I determined to go by Roundstone to Clifden and Westport. We therefore turned off at Glendalough, where the Twelve Pins begin their solemn watch, and pursued a road unmatched, I think, for dreary, stony, uninhabited desolation. The bright morning was now hidden, and fitful gusts of mist warned us of a wet day. Flanigan was in high spirits, and his pony partook of his hilarity, for whenever his master’s voice became more earnest in the recital of some story, the poor forlorn-looking beast pricked up his ears and quickened his gait, as if with gleeful approbation.

The clouds that had only occasionally obscured the sky now united, and dimmed with their gray breath the rainbows which had burst forth at every turn; then they settled on the granite heads of the mountains, on whose sides the dark, thread-like streams became swollen into white, flaunting ribbons of torrents, until stream and mountain were lost in their damp embrace. For a few yards on either side of us I saw the red heather, but beyond, the pouring rain curtained every thing. Before the storm had shut out from our view the surrounding scenery we had jogged for miles without descrying a living creature, if I may except here and there a crow, and now we traveled for I know not how many miles more in the utter obscurity of the mist and rain, winch we seemed to carry with us like a cloak. When I caught a glimpse of the bare green fields, wherein there was no sign of human use, I could not but think Ireland, with its deserted lands, its undeveloped resources, and roofless cottages, was like the sleeping beauty of the fairy tale, enshrined in the silence and inactivity of some strange spell.

The pony, Flanigan, and myself were a good deal surprised to overtake a traveler. Something about his attire, and especially his “acute” expression, made me think him an Irishman who had returned from America. And it proved I was right. My guide gave him good-day, and, with my permission, a seat beside himself. Whereupon I ventured to ask him where he was from and where he was going. I believe it is a right peculiar to Americans to ask that all the world over.

“I have come from America, ma’am, and am going to see my mother, who lives up in the mountains, by Cashla Bay back.”

I was warm in my praises of his dutiful conduct.

With a little laugh, he said, “I came for that and one other thing.”

“To be married, perhaps?”

“No, your honor, ma’am; it was just for a bit of skull-cracking. Indeed, ma’am, saving your presence, I’ll tell you all about it. About five years ago I went to Spiddle fair, being then in the mind of going to America the mouth after. It’s a grand fair, with a great many pig-jobbers and cattle-dealers in it, and they’ll drink poteen like water. I met a boy there, one Magraw, who flourished ahead of the whole fair. I wasn’t half his size, because he swelled himself up with his conceit, and I kept mine to myself; but I could not bear to see him calling himself a better boy than myself. So I dared him out, and I got the greatest beating I ever got in my whole life. Indeed, I did not think there was a sound bone in my body. But I promised to pay him back with interest, even if I was leaving for America, and I have done it. In five years I got good work in America, good health, and money to the fore; so I made up my mind to go to Spiddle fair this year to pay Magraw his interest, and then tramp up the hills to the old cabin. It was the last day of the fair when I arrived at Spiddle, but I had not been there an hour when I heard a voice like Magraw’s come from the door of a shebeen.