it might yet be my lot to form one of “the brotherhood;” but my thoughts were too deeply interested in discovering “Chico,” whose presence in the same ship with me actually weighed on my mind like the terror of a phantom.

“Can this be him?” was the question which arose to my heart as figure after figure passed me near where I lay; but the careless, indolent look of the passenger as regularly negatived the suspicion. We were now under way, steaming along in still water with all the tremendous power of our high-pressure engines, which shook the vessel as though they would rend its strong framework asunder. The night was beautifully calm and mild, and, although without a moon, the sky sparkled with a thousand stars, many of which were of size and brilliancy to throw long columns of light across the bay.

The throb of the great sea monster as she cleared her way through the water, was the only sound heard in the stillness; for although few had “gone below,” the groups seated about the deck either smoked in silence, or talked in low, indistinct tones.

I lay gazing at the heavens, and wondering within myself which of those glittering orbs above me was gracious enough to preside over the life and adventures of Con Cregan. “Some dim, indistinct little spangle it must be,” thought I, – “some forgotten planet of small reputation, I ‘ve no doubt it is. I should n’t wonder if it were that little sly-looking fellow that winks at me from the edge of yonder cloud, and seems to say, ‘Lie still, Con, – keep close, my lad; there’s danger near.’” As I half-muttered this to myself, a dark object intervened between me and the sky, a large black disk, shutting out completely the brilliant fretwork on which I had been gazing. As I looked again, I saw it was the huge broad-brimmed hat of a Padre, – one of those felted coalscuttles which make the most venerable faces grotesque and ridiculous.

Lying down in the bottom of the boat, I was able to take a deliberate survey of the priest’s features, while he could barely detect the dark outline of my figure. He was thick and swarthy, with jet-black eyes and a long-pointed chin. There was something Spanish in the face, and yet more of the Indian; at least, the projecting cheek-bones and the gaunt, hollow cheeks favored that suspicion.

From the length of time he stood peering at me, I could perceive that it was not a passing impulse, but that his curiosity was considerable. This impression was scarcely conceived ere proved, as, taking a small lantern from the binnacle, he approached the boat, and held it over me.

Affecting a heavy slumber, I snored loudly, and lay perfectly still, while he examined my face, bending over me as I lay, and marking each detail of my dress and appearance.

As if turning in my sleep, I contrived to alter my position in such a manner that, covering my face with my arm, I could watch the Padre.

“Came on board alone, said you?” asked he of a little dirty urchin of a cabin-boy, at his side.

“Yes, Father; about two hours before we left the harbor.”

“No luggage of any kind?”

“A bundle, Father; that under his head, and nothing more.”

“Did he speak to you, or ask any questions?”

“Only at what time we should reach Houston, and if the ‘White Hart’ was near the Quay?”

“And then he lay down in the boat here?”

“Just so; I saw no more of him after.”

“That will do,” said the Padre, handing the lantern to the boy.

That will do! thought I also. Master Chico, if you know me, I know you as well!

The game was now begun between us, – at least, so I felt it. I lay watching my adversary, who slowly paced backwards and forwards, stopping now and then to peep into the boat, and doubtless conning over in his own mind his plan of attack.

We were to land some passengers and take in some wood at a little place called Fork Island; and here I was half determined within myself that my voyage should end. That “Chico” had discovered me, was clear, the Padre could be no other than him; and that he would inevitably hunt me down at Austin was no less evident. Now, discovery and “lynching” were but links of the same chain; and I had no fancy to figure as “No. 2” in Hall’s Court!

The silence on the deck soon showed that most of the passengers had gone below, and, so far as I could see in the uncertain light, “Chico” with them. I arose, therefore, from my hard couch to take a little exercise, which my cramped limbs stood in need of. A light drizzling rain had begun to fall, which made the deck slippery and uncomfortable, and so I took my stand at the door of the cook’s galley, into which two or three of the crew had sought refuge.

As the rain fell the fog thickened, so that, standing close in to shore, the skipper slackened our speed, till at last we barely moved through the water. Not aware of the reason, I asked one of the sailors for an explanation.

“It’s the dirty weather, I reckon,” said he, sulky at being questioned.

“Impatient, I suppose, to get the journey over, my young friend?” said a low, silky voice, which at once reminded me of that I had already heard when I lay in the boat. I turned, and it was the Padre, who, with an umbrella over him, was standing beside me.

“I ‘m not much of a sailor, Father,” replied I, saluting him respectfully as I spoke.

“More accustomed to the saddle than the poop-deck?” said he, smiling blandly.

I nodded assent, and he went on with some passing generalities about sea and land life, – mere skirmishing, as I saw, to invite conversation.

Partly weariness, partly a sense of discomfort at the persecution of this man’s presence, made me sigh heavily. I had not perceived it myself, but he remarked it immediately, and said, —

“You are depressed in spirit, my son; something is weighing on your heart!”

I looked up at him, and, guided possibly by my suspicion of his real character, I saw, or thought I saw, a twinkling glitter of his dark eye, as though he was approaching the theme on which he was bent.

“Yes, Father,” replied I, with a voice of well-feigned emotion, “my heart is indeed heavy; but” – here I assumed a more daring tone – “I must not despond, for all that!”

I walked away as I spoke, and, retiring, sat down near the wheel, as if to meditate. I judged that the Padre would soon follow me; nor was I wrong: I was not many minutes seated ere he stood at my side.

“I see,” said he, in a mild voice, – “I see, from the respect of your manner, that you are one of our own people, – a good son of the Church. What is your native country?”

“Ireland, Father,” said I, with a sigh.

“A blessed land indeed!” said he, benignly; “happy in its peaceful inhabitants, – simple-minded and industrious!”

I assented, like a good patriot, but not without misgivings that he might have been just as happy in another selection of our good gifts.

“I have known many of your countrymen,” resumed he, “and they all impressed me with the same esteem. All alike frugal, temperate, and tranquilly disposed.”

“Just so, sir; and the cruelty is, nobody gives them credit for it!”

“Ah, my son, there you are in error. The Old World may be, and indeed I have heard that it is, ungenerous; but its prejudices cannot cross the ocean. Here we estimate men, not by our prejudices, but by their merits. Here we recognize the Irishman as Nature has made him, – docile, confiding, and single-hearted; slow to anger, and ever ready to control his passions!”

“That’s exactly his portrait, Father!” said I, enthusiastically. “Without a double of any kind, – a creature that does not know a wile or a stratagem!”

The priest seemed so captivated by my patriotism and my generous warmth that he sat down beside me, and we continued to make Ireland still our theme, each vying with the other who could say most in praise of that country.

It was at the close of a somewhat long disquisition upon the comparative merits of Ireland and the Garden of Eden, – in which, I am bound to say, the balance inclined to the former, – that the Padre, as if struck by a sudden thought, remarked, —

“You are the very first of your nation I ever met in a frame of mind disposed to melancholy! I have just been running over, to myself, all the Irishmen I ever knew, and I cannot recall one that had a particle of gloom or sorrow about him.”

“Nor had I, Father,” said I, with emotion; “nor did I know what sorrow was, till three days back! I was light-hearted and happy; the world went well with me, and I was content with the world. I will not trouble you with my story; enough when I say that I came abroad to indulge a taste for adventure and enterprise, and that the New World has not disappointed my expectations. If I spent money a little too freely, an odd grumble or so from ‘the governor’ was the darkest cloud that shaded my horizon. An only son, perhaps I pushed that prerogative somewhat too far; but our estate is unencumbered, and my father’s habits are the reverse of extravagant, – for a man of his class, I might call them downright rustic in simplicity. Alas! why do I think of these things? I have done with them forever.”