think, while perusing the columns of the
Patriot, that I had somewhat foolishly shut my eyes hitherto to the
greatness of that talent, and the brilliancy of those parts which were now
proclaimed to the world. Yes; it was quite clear that I had hitherto been
concealing my candle under a bushel--that I was cut out by nature for a
legislator--and that I was the very man for the Dreepdaily electors. Under
this conviction, I started upon my canvass, munimented with letters of
introduction from M'Corkindale, who, much against his inclination, was
compelled to remain at home.

CHAPTER II.

Dreepdaily is a beautiful little town, embosomed in an amphitheatre of
hills which have such a winning way with the clouds that the summits are
seldom visible. Dreepdaily, if situated in Arabia, would be deemed a
Paradise. All round it the vegetation is long, and lithe, and luxuriant;
the trees keep their verdure late; and the rush of the nettles is amazing.

How the inhabitants contrive to live, is to me a matter of mystery. There
is no particular trade or calling exercised in the place--no busy hum of
artisans, or clanking of hammer or machinery. Round the suburbs, indeed,
there are rows of mean-looking cottages, each with its strapping lass in
the national short gown at the door, from the interior of which resounds
the boom of the weaver's shuttle. There is also one factory at a little
distance; but when you reach the town itself, all is supereminently
silent. In fine weather, crowds of urchins of both sexes are seen sunning
themselves on the quaint-looking flights of steps by which the doors,
usually on the second story, are approached; and as you survey the swarms
of bare-legged and flaxen-haired infantry, you cannot help wondering in
your heart what has become of the adult population. It is only towards
evening that the seniors appear. Then you may find them either congregated
on the bridge discussing politics and polemics, or lounging in the little
square in affectionate vicinity to the public-house, or leaning over the
windows in their shirt-sleeves, in the tranquil enjoyment of a pipe. In
short, the cares and the bustle of the world, even in this railroad age,
seem to have fallen lightly on the pacific burghers of Dreepdaily.
According to their own account, the town was once a peculiar favourite of
royalty. It boasts of a charter from King David the First, and there is an
old ruin in the neighbourhood which is said to have been