; you are aware, Mr. Cashel," interrupted Jones, "our friend is n't
much used to that kind of thing. I suppose it's some years since he has
had so much knocking about as in these last few days."

"I fancy so," said Cashel, with a significant smile that puzzled the
lawyer exceedingly, and he ate on without making a further remark.

The two or three efforts made by Jones and Softly to converse
together were, like nearly all similar attempts at perfect ease and
self-possession, complete failures, and gradually slided down into
monosyllables, and then to silence; when Cashel, who seemed to be
enjoying his venison and Bordeaux with perfect zest, leaned back in his
chair and said, "What kind of place is this same good city of Dublin?
What goes forward here?"

As this question was more directly addressed to Jones, that gentleman
prepared himself, not unwillingly, for an elaborate reply.

"Dublin, Mr. Cashel," said he, pretty much in the same tone he would
have used in opening an address to a jury,--

"Dublin is a city which, from a great variety of causes, will always
be exposed to every variable and opposing criticism. To begin: it is
provincial--"

"Is it slow?" interrupted Cashel, who had listened to this exordium with
palpable signs of impatience.

"If you mean, has it its share of those habits of dissipation, those
excesses so detrimental alike to health and fortune--"

"No, no; I merely ask what goes on here,--how do people amuse
themselves?" said Cashel, fencing to avoid any very lengthened exposure
of the other's views.

"They dine, dance, drink tea, talk politics and scandal, like other
folk; but if you ask, what are the distinguishing features of the
society--"

"What kind of sport does the country afford?" interrupted Roland,
somewhat unceremoniously.

"Hunting, shooting, fishing, coursing--"

"What do you mean by hunting,--a fox, is it?"

"Yes, fox-hunting and hare-hunting, too."

A very insolent laugh was Cashel's answer, as, turning to Mr. Softly, he
said, "Well, I own, all this does strike me as a very tiresome kind of
life. Do you like Ireland, sir?"

"I feel a deep interest in it," said the curate, with a most solemn
manner.

"Yes, that's all very well; but do you like it?"

"Were it not for its darkness," said Mr. Softly, sighing, "I should say
I liked it."

"Darkness," echoed Cashel,--"darkness; why, hang it, you are pretty far
north here. What is the darkness you speak of?"

"I all