e would arrive by his birthday,
when he should hunt him along with my hounds; and I promised myself
no small pleasure in presenting the dear fellow to the field that day:
which I hoped to see him lead some time or other in place of his fond
father. Ah me! never was that gallant boy to ride a fox-chase, or to
take the place amongst the gentry of his country which his birth and
genius had pointed out for him!

Though I don't believe in dreams and omens, yet I can't but own that
when a great calamity is hanging over a man he has frequently many
strange and awful forebodings of it. I fancy now I had many. Lady
Lyndon, especially, twice dreamed of her son's death; but, as she was
now grown uncommonly nervous and vapourish, I treated her fears with
scorn, and my own, of course, too. And in an unguarded moment, over the
bottle after dinner, I told poor Bryan, who was always questioning me
about the little horse, and when it was to come, that it was arrived;
that it was in Doolan's farm, where Mick the groom was breaking him in.
'Promise me, Bryan,' screamed his mother, 'that you will not ride the
horse except in company of your father.' But I only said, 'Pooh, madam,
you are an ass!' being angry at her silly timidity, which was always
showing itself in a thousand disagreeable ways now; and, turning round
to Bryan, said, 'I promise your Lordship a good flogging if you mount
him without my leave.'

I suppose the poor child did not care about paying this penalty for the
pleasure he was to have, or possibly thought a fond father would remit
the punishment altogether; for the next morning, when I rose rather
late, having sat up drinking the night before, I found the child had
been off at daybreak, having slipt through his tutor's room (this was
Redmond Quin, our cousin, whom I had taken to live with me), and I had
no doubt but that he was gone to Doolan's farm.

I took a great horsewhip and galloped off after him in a rage, swearing
I would keep my promise. But, Heaven forgive me! I little thought of it
when at three miles from home I met a sad procession coming towards me:
peasants moaning and howling as our Irish do, the black horse led by the
hand, and, on a door that some of the folk carried, my poor dear dear
little boy. There he lay in his little boots and spurs, and his little
coat of scarlet and gold. His dear face was quite white, and he smiled
as he held a hand out to me, and said painfully, 'You won't whip me,
will yo