are inexpressibly sweet.”  

       The evening was closing in fast, and we were within a mile of Bally————, when, to a day singularly fine, succeeded one of the most violent storms of rain and wind I had ever witnessed. Murtoch, who seemed only to regard it on my account, insisted on throwing his great coat over me, and pointed to a cabin at a little distance, where, he said, “if my Honour would demean myself so far, I could get good shelter for the night.”      

       “Are you sure of that, Murtoch?” said I.     

       Murtoch shook his head, and looking full in my face, said something in Irish; which at my request he translated—the words were—“Happy are they whose roof shelters the head of the traveller.     

       “And is it indeed a source of happiness to you, Murtoch?”      

       Murtoch endeavoured to convince me it was, even upon a selfish principle: “For (said he) it is thought right lucky to have a stranger sleep beneath one’s roof.”      

       If superstition was ever thus on the side of benevolence, even reason       herself would hesitate to depose her. We had now reached the door of the cabin, which Murtoch opened without ceremony, saying as he entered—“May God and the Virgin Mary pour a blessing on this house!” The family, who were all circled round a fine turf fire that blazed on the earthen hearth, replied, “Come in, and a thousand welcomes”—for Murtoch served as interpreter, and translated as they were spoken these warm effusions of Irish cordiality. The master of the house, a venerable old man, perceiving me, made a low bow, and added, “You are welcome, and ten thousand welcomes, gentleman.” *     

      * “Failte augus cead ro ag duine nasal.” The term gentleman, however, is a very inadequate version of the Irish nasal, which is an epitthet of superiority that indicates more than mere gentility of birth can bestow, although that requisite is also included. In a curious dialogue between Ossian and St. Patrick, in an old Irish poem, in which the former relates the combat between Oscar and Ilian, St, Patrick solicits him to the detail, addressing him as “Ossian uasal, a mhic Fionne”, “Ossian the Noble—the son of Fingal.”  

       So you see I hold my letter patent of nobility in my countenance, for I       

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